I take responsibility for managing my depression and sobriety. Yes, I take meds. Yes, I go to 12-Step meetings. Yes, to therapy, getting enough sleep, eating right, exercising blah, blah, blah.

But seriously, it really comes down to honestly answering one question: Is what I am doing right now bringing me closer or further from a depression and a drink?  Going to a sports bar and watching Michigan’s football team get clobbered by Penn State – again, is going to bring me closer to a drink. Not taking my meds is going to bring me closer to a depression. Listening to Sarah McLaughlin and pawing through old photos after I break up with a guy is going to bring me closer to both.

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. What should we do with Charlie – he of “Adonis DNA” and “tiger blood”?

Nothing. It’s his bottom. Not mine. Not yours. Not Dr. Drew’s or E! Television’s. It’s Charlie’s bottom. Anyone who has watched a loved one crash knows how excruciating and embarrassing it is. As much as you would love to break the fall, you can’t.

What’s the deal with Charlie? Dr. Drew recently surmised that in addition to Charlie’s obvious addiction/alcoholism, Charlie may have a Bipolar Disorder. I have alcoholism and hypomania, also known as Bipolar Disorder II.

Jack LaLanne is dead. Ninety-six amazing years old.

I always liked Jack. When I was a kid my sister and I would watch Jack on our black-and-white TV and try to keep up with his jumping jacks. The exercises he did in the chair seemed kind of lame, but we were little kids and had no problem lifting our legs. Besides, sitting in a chair wasn’t easy for a 5-year-old budding hypomanic like me.

Jack was always – ALWAYS – happy. Not Richard Simmons’ freaky happy, but genuinely happy in his stretch pants and tight shirt with the collar. Jack was the first personal trainer for the masses who understood the connection between the mind and body. It took decades for “endorphins” to become a household word. But Jack was on to it in the 1950′s.

“The only way you can hurt the body is not use it,” Jack once said. “Inactivity is the killer and remember, it’s never too late.”

Exercise has played a huge role in my life. I realized at a very young age that moving around a lot, playing so hard that I would collapse in a pile of leaves, made me feel good. Sitting around made me feel bad – unless I was watching the Saturday afternoon Creature Feature with the curtains drawn.

Until I picked up my first drink, endorphins were my drug of choice. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time, but I loved that high. I threw myself into as many competitive sports as possible and excelled. Swimming was my favorite. There is something about being prone, weightless and stoned that really appealed to me.

I don’t think God minds foxhole prayers. When I was in my deepest, darkest foxhole, God didn’t hang up on me when I dialed the most holy 911 in the sky. God took my call. Gave me what I needed. Not what I wanted. What I needed.

I have been thinking about this because I went to church yesterday – Christmas morning. I hadn’t been to church in a couple of months but it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone seemed happy to see me and I was glad to see them.

I used to belong to a church where you had to go to church every Sunday. It was a sin to skip church – even on vacation or in a blizzard. On Christmas and Easter you could always count on the priest to make a few sarcastic wisecracks about the parishioners who only went to church on Christmas and Easter.

I don’t belong to that church anymore. I joined a different church – and I really like it. Which brings me back to foxhole prayers…

Seems a lot of folks have a lot of gift ideas for the people on your shopping list who have depression, bipolar and alcoholism. Since I have bipolar disorder and alcoholism – and I love to shop –  I thought you might be interested in my thoughts.

First, remember that we probably did not get you a gift. Your beautifully wrapped gifts remind us that we didn’t get anything for you or anyone else that we had on our list

Let’s start with what NOT to give someone with depression, bipolar or alcoholism. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES give someone who is currently in a major depression a self-help book or – even worse – the biography or autobiography of some tragic artist or celeb who suffered from depression and killed herself.

Not only is the topic inappropriate, we cannot read when we are at the bottom of our black holes. Our brains can barely focus long enough to read the label on a prescription bottle. Books only remind us of what we cannot do because we are sick. Besides, Depak Chopra and Oprah Winfrey sound kind of silly when suicide seems like a reasonable solution. 

As of this minute, the U.S. Census estimates the population at 310,477,719.

Researchers believe that in any given year, ten percent of the population will suffer from a major depression. That’s 31,047,771 million suffering Americans.

Researchers also estimate that about 12 percent of the population has alcoholism. That’s 37,257,326 Americans with alcoholism.

Combined, that is 68,305,097 American with alcoholism or in a major depression.

For every person with a mental illness there will be at least three others profoundly affected by the illness. A parent or guardian (another 68,305,097); A spouse/partner/boyfriend/girlfriend (another 68,305,097); A sibling/child/co-worker/friend (another 68,305,097).

This morning I read about a prominent researcher who has received a $15.7 million grant from the National Institute on Drug Abuse to study whether rigorous exercise can reduce an addict’s craving for drugs.

As an addict/alcoholic who once ran the last six miles of a marathon in my socks because my shoes were killing me, the answer is NO. Let me say it again: NO.

Maybe some addicts will benefit from the weight loss and sense of accomplishment but we walk a very, very thin line between healthy and unhealthy behaviors and many of us can’t see that line.

It’s Wednesday. Time to fill my weekly pill dispenser. I open a drawer that holds three brown prescription bottles filled with three months worth of my medications.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7

I drop pills into each compartment and then snap them shut. I tuck my hot-pink pill dispenser beside the coffee maker on my kitchen counter – out of plain sight but not to be missed when I pour the day’s first cup of coffee.