Me: A chemistry experiment

Of the many, many insane things I did in active addiction, turning myself into an experiment was one of the most dangerous. By the time I became truly addicted, in the fall of 2008, I'd fooled around with Xanax for so long I could gauge its effect on my body to the minute.

It had first been prescribed a decade before then, and at the time I thought I'd discovered a miracle. I could be paralyzed with anxiety, swallow a pill, and within 15 minutes the grip of panic would begin to loosen. Within half an hour, I'd be okay. It didn't matter where I was -- on a smelly bus deep in Ukraine, creeping through a tiny Pakistani airport in the middle of the night, camping at12,000 feet on a snowy mountain.

Without the pills I was scared to leave my bed; with them, I could go anywhere. I was free.

I would tell myself, and I soon found a doctor who would also tell me, that I had a medical condition, very much like diabetes. I had a glitch in the system, a malfunctioning chemical pathway, and just like a diabetic administers insulin when she needs it, I took Xanax. No big deal. Better living through chemistry.

Add caffeine and the equation is complete. You can find coffee anywhere; even at 12,000 feet someone will have Sanka in his backpack. I'd never been able to drink more than one cup without getting the fearful jitters, but this soon became a non-issue. Over the years, knowing where to get coffee became as vital as knowing how many pills were sewn into the lining of my purse.

My formula was crude but effective: Xanax to soothe, coffee to awaken. If I took too much of one, I always had the other to balance it out. Such hubris: I truly thought I could lift myself up and down, toward and away from consciousness, at my will. And what's more, I thought this was good. I could study deep into the night, reach a stopping place and swallow a Xanax and, reliably, I would sleep for a few hours. A cup of coffee, a shower, start all over again.

When Mimi came along, everything intensified, as it does. Fifteen-hour train ride from Moscow to Kirov? No worries. Up all night? Reverse the equation and fall asleep, on cue, as soon as Jon wakes up for his turn. I felt like a machine, stepping on the gas pedal to go and on the brakes to slow down. I was in charge of my body; whatever could be wrong with that?

Sometimes I miss the sense of control -- no, I constantly miss the sense of control. That's the great paradox of the alcoholic and addict. We're among the most fragile people on the planet, the least in control, yet we assure ourselves that we have it all wrapped up. We feel relieved of the fears and limitations that have imprisoned us our whole lives.

And it works, until it doesn't. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I increased this dose or that dose. My alchemy became less reliable. I would need more of one or the other to achieve the same effect. I discovered that alcohol boosted the effects of the tranquilizers, and because I didn't need a prescription for booze I added more and more of it, which of course meant I soon was drinking more and more coffee later and later in the day. In what I assured myself would be a one-time thing, but which in fact became a habit, on the first day of Lent in 2009 I just cut to the chase and started the day with Irish coffee.

And that was the beginning of the end.