Six years ago, I boarded a plane to Boston, heading for treatment. It was a cold mid-winter Monday, and I had little comprehension of the long journey ahead. All I knew was this: I was off to kill the thing getting between me and my son, me and my sister, me and my sweetheart. I was off to kill the thing I loved.

Or that was how I phrased it to my Toronto addiction doctor. “How do you feel about alcohol?” he asked. “I love it.” He looked distressed. “Love?” I remember nodding enthusiastically, even though I knew this was the wrong answer. “Be careful,” warned the good doctor. “Alcohol is your adversary, and your adversary is formidable.”

I knew he was right. All my tricks for slowing down had failed. Keeping a drinking diary, switching from white to red: nothing had worked. I knew I was in the grip of something complex, deadly difficult. And I knew in my very bones that if I didn’t give it up, I was going to lose everything and die.

Still, for me — a high-bottom, high-functioning alcoholic — it felt strange to be complicit in killing the thing I adored. The night before I boarded that plane, I poured myself one final glass of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio. Call it a farewell toast. I loved its golden shimmer, the tart taste on the tongue. And then it was over.

What followed for the next 30 days bore more resemblance to summer camp than anything else. Camp for the newly clean and sober, with urine tests and meditation sessions and 12-step outings. There were only five of us who were garden-variety alcoholics. The rest were “poly-substance”: crack cocaine, marijuana, pills. The majority were also vodka drinkers, Ketel One being the brand of choice. (Most had fallen for the all-too-common lie that vodka doesn’t smell. Not true.)

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All were in mourning for their substance of choice. “Name your poison,” my father used to say as he laid out the bar at our family cottage. And near the end, my poison had been Scotch, as his had been. Now, in rehab, we were asked to write a break-up letter to drink, a lover’s farewell, citing the blackouts, the quarrels, the mistakes. Some couldn’t do it. There were tears, many tears. One man picked up and left, rather than say goodbye. Another took his own life.

On Friday nights, we’d all pile into the so-called Druggy Buggy — a maroon mini-van — and drive down the hillside to a local twelve-step meeting. We sat together, at the front: inmates from the treatment centre, conspicuous in our out-of-town clothes. The church was filled with local families — husbands and wives dandling babies, farmers and construction workers in heavy boots and caps. The mood was humble. We had a lot to learn.

On Saturday nights, we were driven to a fine restaurant, where the wait staff had been instructed not to hand us drink menus. Eight of us would sit silently around the table, eyes trained on the cocktails being delivered to others. “I’d kill for a Ketel One,” someone would say. “Me too.” “Not me,” another would chime in. “Tanqueray and tonic.” “Champagne,” I’d say. “Veuve.” Booze porn: we were all under its spell.

Days were filled with cognitive behaviour therapy, counselling and the occasional yoga class. We were schooled in the wisdom of HALT: never get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. We were told to be vigilant, to take a scorched-earth approach to alcohol and its paraphernalia: ditch all wine glasses, avoid all parties in the first year.

And then we graduated: after being given a medallion, we were drop-kicked back out into the world for the big experiment. Would we stay sober? Pass the test or fail? We all knew it was touch and go.

For me, the first test came in the form of a wine-themed wedding shower for my niece. The party games focused on wine; the nametags featured wine glasses; the gifts were wine-related. All afternoon, I felt like I was white-water rafting, avoiding the rocks, almost drowning. Before the afternoon was out, I had asked my niece for a sip. Only one, but I drank it. I was totally seduced. Thirty days of rehab and thousands of dollars, down the drain. I failed.

And I continued to fail for several months to come. Quietly, surreptitiously, I would sneak a drink here, and another there. Somehow, I could pull off two weeks of sobriety, but never more. My mood would plummet, and I would want to medicate. First-year sobriety is not for the faint of heart. You ride the dragon of moodiness, experiencing all life’s ups and downs. For me, my depression deepened and I became increasingly anxious. By fall, I was suicidal. My 30-day fix had not fixed me: I lost my will to live. And as it turns out, I wasn’t the only one: the majority of our rehab gang stumbled and fell.

Then, one desperate November morning, I got down on my knees and prayed. By noon, another alcoholic had reached out to me and was offering to go for coffee. Something in her demeanour made me want to learn from her. We became friends. She began picking me up for meetings. Slowly, day by day. I began to lay down the tracks of a different life, one without self-medication. I fell out of love with numbing. My depression began to lift. My anxiety lessened.

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Over time, I found my sea-legs in a sober life. I won back my son, and my sister. Most of all, I won back my self.

When Philip Seymour Hoffman died in early February, many wrestled with the age-old question: “What is addiction?” A disorder? A disease? A matter of human frailty?” This debate dominated headlines, steering our collective discussion away from the only question that really matters: how do people enter recovery from addiction and stay well?

From my experience, it takes much longer than 30 days to turn your life around. It takes vigilance and determination and time. Today, I am in my sixth year of sobriety. You can refer to me as an alcoholic or as an award-winning journalist who medicated depression with alcohol. Either way, I emerged from addiction to write a bestselling book — Drink: The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol — named by the Washington Post as one of the top 10 of 2013.

You can also call me one of the directors of Faces and Voices of Recovery Canada. There are more than five million people living in recovery in Canada: doctors, teachers, actors, politicians, and so many more. Until recently, we have been the invisible people, hiding in church basements. It’s time we spoke up and gave voice to the truth: that with enough effort, people can change, get well and thrive — one day at a time.