RIGHT NEXT DOOR

Crouched in the corner of my messy bedroom, on the dark brown, dingy, 70s-style shag carpet--depressed, hopeless and suicidal, I drained a bottle of red wine. Venturing out of my Santa Monica condo for anything other than work, wine or beer seemed impossible by this point in my drinking. I felt as though I were trapped in a damp, dark, musty cave, with a big wet towel pressed into my face. I wanted out and I didn't care how. It was the night of Oct. 20, 1997. I did my usual drink and dial. I called one of my dearest friends, Meg, desperately seeking for her to relieve my pain. "Meg, I can't take it. I don't want to live anymore." I was truly done, but I didn't know it.