I normally enjoy (if that's the right word for it) reading about addiction and recovery. Part of it is an morbid curiosity and fascination, part of it is to make myself feel better about my own hardships and successes, part of it is to try and understand so, as a nurse, i can better care for those struggling with addiction. I have had friends fight their own battles with drugs and alcohol as well, so I am not unsympathetic to addicts in general, quite the opposite, in fact. In this memoir, however, I had a hard time really feeling for the author. I'm sure things were hard for her, but the fact that she had her husband's family (and their money) to count on, no matter how far they fell...it just made it a little less difficult in my eyes. She never *really* had to worry about anything. They were never going to wind up homeless or starving, regardless of how much money they spent on drugs. I also had a hard time with her tolerating her husband's infidelity. I have no problem with open relationships, but that clearly isn't what was going on here. Her husband had a girlfriend and the author just tolerated it. For as strong as she makes herself out to be (and, to be fair, battling addiction is hard no matter what your resources), the astounding weakness she showed regarding her husband sickened me. Maybe I'm not being fair, but that's my reaction.