All I could do was stare as the 23rd parent-teacher-organization-related email of the day appeared in my inbox. I had become so bitter that I actually began counting the emails each day. This email was from her again?the new-to-town PTO mom who was full of you-can-do-it-better-if-only and I–am–so–disappointed–in–the–PTO emails. As president of the PTO, I was expected to respond politely and perform damage control. It was 8 p.m., and my three kids still needed dinner, showers and homework help. I could put off responding to her email, but that would just leave me stressed out about it for the remainder of the evening. I wanted to throw my computer against the wall and say ?F*ck the PTO!? and ?F*ck this crazy mom from California.? I was done with being the president of this organization?I had nothing left to give. The next day, I stood frozen in aisle 10 of the grocery store. My nerves were shaky and I was overcome with guilt as I stared at the many beers, wine coolers and flavoured alcoholic beverages. I recognized that feeling in my mind and body. It had been a long time, but there it was: a craving?a deep, dangerous craving to consume alcohol. I entertained that first drink in my thoughts?the taste, the burn, the immediate release of tension. I entertained the idea of where I knew it would lead, too: the 15th drink, the inebriation, the loss of control, the escape. I wanted it all, but mostly I wanted the numbness. A small part of me wa...