In My Skin

Being an addict and reading a book written by an addict, about an addict, is a strange journey. And a journey is just what it is.

Everyone seems to have modified versions of different schools of thought on the subject of addiction. You're born an addict; you're conditioned into addictive thinking followed by addictive behaviour patterns; it's all genetics; it's all biology; it's peer pressure and the weight of self-image and self-esteem on growing minds. It's all entirely subjective and personal, is what it is.

In her novel, In My Skin, Kate Holden ignores the debate entirely, and engages you with fact. This happened, then that happened, and this is how I felt. This was the problem, my solution was this. You can argue with opinion; you can't argue with experience.

Needless to say, relatability was part of the book's appeal. Though we do not share the same addiction, I can identify with Holden's behaviour, rationale and state of mind from the outset. Separate, solitary and dreamy as a child; isolated, isolating and self-destructive as a young adult. Insecure, afraid, confused, and in constant pursuit of approval from someone, something, anything. That's how it was, and she tells it with an absorbing frankness and unrefined humility.

The book is a memior of her life as an active addict, and as a recovered addict. It's not what you expect.

On my 5th chapter I flip to the back page, and in a moment of private irony, am suddenly stilled by the features smiling back. Smooth skin, young eyes, virtuous smile. She doesn't look much like an addict.

This is a phrase I am familiar with, having been confronted with it - both directly and indirectly - at least twice-weekly, for the last year and a bit. I've heard it said angrily, accusingly, in puzzled tones, in delighted tones, with thinly veiled disbelief. And now it was my turn to stand back and see it in someone else. At once I feel what other people must feel, and am horrified by my moment of ignorance. I want to ask her how she got into the whole mess, and more than anything I want to know why she did it. I touch my own skin, catch my own eyes in a mirror. I smile, realising that despite the pages between us, the woman on the back cover has most likely been the recipient of the same disbelieving stares. This gives me momentary comfort.

The memior itself threw me, too. A wise person once told me that madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Discussing the book with a friend, who is currently lost in its pages, and baffled by the character she is getting to know, brought up the undeniably obvious question, "why does she keep getting well, and then trying the whole thing again?". Is this madness what makes an addict an addict? Is the deceit of nostalgia more powerful in some than in others? In addicts? I was annoyed at my inability to answer this query, at my failure to provide any insight into this cyclical insanity. Because she just can't stop, was the best i could come up with. Though lame sounding, it was probably the most honest answer I could recover from my own experience.

And honesty is what I found in this book.

Addiction is boring, it's tedious and it is a numbing kind of misery . There is nothing remotely glamorous about addiction, about the daily desperation, about such tethered insanity. But in an age which sees The Sunday Times Style section endorsing Lindsay Lohan as the new pin-up girl for AA, In My Skin was the best reality check.

The book shuns any attempt at the cheap, faux controversy to which the subject of addiction lends itself, regularly attempted by Channel 4 ('Skins', being their most recent bash at sensationalism, I think) and the British film industry. You can't argue with ratings, though, and if anorexia or drug abuse or alcholism pushes the buttons on your remote, then who am I to preach about telling it like it is and realism and the like.

So, I resign myself to having been there, having done it, and having nothing particuarly interesting that I want to say about the whole thing at the moment. For now, I'll leave that to Ms Holden, best-seller, anti-sensationalist, and current face of my 'week beginning February 5th' diary page.

Excellent.