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The headlines often tell only half of a story.

After the publication on Tuesday of the guilty plea of a local real estate agent to prescription fraud, an old friend of mine who's familiar with my history wanted to know why this particular individual resorted to such measures.

I can't speak for the woman in question, I said, but I can certainly speak of my own experience, which wasn't that much different. Whether she's an addict, I cannot say. The program I try to follow to the best of my ability teaches me that such a declaration is entirely up to the individual, regardless of how that individual's problem is perceived by others.

I do know this -- we shared the same drug -- Hydrocodone -- and a similar high-profile status within the community. I never fraudulently obtained prescriptions, but that's only because I never had to. But that only prolonged my addiction. I knew I was an addict long before I ever sought help for the problem; it was something I whispered to myself while lying awake on dark nights, unable to sleep because there weren't enough pills in my body.

I was the editor of a small-town newspaper in Middle Tennessee. I was a member of the county's leadership class, on the board of the local domestic violence shelter and, at one time, a member of the Breakfast Rotary Club. Because it was a small town, I was on a first name basis with my doctor, and with the pharmacist at the downtown drug store that had stood for years on Main Street.

Because of my status, all three of us labored under the delusion that I was simply in pain. In my mind, addicts were down-and-out individuals who lived under bridges, ate out of garbage cans, begged for change on the sidewalk and smoked crack in alleys. I had a degree, a job, friends and colleagues -- I couldn't be an addict. We never talked about it, but I'm sure that stereotype, the idea that an addict was just another word for bum, was something that my doctor and pharmacist believed in as well.

Because of the nature of our relationship, my refusal to consider the fact that my life was slowly growing more and more unmanageable and the belief that addicts were confined to slums in big cities, it was no big deal to call up and get a refill of pills whenever I was close to running out. I'm sure they played fast and loose with the rules governing the dispensation of controlled substances, and it wasn't like I was getting a refill every day.

Looking back, however, it's amazing to me how much I fooled everyone -- most of all myself.

I used to get winded walking up the hill from the newspaper offices to the courthouse; any sort of strenuous activity would, after a few minutes, leave me doubled over and clutching my knees. Later, I learned that opiates depress the respiratory system; my short wind meant that I had way too many pills in my system. But of course, I already knew this, since I ate them like a kid might a pack of Skittles.

As long as I could hold it together on the job, however, I refused to look at the possibility that might life might be out of control. Never mind that my social life was in a constant state of chaos and drama, or that I was perpetually depressed, or that I often found myself alone at the end of the day, chasing down pills with bourbon. Never mind that I had no idea what direction my life was headed, nor even where I wanted it to go. Never mind that my ignorance and closed-mindedness would land me in three different facilities in the years to come. At the time, all I could think was that I had everything under control, and if I got too messed up or let things get away from me, that I could eventually rein it all in.

Therein lies the crux of addiction -- it's a disease that tells me I don't have a disease. It's a cunning, baffling and powerful emotional and mental illness that infects an individual like a parasite, slowly siphoning off all that is good and decent, hollowing out the mind and heart until all that is left is a self-centered, empty shell who cares about only one thing -- more drugs.

Addicts aren't bad people, and they're certainly not limited to the stereotypical homeless wino or crack addict that seems to proliferate our thinking. Addiction knows no boundaries or barriers -- it crosses all social, cultural, financial, ethnic and sexual lines. It is the great equalizer, striking doctors and lawyers and the clergy as much as it does mechanics and assembly line workers and fast-food cooks.

There is no "stereotypical" addict, no profile that can be drawn up or analyzed to determine that "this" person might be susceptible but "that" person is safe. Certain factors may play a part -- genetics, childhood trauma, certain social conditioning -- but the majority of the time, addiction can strike anyone. (Another example -- legendary astronaut Buzz Aldrin's appearance on the "Today" show this week, promoting his new book, which documents his struggle with alcoholism.)

I read Tuesday's headline, and all I could think was that there but for the grace of God, go I. I'm grateful today that I have the self-awareness, the ability to admit when my life is going awry, and that I never again have to turn to drugs to cope. I have a choice today, as well as the best thing recovery has ever given me -- freedom from active addiction. I hope that others who suffer from this same disease find that same freedom, because it's out there, if they choose to seek it out.

Steve Wildsmith is a recovering addict and the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.