A stint in rehab is the new celebrity accessory! Simply throw one Chihuahua or lap dog of your choice into a custom-made D&G bag, rack up a drunk-driving charge or three, and you will have mastered this stylish new look.

A late-night stop by the L.A.P.D. and your D.U.I. glamor shot splashed all over the tabloids the following day used to be the final prerequisite for a quick, reputation-salvaging stay at Eric Clapton’s Crossroads treatment center in Antigua, but these days the rich and famous are checking into rehab like it’s the Chateau Marmont. Lindsey Lohan did it three times last year — the jury’s still out on whether the third time was a charm — while Jonathan Rhys Myers announced publicly he was checking into rehab even though none of us was aware he had substance abuse problems. Or indeed knew who he was.

In return for their suffering, we are inundated with photographs of tanned, serene-looking celebs, usually in an alpine setting, strolling to the gym for a quick fat-busting round of pilates. Colonics to soothe the soul! Is this rehab or a nice visit to a health spa for a quick karmic touch-up?

It’s easy to lose sight of how dreadful addiction is. Author Augusten Burroughs was suffering from similar delusions when he checked into a Minnesota treatment center for multiple addictions, including near-fatal alcoholism, which he recounts in the 2003 memoir Dry. And who could blame him? They all have such pleasant-sounding names: The Cirque Lodge in Utah conjures up the mystique of a Montreal-based performance troupe in a cool, shady forest setting, and Promises Rehab Center in Malibu…it’s just so full of, well, promise!

But Burroughs learned the truth the hard way. The Northampton native was in his twenties and working in advertising in New York City when his addictions came to a near lethal conclusion. He offers intimate, harrowing detail about his life as a two-bottles-of-Dewar’s-a-day (and then some) alcoholic. Yes, you will cringe at his stories of irresponsible sexual conduct, and balk at his most base denial of grief at his best friend’s death. Your liver will ache as you read the accounts of slurping seven martinis just to get a buzz, before retiring home with a couple of bottles of Scotch for quiet night in. But in typical self-deprecating Burroughs style, you can’t help but laugh when he recounts having to negotiate a debilitating hangover while facing a bewildered client as he guides him around an art gallery, discussing a Faberge ad campaign. If you’ve tried hiding from the boss after a couple too many at Thursday night happy hour, imagine trying to disguise the fumes from ingesting two liters of grain alcohol.

After years of such derelict behavior without any seeming retribution, Burroughs’ coworkers display amazing mercy by conducting an intervention instead of having him escorted from the premises. Within a week, Burroughs finds himself in the North Star State, the cold horror dawning of what rehab truly is: paper gowns lacking in modesty, inedible hospital gruel, public humiliation thinly veiled as healing rituals involving teddy bears. Despite the difficulties, it works, for a time, and after a few weeks a sober, slightly more resolved Burroughs emerges, and returns to New York where he must face his dirtiest secret: his apartment. Let’s just say it involves some three thousand empty liquor bottles. Think about how many times you’ve ashamedly snuck out to dump your empty booze bottles in the recycling before dawn so your neighbors won’t be awake to catch you disposing of the evidence from the night before. Then imagine your embarrassment was such that you hadn’t actually disposed of any of those bottles for several years. Oh, and multiply the amount you drink by several thousand. Not pretty.

Burroughs’ account of addiction and rehab is hopefully not much closer to your reality than posed photographs of celebs in rehab you’ll see in People magazine, but viewing it through Burroughs’ ever-wry lens is oddly endearing, and more often than not it will make you laugh. It was will also make you feel better about that time you went to the office Christmas party without eating, chased your vodka with red wine and hit on your boss before throwing up on his shoes.

–Julia Clarke