(FORTUNE Small Business) – Hi, my name is Arlyn, and I'm an online shopaholic. My addiction began last year when I, like 30 million other Americans, whittled down my Christmas shopping list mouse click by mouse click. Browsing the uncrowded virtual aisles of Amazon, eToys, Buy.com, and other e-tailers seemed like a smart way to save time and money. With my mouse and modem, I avoided the mobbed malls, their harried and unhelpful salespeople, and the long lines at the register.

Sure, I'd read that there could be problems with online shopping: delayed delivery, bad customer service, and poorly designed Websites. And I'd heard the horror stories of jilted shoppers whose gums receded while waiting for mishandled orders from ToysRus.com and others. None of that could happen to me, I thought. So I continued browsing and buying, oblivious to the small fortune I was spending in FedEx, UPS, and handling charges. All I saw was the convenience of browsing and buying. I was in denial.

When most people were reeling in their credit lines after the annual round of holiday parties had ended, I began testing how thin mine could stretch before the bank would cut me loose. I pointed, I clicked, I purchased, and things kept arriving at my door. Though my neighborhood merchants had served me well, I stopped visiting them in favor of their digital competitors. Why go to the corner pharmacy when Drugstore.com could conveniently overnight my favorite shampoo, moisturizer, and hair gel, all at a discount? With each online purchase, I rationalized that I was just demonstrating consumer confidence, which was good for the economy. Avid participation in consumer culture made me more of a real American, right? And, above all else, I reasoned that I was at the vanguard of a technological revolution. The world was at my fingertips--and much of it was 40% off. As the weeks went on, my online dependency, my debts, and my isolation deepened.

I finally hit bottom at 12:30 p.m. on Sunday, Jan. 16. Too lazy to leave bed, I picked up my laptop and logged on to home-delivery service Urbanfetch.com. Overnight shipping was no longer enough. I needed it now. I ordered bagels with salmon and cream cheese and the New York Times, and I rented the wide-screen DVD of Shakespeare in Love. When my e-brunch arrived by messenger less than an hour later, I hopped back into bed, feasting with my left hand and shopping with my right. Two hours later, I had bought a Fiona Apple CD from Amazon, a fleece pullover from the sale rack at EddieBauer.com, and I was still logged on. I continued to multitask throughout the afternoon, watching Shakespeare with one eye and scanning for more bargains with the other. By 6 p.m., I was hungry for more munchies and movies. Too ashamed to reorder from Urbanfetch, I copped a fix from its rival Kozmo.com and ordered a Twix bar and a Boylan's birch beer and rented Tea With Mussolini. I'd barely left bed, but I'd managed to spend about $90.

Since then I have taken the first of at least 12 steps on the long road to recovery. I have learned not to blame Amazon's seductive 1-Click purchase button for my problems. Instead, I try to remember that when you point a finger of blame, your other three fingers point back at you. I also now believe that a power greater than myself can restore us to sanity. For me that power is my accountant. For the discount-dealing e-tailers who enabled my addiction with coupons, free T-shirts, and other offers, it may be their sagging bottom lines. But to remain focused on my recovery, I can't worry about them. I will no longer be co-dependent. Yes, I still want to boot up and buy. That's okay. All I can do is take it one day at a time.