D. Barbara McWhite grew up in York County, S.C., and lives in Orange Park, Fla., with her husband and cat. Her column is published here each Tuesday. Opinions expressed are solely her own.

The Conrad Murray trial has, for me, reawakened memories of Michael Jackson's life and death.

Each day the headline news is splashed with the face of the man accused of administering Michael the lethal dose. Yet, as disturbing testimony around the singer’s life and death is reported, I am reminded that the Michael I loved has been gone a long, long time.

Dr. Murray, I believe, will be held accountable for providing the drug that ended the singer’ life. A doctor’s credo is "First do no harm."

Dr. Murray was charged with treating Michael's insomnia and was therefore duty bound to recommend or supply legal treatments that, at a minimum, would leave him no worse off. But to provide the singer with Propofol outside of a hospital setting and under the circumstances alleged is, in my opinion, criminal.

But the demise of Michael Jackson began many years before his death finally occurred.

Michael and I grew up together. We are the same age. I was a part of the passionate frenzy that followed his every move and appearance. Watching him and his brothers on the Ed Sullivan show was breathtaking.

The leather vest with the fringes swinging. Keeping time with the beat of "I Want You back." The wonderfully handsome faces of African American boys. The big round afros. The amazingly synchronized dance steps. And the singing!

Then, like a shooting star, Michael Jackson was catapulted into greatness. Hit after hit... "Ben," "Got to Be There," "Bad," "Thriller," "Smooth Criminal," "Billie Jean"…

Somewhere between "Ben" and "Billie Jean," the brown-faced good looks that we knew as Michael Jackson would be replaced by a hardly recognizable child-man who spoke in whispers and had questionable relationships with children and hid himself from the world that had crowned him king.

The now-grown man lived in a Neverland of exotic animals, a Ferris wheel and young children.

Often estranged from his family and surrounded by people more loyal to his fortune than to his well being, Michael became mired in strangeness and hooked on substances that would ultimately lead to his death. And having enormous wealth and celebrity, he was able to demand and receive substances that he had no legal access to.

In time, it seems, he grew to hate the face we all so loved. Thinking back on the white-faced, ridiculously keen-nosed visage that he became, I can only wonder what Michael saw when he looked at the Man in the Mirror.

And when he became a father he saw to it that his children bore no resemblance to the dark skin and broad nose he seemed to hate.

So for those of us who remember the real Michael Jackson, we began to mourn him a long time ago. We grieved with each cosmetic surgery that took him further and further from the face we knew. We mourned the skin that grew lighter and lighter and the frail boy who never realized his potential for manhood.

We grieved the molestation charges.

Most of all we grieved that the genius mind that could produce such thrilling music seemed too often detached from the real world.

The demons Michael Jackson fought were bigger than his celebrity. The family and friends who might have intervened were kept at arms length, and the help he needed was perhaps too big to request.

Still, I miss the young man I once knew. The sweet voice. The smile.

Yes, Michael, I want you back.

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