I don’t know how normal people handle crushes—or more accurately, overwhelming sexual attraction to another person—but for this alcoholic, it has never been anything less than a total life hijack. Even after 11 years of sobriety, meetings, steps and therapy, I still find that when I am struck by the sex lighting, I lose all access to my logical brain.
He’s almost always the same losing combo of tall, handsome, broke, funny and horrifically damaged—a perfectly mixed cocktail that I long ago learned triggers a repulsive familiarity instilled in me by my father (who isn’t funny at all but did enjoy smoking cocaine for the duration of my childhood). Once I feel that first buzz of biological excitement, the ability to choose right from wrong is no longer in my repertoire.
Case in point: years ago, I walked into the green room of a comedy show I was booked on expecting to do what I do before all of my shows—plop down on the couch and question all my life choices. Instead, I was knocked off my axis by a staggeringly charismatic older man whose presence filled the entire room and suffocated me with my own sexuality. I was instantly fixated on his blue eyes and undeniable masculinity that all I could do was pretend to look at my joke book while I rationalized ways to stare at him. I had never really been into men more than a few years my senior but this guy defied age or appropriateness—he was irrefutably sexy and I was taken against my will.
It sounds poetic—like the kind of love they sing about in 80s music—but my Dreamweaver moment ended with a record scratch when he abruptly mentioned his live-in girlfriend. This is the moment that (I believe) separates the healthy and well adjusted from the rest of us. We all might swoon in the company of a beautiful creature but a person who hasn’t lost the ability to receive messages from the left side of their brain would surely hear that information, process it and decide with some certainty that whatever is happening in their pants isn’t worth the pain of yearning for a man who was both emotionally and physically unavailable.
But thanks to my chaotic childhood and the mixed messages about relationships sent by my parent’s dysfunctional marriage, the details of this man’s situation—and the fact that he was old enough to be my dad—not only fell on deaf ears but somehow transformed into fodder for my swelling attraction to him. I was hooked.
The next few months were spent doing backbends and circus tricks to try and get him into my crosshairs somehow. I am always impressed by my resourcefulness in situations like these. I failed miserably as a salesperson and marketing rep because my inability to think outside the box always left much to be desired, but I’m a genius when it comes to matters of the crotch.
First it was stand-up advice, then relationship advice, then relationship with a stand-up advice—I truly pushed the limits of this man’s kindness and seeming pity on my sophomoric hope to make it as a comedian and find my soul mate, a small price to pay for the opportunity to fantasize he might not be a mature adult and that I could possibly have a chance with him (though he never gave any indication of that).
I knew it was wrong. I told all my friends about my obsession and they reassured me it was wrong. Not moralistically, of course, as I am a firm believer that a person’s commitment to their significant other is between the two of them, but pursuing a situation like this is wrong because no matter what happens, I am going to get hurt. I wanted to stop thinking about him, stop trying to find reasons to reach out to him, but I couldn’t. This kind of powerlessness might not make sense to a non-addict but maybe it’s easier understood this way: like a cocaine addict who is put in front of a pile of cocaine, handed a straw, and then asked not to snort it—that is what cutting my losses and leaving well enough alone felt like for me. In other words, not going to happen.
But eventually, I did walk away. Not because of some higher character but because I am sober now, and while I may not have the luxury of sane thoughts, I do have the luxury of sane behavior. The choice not to throw myself at him was arrived at after many long conversations with my sponsor and late evenings with my vibrator. I was told this too shall pass and it did.
For years, I thought this powerlessness was a result of sex and love addiction but after recently re-watching all six seasons of Sex and The City, I realize that what I struggle with is not some kind of obscure strain of leprosy—in fact, it’s so relatable that it made the HBO series a five-time Golden Globe Award-winning show. But I also know that it’s definitely not something everybody deals with—it’s not even something all women face in their lifetime—and has something to do with the right combination of low self-esteem, poor parental role models, and of course, the toxic influence of rom coms. But no matter how old I get or more sober I become, I’m ashamed to admit that I am still hoping I will meet a guy who asks me to get out of his dreams and into his car.
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