Here’s an old AA story for you: A man falls in a well (I told you it was old; who gets water from a well any more?). He’s trapped down there in the cold and dark.  He calls out for help.  A priest passes by, hears his cries, leans over into the well and asks, “What’s the matter, son?”  Imagine a dramatic boomy echo on the dialog. “I’m stuck in this damn well!” yells the man.  “That’s no call for bad language,” says the priest, “but I’ll pray for you.”  And off he goes. The guy is getting steamed.

            Next, a social worker passes by.  “What’s the matter, friend?” “What does it look like?  I’m at the bottom of this well.”  “Aha!  I’ve got just what you need,” says the social worker.  She tosses a blanket and a length of rope down the well, and walks off with a smile.  The guy is really pissed off now.

            Along comes a doctor.  “Do you have a problem, sir?”  “Fucking A I have a problem!  I’m stuck in a well.”  “Are you anxious? Worried? Can’t relax?”  ”Whadda you think?”  “This should fix you up,” says the doc, and tosses a prescription for tranquilizers into the hole.

            It’s getting darker.  It’s getting colder.  The man considers hanging himself with the stupid rope, but there’s nothing to attach it to.  Finally, a new face appears at the rim of the well.  It’s a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous.  “Looks like you’re stuck in a well,”  he calls down to the man.  “Brilliant deduction,” says the trapped man, now thoroughly disillusioned and angry at the world.  Unexpectedly, the AA member jumps down into the well.

            “Are you insane?  Now we’re both at the bottom of a goddam well!” shouts the man.  “Maybe so,” says the sober alcoholic.  “But I’ve been down this well before.  And I know the way out.”

            The point of the story — and I’m sure you’re a step ahead of me on this — is that no one can help you the way someone can who’s been where you’ve been.  Professionalism and expertise are great, but there’s nothing that compares to the deep identification you feel with someone’s who’s struggled your struggle.  It’s so easy not to take advice from someone, even good advice, when you can get up in their grill yelling “You don’t know what it’s like!”… and be correct.  

            This is one reason 12-steps programs have no leaders, no facilitators, no administrators, and millions of success stories.  It’s why Weight Watchers counselors have lost a lot of weight, and why the best treatment centers are started by former addicts and alcoholics, even if they do have lousy credit. 

            Which brings me to Broken Heart RX, from whom I recently received a press release.  According to the publicist, “Broken Heart RX is the first ever break-up, love addiction and emotional trauma support system that includes a proprietary blend nutraceutical supplement, a 30-day email support program and a referral network of experts created to help guide people to recovery. No one wants to feel crippled by a broken heart and now they don’t have to.”

            Indeed, in shades of the Schick-Schadel weekend recovery program for alcoholics, Broken Heart RX will, for the low low price of $34.95, provide you with a 30-day supply of their vitamin supplement, a month of “inspirational emails,” a 10-mninute phone consultation and a referral to a local therapist “if desired.”

            Ten minutes?  Have you ever talked anyone out of their fetal position on the floor in ten minutes?

            To be fair, 35 bucks isn’t going to break anyone’s piggy-bank and the nutritional supplement — full of St. John’s Wort, magnesium and amino acids — won’t hurt you and might even help stabilize your mood.  But the only way a 10-minute phone call is going to anything towards curing love addiction is using the time to recommend my book, Susan Peabody’s Addiction to Love bulletin board, and few years in 12-step meetings.

            I say this as someone who has tried every prayer, every prescription, every rope and blanket.  There’s no shortcut out of the well.

Like Saturday Night Live’s original oversharer Stuart Smalley, I claim membership in more than one 12-step group.  Unlike Stuart’s alter ego, I will probably never become a U.S. Senator.  Of course, it was improbable that Al Franken would become a U.S. Senator, so who knows?

But back to the 12-step groups.  A few decades of listening to people “in the rooms” — a concept so different from the television industry’s expression “in the room” I can’t even begin to tell you — I have noticed a few patterns.  If you are getting clean and/or sober from drugs and/or alcohol, for example, recovery has some chronological benchmarks.  I shall now overshare about some of them.

The first comes at around six to nine months, when the exhilaration of waking up rather than coming to fades and trudging a road of happy destiny suddenly sounds… trudgy.  Its theme song is “Is That All There Is?” and it’s usually cured by one good hangover.

The next is usually at around 13 or 14 months of sobriety, when we discover that a one-year anniversary is not, after all, a golden threshold to a new world of riches and joy.  For most folks, this sounds like “Where’s my great job/big house/nice car?  Why even bother?”  For love addicts, it looks like a 16-year-old waiting for someone to invite her to the prom. 

To make it over that hump, I suggest quitting smoking.

Then there’s the two-and-a-half year mark, which I call the “What’s It All About, Alfie?” phase.  This is characterized by cries of ”I don’t know who I am!” and “Oh my God, I’ve gained fifteen pounds since I quit smoking!”  I have found working steps four through seven remarkably effective in getting over that hump.  (If you are not already familiar with the Twelve Steps, they can be found here: http://www.aa.org/en_pdfs/smf-121_en.pdf)

But the real doozy seems to come around six or seven years in.  It’s no surprise that most AA meetings are bottom-loaded with people in their first five years.  Not so many folks in the double-digits.  Maybe it has to do with cellular renewal.  Maybe it’s a Saturn return.  Maybe it’s the alcoholic equivalent of the Seven Year Itch. 

I’m going with the itch.

Caveat: When Ethlie starts talking about maintaining romantic relationships over a span of time, always consider the source.  Ethlie has, so far, proved incapable of maintaining a romantic relationship over a span of time.  That being said, I notice similarities between sobriety and relationship.  Think back to your serious love affairs.  If it made it past six months — a big if — the next minefield is usually two and a half years.  “Am I in this for the long haul?”  “Is it time to fish or to cut bait?”  In sobriety, that means finishing steps eight through eleven.  In relationship, someone gets pregnant.

Then comes year seven.  Seven is when you’re so uncomfortable in your skin that you would just as soon take a potato peeler to your forearm as tell someone how you really feel.  Seven is when you get loaded.  Seven is when you commit adultery.

There are options, of course.  Some people join a second or third twelve-step program — Alanon, or Overeaters Anonymous, or SLAA.  Some people go to couples counselors.  Me, I usually get a divorce.  I’m working on it, though, awkwardly and in public.  If Stuart Smalley can do it, so can I.