1999

Originally published in Essay, Spring 1999

Recently a former sponsee came to me in a personal crisis. He was in a financial jam that I saw was clearly the consequences of his disease. I “let him have it,” for his own good of course, and with the best of intentions.

I pointed out to him he was his own case manager, his own doctor, and his own supervisor. The words felt “right” as they came out, and clever too! This was just the beginning. With the inflation switch on, my ego eagerly embraced the roles of doctor, case manager and sponsor — without the consent of my friend. He finally walked out on me, promising this was the last time he would come to me seeking help.

In the middle of this I knew I was out of control. I had all the right solutions for the one who came to me in considerable pain and, I judged, in denial.

My self-appointed intervention left me feeling my own anger, humiliation, and shame. After checking in with a program member, I was asked to see that this was a case of long ago “having fallen in love.” I objected. “Well,” my friend said, “how does ‘falling in lust’ fit?” A recognition began to stir in me for which I did not have words. “I don’t see it,” I said.

“Your lust led you to pick this person to help,” my friend said with gentle understanding. “You were going to fix him. You appointed yourself to save him — imagining his gratitude and the indebted relationship you would have with him. He was to be an object for your ego’s gratification. It is not working out that way and you are mad. He is not serving your needs, so you blast him.”

Ouch! This I could see. This is my pattern in a number of “helping relationships.” Just because I did not see myself as romantically involved or scheming for sex does not mean I am not “in lust.” Lusting to dominate another, to fix, to save, to play God in their life is basic lust — the real thing.

I am still a real lustaholic. Thank God, I am no longer alone. Thank God for SA.