"Have you ever been in love, where you could touch the moonlight? When your heart is shooting stars. You're holding heaven in your arms. Have you ever been in love?” Celine Dion crooned on the stereo.

Some years ago, I was in love. First man I'd been with in 10 years. I felt like a virgin, only I knew the ropes, and chains – or at least the important moves. Anyway, I'd spent those years alone seeking the authentic Me. And I found me: I love me; I like me; I'm the tiger's roar – that's bigger than the cat's meow.

I worked through all those co-dependency issues too. I read Co-dependent No More and Beyond Co-Dependent No More. I highlighted and underlined and wrote comments sideways in margins and reread important parts. I wrote in a journal; I cried; I meditated; I chanted. I was holy; I was wise; I was healed! – I thought.

After breaking up with my love for the third time in eighteen months, let's call him "Turd," I decided that I needed more than a therapist. Therapy had been helpful but I was still crying, not every day any more but too much and this was definitely not the worst thing that had ever happened to me. T didn't deserve this amount of grieving.

So I met with a psychologist who's group I thought I might join. In 15 minutes, the doctor got it. In those 10 years, I had worked over co-dependency, but I'd just removed myself from everyone. I hadn't conquered the issues. I'd crawled up, down, around and through them, but I was my only adversary — I was the co-dependent and the addict. Only I'm not that tough an addict, except with chocolate and I have no desire for recovery from that vice.

Well, Dr. Fix-it didn't want me in the group – talk about rejection. Maybe, though, it had something to do with me crying throughout the 48 minute session. Anyway, he suggested Al-Anon, which I will go to as soon as I've got this all figured out – you know, when I no longer need it.

A month later, after exchanging 58 emails, 23 phone calls, after picking up a CD of our photos and dropping off a flier to T for an Assertiveness Training Class, I was feeling a little warm-fuzzy about him. The oh-he's-seeing-the-light fantasies had crept in. I called him; it was Friday, the fourth anniversary of our "special" day. He didn't answer. I called later, still no answer. I left no message this time but sent lighthearted emails. The I-want-to-work-it-out-too kind of messages. No reply.
Some hours later, I called his cell phone which has always said "I check this cell phone every 15 minutes so I'll call you right back."

I left the message, "Your outgoing message is just another example of your screwed up behavior."
Later, I called T once more and asked his machine, “If I had fallen for your 'I'm lonely and miserable and regret your departure' routine, how did you intend to explain that you are spending nights elsewhere?” I also reminded him that lack of empathy is a characteristic of a sociopath.
I hung up and thought about pills and a plastic bag – you cannot rely on just pills. I suppose the plastic bag alone would actually do the trick if you don't struggle but you need the pills so you don't care that there is a plastic bag over your head.

Suddenly, the thought came to me, he's so vain he'd consider it a complement for me to kill myself. So I called 1-800 Dial-a-Prayer. The phone rang and rang and rang. I was not going to be dismissed again. On the 10th ring, a soft, woman's recorded voice told me to please stay on the line for the next chaplain to pray with me. So, I waited, and I waited some more, squashing the temptation to hang up and cry "See, no one is there for you. No one is ever going to be there for you." At last, another gentle, woman's voice asked my name.

Oops! Do I lie or tell the truth? Though I thought 800 numbers can't be traced (another mistake), I tried to say Gertrude but it just wouldn’t trip off my tongue.

"How can I help you in prayer?" my confessor asked so piously.

"I feel like God hates me and I don't want to live this miserable life any more."

"Diana, you know God loves you," she said, and read me quotes from the bible to prove it. "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." That's what I always hear after someone says, "God loves you." That's my problem!

"Just have faith, Diana."

I told her I don't have faith, that's another problem, but she didn't miss a beat with more blah, blah, blah. I held the phone away from my face and looked at it as if it would tell me, is this a recording? Is this Candid Camera? I finally decided my confessor was reading a script. So, co-dependent that I was, I let her go on while I zoned out.

After a long, long while I heard, "Diana. Diana!" She almost shouted.
"Yes," I replied numbly.

"Diana, now that we have prayed together, will you support the prayer line by sending in a donation? What is your full name and address?" she continued without a pause.

I threw down the receiver and laughed for 20 minutes.

Hey, Dial-a-Prayer works!
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Diana deRegnier writes from the San Francisco Bay Area. Her op-ed column appears in Websites, wires and print publications around the world. Write to Diana at SpiritLinks@comcast.net.