Might as well face it, you're addicted to love.

I consider myself to be an expert on a wide variety of subjects. None of the topics on which I claim to hold a credible opinion were taught to me by traditional means. For example, I consider myself to be an expert on folk music, not because I have read anything about (or even own any albums by) Bob Dylan or Nancy Griffin, but because I know all of the words to every song off of the Indigo Girls' "Rites of Passage" album. I am your go-to guy regarding the great city of New Orleans, not because I am from there or have even studied there, but because I've gotten very drunk there many, many times. I consider myself to be an expert on how Western civilization has corrupted and oppressed the nations of Africa over the past four hundred years, not because I know anyone from Africa (nor do I have even the slightest desire to ever go to Africa), but because I have read Barbara Kingsolver's African-staged epic "The Poisonwood Bible" more than once.

Most of my self-proclaimed knowledge comes from television though, but not sophisticated television like PBS of CSPAN. I know the effects that electro-magnetic energy can have on air travel thanks to "Lost." I know what it's like to run a late night comedy sketch show because of "30 Rock." And I also feel that I'm quite the historian when it comes to Hip Hop because I watched all three seasons of "Flavor of Love." And now, thanks to A&E's brilliant show "Intervention," I am now an expert on the subject of addiction.

"Intervention" is an hour-long documentary that each week follows around an addict who will soon be confronted by their friends and family about undergoing treatment. The show highlights every type of addiction, from gambling to drugs to booze. It sucks the viewer in by showing how the person got from Point A to Point B, how they went from studying medicine to huffing glue or from being a world champion cyclist to panhandling for crack money. It's a very heartwarming show. You find yourself rooting for the addict, wanting them to get better and to turn their lives around. And, if you have a sick sense of humor like I do, the show is often hilarious. Watching someone on crystal meth attempt to do algebra is always good for a chuckle. Or seeing the mother of the bride get so drunk that she starts making threats during the wedding toast is pure comedy gold.

We all have addictions, and sometimes the worst addictions are ones that move under the radar. Those are the things that we can't stop doing, things that might be damaging to us but are highly unlikely to completely destroy our lives. Chocolate, for example, might expand your wasteline and rot your teeth, but it's doubtful that you'll ever have to steal from your friends and family or prostitute yourself to pay for it. Outside of nicotine and the binge drinking (which I blame entirely on the influence of others), I only have one real addiction. And this only occurred to me recently when I was challenged by a friend of mine to stop doing it. It turns out that I couldn't stop. My name is Tony, and I'm addicted to dating.

"Intervention" has taught me many things about addiction, primarily about how it sneaks up on people and without them even realizing that it's happened, their lives have started to revolve around it. The guy who used to only do cocaine on the weekends doesn't know at exactly what moment he began needing it first thing in the morning, but he does. The girl hooked on heroine can't remember how smoking weed occasionally with her friends led to her living underneath an interstate overpass, but it has. The path to addiction is complicated and consists of many variables. It's not all about the physical need you develop for it. Your past plays a huge part, as do your fears. Addiction is like a cute baby tiger. Overnight, it can go from being something small and fun and controllable to something big and powerful and capable of killing you.

Simply put, when an addict gets their fix, they feel good. These feelings of bliss eventually pass, leading them desperate to return to that level of comfort. My history with dating addiction is the classic story of the small town boy gone wild in the big city. I grew up in the suburbs and went to college in the sticks. I lived in the very conservative mid-sized city of Memphis throughout most of my twenties, and dating for gay men was about as frequent as live vocals at a Britney Spears concert. Fast forward to my moving to the big gay city of Chicago (into the gayest neighborhood to boot!), and needless to say I lost control. I became obsessed with it. It was easy and accessible and an amazing deterrence from reality. I was hooked!

There were a few periods where I was able to stop dating, to stop scouring dating sites or hitting on strangers in bars, because I was in what I considered to be at the time a "relationship." But addiction latches on to people's insecurities, and you begin to tie that need into other shortcomings in your life. There was a string of disappoints in my dating life from the Fall of 2006 until the Summer of 2008 (six to be exact), and very soon into that cycle I began working from the angle that in order to stay ahead of the game (translated: in order to keep from feeling hurt again), I had to always have one or two guys "on deck." This way, when things inevitably failed with whomever I was officially seeing, I had someone available immediately to distract me from the most recent disaster. And just like with every type of addiction, this behavior was fun at first. I was young and wild. I could quit anytime I wanted to.

One key aspect of addiction is that at some point every addict realizes that what they crave is doing them more harm than good. But due to the mappings of basic human behavior, they don't know how to quit. At the encouragement of my friend Hector, I first tried to stop a few months ago when I began spending quite a bit of time with someone. Hector suggested that perhaps all of my relationships were doomed to fail because there was no way I could focus on developing any sort of intimacy with someone when I had too many burners going on the stove. So I quit, putting all my money into one pot. That particular pot ended up making an *ss out of me on the dance floor of a gay disco and for the first time in a long time I didn't have anyone else in queue to help with the damage. And I remembered that without that extra netting getting screwed over by someone you're dating really sucks.

This past weekend, I spent a lot of time with another friend of mine going through his first break-up. Despite his being my age, he is a relatively new gay, meaning that he has not been out all that long. Considering that I've got fifteen years of gay dating stacked up against his four, he's pretty much a baby. He laid out all the gory details to myself and another friend of ours over a bottle of wine. I felt so bad for him, then I felt guilty, for the only solid advice I had for him was to hurry up and start dating someone else. I was laying out a mound of cocaine on the coffee table, handing him a rolled up dollar bill. I was trying to push my addiction onto someone else.

I often consider what it would be like to be the target of an intervention. Would I be leaving a coffee house after a first date with someone, heading to a bar for a drink with another date, texting the guy I had plans with the night before, when my family and friends suddenly spring on me and plead that I get help? Would months of therapy and twelve-step programs teach me patience and faith and how to use the internet for purposes other than updating my various online profiles? What would I do with all the time and energy that I typically waste on dating? What would I do when the next relationship comes to a close and I have no one else to immediately turn to? And is it even possible for me, a dating addict, to ever be "normal?"

I'm enough of an expert on addiction now thanks to A&E to know exactly what circumstances led me here. I'm insecure. I have trust issues. I have absolutely no faith in my own gut instincts. I have fears of abandonment. These shortcomings certainly aren't unique to me, but the way they cultivate themselves into my daily life seem to be. I seem to have completely lost the ability to spend a few weeks buried under the covers feeling sorry for myself when a relationship ends. But there's still a large part of me that thinks if or when I meet the right guy, that I'll be able to quit dating cold turkey. And I guess I won't actually know if I indeed have that strength until that moment comes, if it ever does.

I wonder if there is a rehabilitation clinic somewhere where I could spend ninety days detoxing from dating. If so, I wonder if I could meet someone there...