I was in the military and, in addition to near-constant sex with prostitutes in Far East Asia, I always had a stash of hardcore porn. Sometimes I was on a ship for long periods of time, and porn and masturbation were a ritualistic part of almost everyone’s day. But they had always been that way for me — whether on or off shore.

After the military, I hit a brutal bottom with cocaine and alcohol and cleaned up in rehab and a 12-Step program in my mid-20s. Then, during college in the mid-90s, something happened — the internet. I soon found the free hardcore and fetish sites completely irresistible. It was as addictive as, and in many ways more damaging than, my addiction to cocaine had ever been.

When I moved in with my fiancée in the late 90s, we bought a computer for my graduate studies. I never had a chance. We looked at internet porn together a few times for laughs, but secretly I thought, “If she only knew the half of it.”

I was constantly clearing search histories, cache files, images, keywords, and internet viruses — the evidence of my secret life. And it really was a secret life: hours and hours pretending to be “researching” for school, late nights turning into early mornings of compulsive masturbation.

The fetishes went from weird to insane. I followed links into a hell of depravity, always looking for a bigger “hit.”

Six years of meetings, service, and sponsorship in another 12-Step fellowship were no match for my sexual addiction. The shame, remorse, lies, and secrets consumed me. I couldn’t sleep, so I began abusing sleeping medications.

It started with narcotic sleep meds from a doctor — first to sleep, then to “get high,” even taking them before class because I liked how they helped me dissociate from the emotional hangover of the night before. Soon it was painkillers and tranquilizers too. In short, my internet porn addiction led me straight back to drug addiction.

But I didn’t talk about the new drug habit in my meetings. I kept “claiming my seat” while stacking up more lies than I knew what to do with. This went on for three years. When marriage came along, I promised myself the insanity would fade with a successful career and relationship. Instead, a bottom I could never imagine was only two years away.

By then, the prescription drugs were almost daily. The internet porn was daily. I even threw out two $2,000 laptops because I couldn’t stop the pop-ups, and I couldn’t explain to my wife what was wrong. My sex life was nonexistent. In addition to porn, massage parlors and clandestine sex were part of the picture again.

My identity was completely consumed by addiction. My work suffered terribly. Guilt ate at me hourly. Vodka seemed like something I could “get away with,” though it had been 12 years since my first rehab trips after the military. But then I began using cocaine again.

Still, I wasn’t talking about any of it. They say you’re only as sick as your secrets. Well, I was very sick. I had a meltdown. Rehab for drugs and alcohol was successful again, but I still refused to take my sex and porn addiction seriously.

I left my wife rather than tell her the truth. I threw myself into compulsive sex with anyone I could find — available or not, civilian or sex worker. Internet sex was nearly nonstop, sometimes even on my cell phone, masturbating in the car. My paranoia ruined friendships, because I thought my partners were sleeping with my friends. I took hostages. I withdrew socially to the point of isolation. I was at the jumping-off point. Finally, I went to treatment for sex addiction.

I entered a sexual recovery program but slept with one of the women there. Then I went home — divorced, humiliated, fluent in the language of sex addiction, but still doing nothing about it. I packed up, left town, and tried the “geographic cure.” It didn’t work.

New community, no job. I picked up cocaine, prostitution, and internet porn again like I had never stopped. Dangerous, illegal behavior became part of my daily existence. I was nearly destitute, divorced, unemployed, and unemployable.

That was my bottom.

---

The Good News

I have found recovery.

S.L.A.A. has given me freedom from a life of insanity. I am clean from all substances, but my primary addiction has always been sex and porn. That is the main path to destruction for me, and I pray daily never to forget that.

If I don’t deal with my sex/porn addiction, I will relapse into drugs and die. If I don’t deal with it, I will end up in prison. If I don’t deal with it, my luck will run out and I will face health consequences that I’ve somehow avoided so far.

What do I love most about S.L.A.A. recovery? I love the certainty that I am not alone. My story is not unique. There is nothing like sitting in a meeting, defining my bottom-line behaviors in practical terms, and talking about my freedom from them with other men who understand. I can share honestly about temptations I’ve survived — sometimes barely — and hear the compassion and humor of others.

It seems almost unbelievable, but I am free of insanity today. I know it is my relationship with God and my connection with other recovering addicts that have saved me.

Help is just a phone call away. There are meetings six nights a week, only 20 minutes from my home, where I can share experience, strength, and hope — and play a role in the recovery of others.

My past is no longer just a source of pain. It’s now useful to others, proof that heartbreak can be averted and death postponed for another day. My path is clear: I will clean up the wreckage of my past through the 8th and 9th Steps. I will share my recovery with others and support meetings in my community wherever I am.

One of my favorite recovery concepts is “social anorexia.” It describes me well: years spent withdrawing from all real relationships to serve my disease. But I no longer accept shame, paranoia, guilt, and manipulation as “normal.” I talk to my family now. I have friends again. I am repairing relationships.

Within the safety of the S.L.A.A. fellowship, I can shine a light on the darkest parts of my past and face my deepest fears. I have found my tribe at last.

Some members of my network share other addictions with me, too. For the first time, I feel at home. I feel hope.

— JAY, CONNECTICUT
(Issue #123)