'How To Cope With A Sex Addict Partner—here's what it was like'

How To Cope With A Sex Addict Partner—here's what it was like' 

"Like sex addiction itself, the therapy wasn’t about sex at all."

 

 

In my mid-twenties, I was so terrified of acting on my sexual impulses that I hid inside my house.

My adolescence was spent feeling neglected and unloved by hardworking parents, and I turned to drinking and boys to take away the pain. At first I thought I was simply an empowered young woman—but soon I felt out of control. With my childhood issues morphing into mental-health ones, the only way I knew how to feel better was by getting up the courage to sleep with someone—often, at the expense of others and my self-respect.

SLEEPING MY WAY THROUGH THE PAIN

The idea that I'd potentially be able to meet someone and experience that high after a night with them was something I thought about constantly. It was there when I was alone in my room, depressed. It was there when I was finally able to motivate myself to buy groceries. And it was there when I occasionally went out to the bar to see friends.

Of course, it’s human nature to try to find a mate when we go out. Often, when we put on a new dress and a fresh shade of lipstick, we think about the possibility of that challenge. The difference is that when I did find someone, I would be incredibly upset if they didn’t want to sleep with me. Growing up feeling worthless, I had built my self-worth on the attention of men—and later, when I came out as bisexual, women. Sex was more than just a thrill for me; it gave my life some meaning—or at least, a distraction from my pain.

Like other addicts will tell you, there were many, let's say, memorable times—hooking up in bathrooms at parties with men whose other halves were looking for them. Ignoring friends at the bar to pull a woman into the restroom with me. These moments were never sober—because when they were, I didn’t have the nerve to act on my impulses. Drinking gave me the confidence to connect with people in a way I never had before—until I’d wake up feeling just as lonely once I came down from the ecstasy. This flighty passion was like a hit of heroin, but it never gave me what I was really looking for: emotional intimacy.

REALIZING THE PROBLEM

After enough of these superficial experiences, I did some reading online to try to find someone who I could relate to. Somewhere, I found the term "sex addict," and although the term stung, even just reading it and realizing it was a thing made me feel less alone. It felt good to know there were other people like me who were unhappy and used sex as the remedy.

As a writer, I thought that I needed to hold myself accountable for my actions, so I added stories about my own sex addiction to the internet—leaving a diary of my shame for anyone who’d Google me. Looking back, I guess I thought if I put it out there, I’d have to stop doing it. It didn't quite pan out that way.

Some people—including professionals—say that sex addiction isn’t real. What they don’t understand about addiction is that it’s not about doing something to feel better—it’s about doing something to feel in control. My vices could just as easily be cigarettes or alcohol or food. I needed to treat the underlying cause for my behavior—not simply try to stop doing it.

I know this now because I’ve successfully come out on the other side. These days, I hardly ever feel the urge to f*ck away my feelings, and that’s because I stay vigilant about working through them. But getting here took a lot of work.

SEEKING TREATMENT

First, I tried Sex Addicts Anonymous—but it was mostly men who attended, which was challenging because I couldn’t really relate to them. So, I sought out a women’s meeting—but I still couldn’t get my head around reciting prayers and speaking to a group of strangers. Part of the reason I sought out sex for comfort was because I struggled to connect with people, and I wasn’t at a point where I could overcome my social anxiety quite yet.

I tried phone meetings with a sponsor I met at one of my women’s meetings—but even though she had the best intentions, I felt constantly judged. I needed to talk to a trained professional who had experience treating addiction. So, I looked up my local addictions counseling center and put myself on a waiting list for a female sex-addiction therapist.

Seeing a woman who was trained in sex-addiction counseling made all the difference. I finally felt understood and actually began to make progress in my recovery. But it wasn’t easy. I used to joke that you know you’re a sex addict when you start sexualizing your sex-addiction therapist. When things got uncomfortable and I was working through unpleasant feelings, I started to have intrusive thoughts about what it would be like to have sex with her. I felt terrible about it. But even though I was ashamed, I hesitantly brought it up, and we talked about how these thoughts were just my mind’s way of trying to take back control. Acknowledging these feelings and moving on worked better than trying to ignore them—in fact, that strategy is how I ultimately overcame my sexual impulses.

COMING OUT THE OTHER SIDE

Like sex addiction itself, the therapy wasn’t about sex at all—rather the underlying issues that made me feel out of control. I discovered how to better connect with people so that I wasn’t using sex in the place of love. I now know first-hand that once you feel good about yourself, you’re no longer starving for something less substantial.

Amanda Van Slyke is a memoirist living in Canada. She runs FLURT, a socially conscious magazine for young people who want to have a say in their media.