Erica Garza Daily Mail September 27, 2024 8:42PM
When you imagine a sex addict, what do you think of? Is the person suave or seedy?
The ultimate player or unashamedly predatory? A smooth, sophisticated James Bond type, or a rapacious lothario like Russell Brand?
Chances are that whoever springs to mind, they’ll most likely be male. Well, cast aside all those preconceptions and any others you might have, and look at me. I am a sex addict – currently in recovery.
That’s right: I’m a 41-year-old mother – with an eight-year-old daughter – who’s been happily married for a decade to a husband I adore.
I’m middle class and live a pretty ordinary life filled with school runs, children’s activities and work meetings – like many people reading this.
But what you won’t know by looking at me is that I spent more than 20 years in the grip of a destructive sex addiction.
Only after thousands of pounds of therapy, steely determination and the unwavering support of my husband am I now, thankfully, in control of the compulsive sexual behaviour, as it is formally known – which I know now was rooted in early puberty.
In my 20s, I spent hours compulsively watching hardcore pornography and putting myself in unspeakably dangerous situations with men, sabotaging every meaningful relationship I had.
I ruined a three-year one with a wonderful man I thought I’d marry, after some sleazy encounter with an ex-boyfriend on a solo trip to Hawaii after graduating.
Although he probably never would have found out, I broke up with him because I felt so guilty and disgusted with myself. I always felt bad about my behaviour, during and especially afterwards, but I just couldn’t stop. If sex was proffered, I didn’t care what format it came in, I was compelled to seize it.
What does a sex addiction feel like? It’s a question I’ve often been asked. Well for a start, sex addiction is never sexy.
I describe it as an urge that’s out of my control; to be constantly consumed with the desire for the physical release of orgasm, and also for affection.
Sex made me feel valuable, a feeling I was addicted to, but didn’t know how to find without intercourse.
Orgasm was a sensation so powerful that it obliterated worry, anxiety, self-loathing, fear and insecurity for a short while. And – something all addicts will identify with – as soon as it was over I’d immediately be craving the next hit. Having scrutinised my sexual history through therapy, I’ve realised I always sought comfort in sex when I was stressed, fearful, bored or anxious because it was easier than dealing with the feelings themselves.
I know inevitably people will ask how many men I’ve slept with, and while I do understand their curiosity, I don’t believe the number is relevant or helpful.
Before I met my husband more than 11 years ago, there were times I’d sleep with a new guy every week when I was single but, more typically, I’d jump from one monogamous relationship to the next (ranging from three months to three years) with sex always the focus.
Also, the ‘how many’ figure is just one of a number of elements that make up this complex disorder. It’s one of the reasons I’m so open when documenting my experiences in my memoir, because compulsive sexual behaviour is frequently misunderstood.
Difficult to officially diagnose – after all, how do you differentiate sex addiction from someone with a strong sexual appetite and weak willpower?
It’s defined by relationship charity Relate as ‘any sexual behaviour that feels out of control.
It’s not the behaviour itself that defines it as a compulsion but rather the dependency on it to numb out negative emotions and difficult experiences.’ Like most other adolescents with raging hormones, my enthusiasm for sex began perfectly normally when I discovered masturbation aged 12.
Raised by Catholic parents, I went to an all-girls’ religious school where sex was taboo and only ever mentioned at home and in the classroom in relation to procreation.
This meant that very early on I associated sex with shame, not least when, also aged 12, I was diagnosed with scoliosis – curvature of the spine – and immediately assumed it was God’s way of punishing me for touching myself ‘down there’.
This was the point at which normal, healthy sexual exploration became a compulsion, though I didn’t realise this at the time as I was too young to make sense of my behaviour.
Bullied at school for wearing a back brace to correct my spinal condition, masturbation was an escape and orgasm my primary release and coping mechanism.
This was all happening around the time that the internet was becoming more accessible. I started with viewing and downloading pornographic images, then videos, before moving on to streaming porn and graduating to cyber-sex with strangers.
All this was going on in my parents’ house, late at night with my bedroom door locked, the fear of being interrupted part of the thrill.
I’d feel sick with shame afterwards and vow never to do it again. But I always did, often within hours. I lost my virginity, aged 17, to a man who was ten years older than me and a regular customer at the restaurant where I worked after school.
I can’t say it was a particularly pleasurable experience for me as I was focused on pleasing him – but the thrill, shame and self-disgust was still there. When I went to college to study English literature aged 18, I suddenly had much more access to men, flitting between casual sex and relationships.
Privately, porn remained a constant, giving me the combination of pleasure and shame I craved.
Only now can I see that the most destructive part of my addiction was this ever-present aspect of shame. If I’d known as a young person that it was normal and healthy to be interested in sex, I probably wouldn’t have developed an addiction.
Shame was the driving force. Though I only cheated on boyfriends a handful of times, I would often fantasise about doing so and was always flirtatious with other men.
Relationships would end at the same sad place: with me walking away if I felt a man was getting too close, because emotional intimacy felt too risky and alien.
I felt too dirty and shameful for anyone to love and feared they’d reject me once they knew me properly.
In my late 20s, a boyfriend who was a successful film director and much older than me planted the seed that my insatiable sexual appetite wasn’t healthy.
I constantly pestered him for sex even when he said ‘no’ because I didn’t know how to connect with him, or anyone else, any other way.
After I’d pestered him for the umpteenth time one day, he yelled at me: “You’re a sex addict, you need to get some help!”
We separated, and although it was a few years before I started therapy, it had alerted me to the fact that something wasn’t quite right with my attitude to sex.
Just before I turned 30, I’d broken up with a man I loved but cheated on and I realised I wanted the next decade of my life to be different.
If I was going to change, I needed to be single for a while and abstain from sex until I was mentally healthier.
On a mission to become a better version of myself, I went on holiday to Bali where I spent my time doing yoga, meditation and reflection classes.
That’s where I met my husband, River, an Australian who was working in Shanghai at the time.
When we spoke after a yoga class I was scared of the attraction I felt for him due to my determination to be single for a while.
Still, when I bumped into him again a few days later I agreed to go out for drinks. We had sex on our second date, after which I was filled with a mixture of fear that I’d fall back into my destructive ways, along with excitement and infatuation.
We swapped numbers and emails and, two weeks later, back home, I decided to do something I’d never done in any relationship – I told River everything: that I suspected I was a sex addict.
Convinced he would simply cut me off at that point, I was amazed when he didn’t. Determined this relationship wouldn’t follow the same destructive pattern, I went to a few Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous (SLAA) meetings to learn how to have healthier relationships, establish new patterns of behaviour, and meet other people having similar experiences.
Like Alcoholics Anonymous, SLAA is a 12-step programme where people share experiences of addiction and support one another in sobriety, with meetings available all over the UK.
My biggest fear for years had been of being found out, that people might think I was sick and depraved and I’d be alone for ever.
The realisation that my compulsive sexual behaviour didn’t mean I was a terrible person was a relief, as was the hope that meeting other addicts gave me. Many had gone on to have healthy relationships, so maybe I could, too.
Therapy taught me that revealing the darkest thing about yourself to other people is empowering because it takes the power away from the addiction.
So I kept confessing, going to more meetings and therapy. River and I reunited in Thailand before going travelling together for several months.
No matter what I confessed, he never judged me or backed away.
It brought us closer. He was warm and had an understanding borne of his own demons, being newly sober from alcohol and drug use at the time.
Over the past decade, I’ve realised the triggers that lead me to seek comfort in sex and porn are stress, fear and anxiety.
I learned to go for a walk, meditate and talk or write about my feelings.
It’s important to be clear that being triggered doesn’t mean feeling like I’ll cheat on my husband. It’s more that something triggers the urge to use sex as a self-soothing mechanism – for example, watching porn to shut out a feeling. If I get this urge, I’ll ask myself: am I running away from something, or do I just feel like watching it?
Very occasionally, I do watch porn. But only because I want to, not because I need to.
There’s a healthy and unhealthy way to approach the same activity and being in recovery means knowing the difference.
In 2013, River and I wed. Sex remains a focus of my marriage but it’s healthy and loving. I’m very much a recovering sex addict as my impulses and activities are no longer out of control, risky or secretive.
You can be a healthy and empowered sexual person who practises safe sex with hundreds of people and not necessarily be addicted to sex. You just like sex, but you don’t lie to people or use sex as an escape or a coping mechanism because you can’t face issues in your life.
On the other hand, you can be in a monogamous marriage and compulsively watch porn in secret or have sex with strangers behind your spouse’s back and feel ashamed and out of control.
My therapy is ongoing and has helped me realise I’d been using sex to mask feelings of rejection and self-hatred I first felt aged 12.
It also taught me that instead of running from complicated feelings, I can now talk about them and trust they will pass.
I am in a healthy place now. It’s more than ten years since I felt the desire to blow up my life, lie, cheat, or destroy my relationship – and for that I can only be proud and grateful.
https://www.perthnow.com.au/lifestyle/erica-garza-middle-class-mums-can-be-sex-addicts-too-i-should-know-because-i-am-one–c-16204182
陳旭@perth 