Letter to myself:
I am so, so frustrated with you. More so than that I am disappointed in you, more than I have ever been. Some days you make me not want to even get out of bed. You make me feel disgusting and small. I used to be so proud of you, now I think that you’ve made the both of us a failure.
Remember when we first became a Christian? When we decided to go from being a militant atheist with a troubled mind to someone with inner peace and tranquility? I know I do. I think about it constantly. I think about how we’ve lost that thanks in no small part to you.
I often think about how easy it had been the first time. Even though we had watched pornography every day since we were 13 years old. We put it down and never let the thought enter our mind. I was so proud of us then. You had impressed me.
Remember how we used to always tell Bianca that pornography was a horrible, destructive thing, and little better than emotional and mental adultery? I do. I know you remember to but you choose to ignore it whenever you’re caught up in your addiction. We’ve let her down and some days I fear she’s never going to see us the same way ever again, even though she tells me that’s not the case. We’re engaged, we can’t be a good, righteous husband like I always wanted if you keep hanging on to this sickening obsession. This has to be dealt with before we can move on in life.
Some days I hate you. I hate you so much I just want to disown you. You make me so angry and in my weakest moments that hate turns in on me as well. I wish you would go away forever. I wish I never had to see you again. I thought you had before, but in my darkest, most broken moment you came back and now I’m right where I started again. I never should’ve humored you, no matter how lost I was feeling. I should’ve stayed strong, but I let you infect me.
You make me feel so broken and lost. You make me feel like a worthless excuse for a man. You go against all of my beliefs and ethics. You rape my morality on a daily basis and I let you. You even make me question my own sexuality and take me to more and more extreme forms of pornography to satisfy your desensitized gluttony.
Go away. Please.
Letter from my sex addict:
I’m drowning. It’s hard for me to breathe sometimes. I feel like there’s weights tied to my ankles and I can’t quite keep my head above water. You say you hate me and you want me to go away. I feel the same.
Or at least I’d like to say that; however, I’m a two-faced creature. On the surface I want to divorce myself from porn and from you, but deep down I’m scared I might want this. I might just revel in how sick and wrong this all is. It’s easier to just give in than to fight it. It’s easier to drink in the depravity of watching these men and women debase themselves than to fight off the urge when it comes up. Porn is so omnipresent. It’s always just a key keystrokes away. A lot of the time I don’t even have to look for it. It comes to me like a loyal dog.
I hate to love it, just like I hate to love myself. Sometimes I’m just as afraid as you are. I’m not sure I believe that we can beat this, and it’s scarier to try and fail than to never try at all for me. I know you’re disappointed in me, but I also know you’re afraid of what everyone who looks up to you will think if they find out you’ve fallen off the wagon. I’m proud that you’ve always been honest with Bianca. That you never hid me from her. It’s one of the few shreds of dignity I feel we still have. It hurts her and I know it does but in that moment, with the pornography starring me right in the face, I don’t care. As time has gone on sometimes I worry I don’t care even when it isn’t there.
I’m trying. Help me.