It’s good to have a sponsor’s voice rattling around in your brain when things get squirrelly.
Today, I was searching for a hi-res scanned image of balsa wood that I could use for scrapbooking and one of the hits had a graphic excerpt from some sex story. How in the world does that connect to balsa wood?
That was about 20 minutes ago. Even though it’s kind of funny in a cosmic sense, it’s triggering. That’s a downer, right? Because after over three freakin’ years of sobriety, you’d think I could see a string of dirty words and not have it affect me.
But it does affect me. Not the way it used to, for which I am extremely grateful. I dreamed about those damn folders. And as for todays balsa wood search, there was a time when that would have been all I needed to point me toward a day of surfing the newsgroups. And even though I’m much better now, I’ve spent the last half hour trying to figure out how balsa wood relates to sex. It’s too flimsy for paddles . . . right. This is a train of thought that leads to places I no longer wish to go.
But that’s not why I’m posting. I get a lot of phone calls from women who are worried they might have a problem with sex addiction. Most of them haven’t gotten into the really sick stories I was into, but a lot of them read romance novels.
If you are a woman who enjoys romance novels, then you should be able to understand a man who enjoys pictures of naked women or people having sex. I’m posting because I feel angry when I think of that hypocrisy and I felt moved to share that porn can be images or text.
Of course, my fellow sex addicts in recovery probably realize that I’m also posting because I’m rattled, and I’m reaching out instead of acting out. To be completely honest, I’d really rather spend the rest of the day doing what I used to do.
Times like this I hear my sponsor’s voice reminding me that feelings are not facts and this too shall pass. It kind of ticks me off because the truth is, I’d rather do what I used to do. But it probably won’t bring much pleasure, and I’ll probably be ashamed and sorry afterward, and I’ll probably be glad tomorrow if I don’t act out.
Sometimes the whole deal just sucks. After this long, I ought to be free. Fixed. Cured. Instead, I’m committing to staying sober for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, if I still feel like acting out, I will.