Letters From An Angry Addict

iStock_000003237600SmallAs a child, I never learned how to properly deal with emotions. Rather than express fear, sadness, angry, anxiety, etc. I learned how to use things to dull them and stuff them down. Now that I’m no longer using, I am left with all of these emotions and have no idea how to appropriately express them. For example, I know it’s not cool to yell at someone who frustrates me at work. Before I would have maybe sent a sext to a guy and used the attention to feel better. I can’t do that now. I have to experience each uncomfortable emotion and then sooth myself in a healthy way.

The other day I told my therapist that I have no idea how to sooth anger other than verbally attack the object of my anger. She suggested that I write letters that I never send. Here’s a couple that I wrote today. Note: I know these are pretty mean, but that’s kind of the point since none of the addressees will ever read these (maybe with the exception of  the comment lady, but I seriously doubt she’s coming back again). I would never actually send any of these.

*****

Dear Egomanic I Once Dated,
Guess what? I only dated you because you looked kinda like another guy I wasn’t over yet. Not sound logic, I know, but that’s not the point. The point is that the whole time I dated you I was still hung up on that other dude who, btw, was way more fun than you. I don’t know why I put up with your cloying, condescending, and presumptive “concern” that I was getting too close and that you didn’t want to hurt me. Bitch, I never even came close to falling for you. I also don’t know why I didn’t just punch you in the balls the first time I said, “I missed you,” and you replied, “thank you.”

I told you that I was in recovery for sex and love addiction because I still considered you a friend and wanted to let you know why I wasn’t around, not because I was trying to get back together with you. Since you are you, though, you assumed the later. Not sure why I didn’t see that coming. Part of me wishes that I had told you about this blog so I could sit back and enjoy all the extra page hits as you combed through each and every entry trying to find out how many times I had written about you. Spoiler alert: zero.

xoxo,
Imperfect

*****

Dear Bitch Who Commented on This Post,
I don’t like your tone so I’m not going to accept your comment. Since reading comprehension (along with spelling, punctation and grammar) obviously isn’t your forte, let me break it down for you. Number one, I haven’t been on a dating site in a year and a half as it is one of the behaviors I abstain from in sobriety. Please “read” (in quotes because I know you just skimmed) more than one post before you decide to give me a lecture in the comments section of my blog. Number two, I did meet him in public for our first date. Thanks for victim blaming and implying the whole thing was my fault, though.

Oh, and number three… Fuck You!

Take Care,
Imperfect

*****

Dear Mindy,
Your husband (you know, that dude you’re married too who used to be hot but now has a face only meth could love) cheats on you all every chance he gets. He invites strangers over to your house when you are out of town on work trips. He does drugs and has sex with them while your children are asleep upstairs. He cheats on you constantly, even when you are in town. Don’t you wonder where he goes all the time at night?

I know I shouldn’t be angry at you, and that your marriage is none of my business, but I am. Your husband lied to me repeatedly, swearing that he was divorced from you. He hurt me a great deal. I honestly don’t understand how you could not know what he’s up to. I feel a lot more compassion toward you than I feel anger, but I do feel anger. It doesn’t seem fair that he gets to  be such a creep and still be married to someone who is as beautiful and successful as you seem to be. Please do me yourself a favor and leave him.

Thanks,
Your husband’s former fuck buddy

*****

Dear Asshats Who Park on My Street and Take up Two Parking Spots,
Hey idiot, take a look around the neighborhood. Notice how every other car is parked just a few inches from the bumper in front of it? That’s cause there is limited street parking in this area (not sure how that escaped your notice) and everyone else who parked his or her car was considerate of that fact. Nothing breaks my heart more than coming home late at night and seeing your piece of shit car parked directly in front of my apartment building with half car space between both the car in front of you and the car behind you, forcing me to spend half an hour scouring the neighborhood for a space. Go suck a bag of dicks you fucking moron!

Cheers,
Your Friendly Neighbor

*****

Thanks for indulging me this writing exercise. Hope I didn’t offend any of you with my anger.

Nobody Loves You

“Nobody loves you,” “No one wants you,” “You are worthless,” “You don’t matter to anyone,” “You don’t deserve love, protection, happiness, success or anything else that’s good,” “You are shit!” This is what my addiction says to me. This voice formed long ago, probably before my conscious memory. It could have been formed by something as uneventful as belong left to cry a little too long as an infant. Who knows how it originally formed.

In my later childhood this voice was fortified by abandonment, death, and abuse. It lodged deep in my subconscious, then grew with each subsequent trauma. Every unfortunate event in my life gave it more fuel. I deserved it when my boyfriend hit me. Had it coming when I was raped. I believed this voice so much that I sought out further evidence to prove it right. Choose men that would beat me. Asked them for it. Choose men who were unavailable and would therefore eventually abandon me. Became addicted to those men.

This voice is somewhat quelled by the sexual act. In those short moments I know that I am intensely wanted, desired, valued, maybe even loved. I am validated by the focus and the attention. Then it’s over, and all I want is to feel that validation again, and again, and again.

Nowadays I know that this voice is a liar. I am loved, valued, and worthy of all good things. My friends love me, my family members love me, my sponsor and my fellows love me, and most importantly, I am loved by myself and my Higher Power.

That voice is quieter now, but it’s still there. And sometimes it kicks up a fuss that is difficult to ignore.

How Love Addiction Ruined my College Experience

In college I had one boyfriend. One fuckheaded, asshole, piece-of-shit boyfriend the whole five years.

I sometimes wish I could do college over again. If I could go back, I would have joined a sorority, gone to lots of parties, fucked lots of guys, aaand maybe studied some. Because even though I didn’t go to many parties or have much of a social life it wasn’t due to spending time in the library. Most of my time was spent off campus. About 35 miles off campus, to be exact, in my boyfriend’s dorm room at another university.

Without traffic, it would take me about 45 minutes to get to Peter’s school, but there was always traffic so the trip usually took about an hour. That’s a long way to travel for a busy college student, but not for a love addicted one. I would have taken a cross-country trip every weekend for this asshole. Of course, he didn’t have a car so I was always the one making the trip.

My addiction to Peter took up the vast majority of my time, but I somehow managed to be involved with one campus group throughout college. Every year they threw a big, end of year party. The first year I went, I was really excited to introduce Peter to this group of friends. Actually, a more truthful statement would be that I didn’t want to go to this party alone. So I drove down to his campus, picked him up, and drove him back to my campus — a two hour round trip. Nowadays this seems like insanity to me. I bitch and moan and try to get out of even driving across town. But back then, I would have driven three states over to pick him up.

When we got to the party he was his usual self, meaning he was awful. He was rude, antisocial, and disparaging the whole time. Then, in the middle of the party, he wanted to go home. Even though I was in no shape to be driving, I drove him. Then I drove back to the party, which thankfully was still going on. So in one night, I drove 140 fucking miles out of my way for this fucktard. I also got a ticket for speeding. I should have gotten a DUI, since I was only 19 and even one drink would have put me over the legal limit, but I lucked out there.

In my first two years of college, I made that trip multiple times a week. After that, Peter flunked out of school and moved back in with his parents, who lived a lot closer. We ended up spending even more time together — fighting, breaking up, getting back together. It was a non-stop drama cycle. I’m not sure how I managed to graduate, but I eventually did. We broke up for good a few months after my graduation.

My Drugs


I’ve been getting a lot of new readers, so I thought I would create a handy reference for those who don’t know where to begin.

This is a list of many of the men I have written about on this blog. Since I don’t want to get sued I’m such a nice person, I’ve given them all pseudonyms.

HC is a married man I was seeing right before I came into program. You can read about him here and here.

Joe Turner is some shady idiot.

Ethan is a sociopath I was hooked on for a long time.

Peter was my first (and probably worst) boyfriend.

Jonathan is a liar and a cheater.

Mr. Fat Cock, Fat Wallet has the distinction of actually being a nice guy… well, as nice as one can be while regularly cheating on his wife.

Creepy Daddy is, well, just that.

Jane was a little girl who I was in love with even though she was mean to me.

Leigh is the worst casual encounter I have had the displeasure of encountering.

Carson is the last guy I acted out with. I actually wrote about him while I was seeing him. You can read about him here, here, and here.

Anthony is the closest I’ve ever coming to being in love. I wrote about him here, here, and here.

Of course not all of my posts are about men. Most of them are about my recovery and what I’ve found out about myself along the way. But I know the acting out stories are usually the ones that are the most “fun” to read. If you are new to my blog, I invite you to click around and find out more about me.

My Old Man is a Bad Man…

I heard this song the other day and all I could think about was Anthony. Part of me still wants him to come and save me, rescue me from myself. And part of me knows no one can rescue me but me, particularly not someone who is even crazier and fucked up than I am (a difficult feat, indeed).

I went about three days without talking to him, then he texted me. Instead of just ignoring him I wrote back and told him to stop contacting me then ended up talking to him for 45 minutes. Nothing quite says, “I can’t talk to you anymore,” like talking to someone for 45 minutes. No mixed messages there.

From there it was off to the races. The last two days I have been spinning out of control with him. Today we got in a big fight fueled by our mutual insanities. The grand finale of which was him deleting me from his Facebook contacts and telling me he would file a restraining order if I ever contacted him again, which is bullshit because I haven’t done anything to warrant a restraining order. Also, this was after I told him to never contact me again, so it was a moot point. He was just trying to one-up me in the game of who can say “I never want to talk to you again” the loudest.

Regardless, I understood his message loud and clear. He’s done. At least for now.

Hopefully the next time he comes around, I will be healthy enough to resist. He isn’t my one true love. I know he can’t be. But sometimes, like now, it feels like he is.

A Subtle Addiction

Not so subtle

My sex and love addiction can be bold and blatant, like a belligerent drunk getting kicked out of a bar. More often than not, though, it’s subtle, like a functioning alcoholic who drinks all night and still manages to show up every morning for work and do his job.

It sneaks in.

“You went more than three years without talking to Anthony, you can be friends with him now,” it says. Then, “It’s okay to talk to him every single day. You’re JUST friends.” “Phone sex isn’t real sex. It’s fine,” it whispers in my ear.

So now I have this thing going on with someone I thought I had completely exorcised from my system a few years back. We’re not fucking, and that’s how I justify staying in contact with the guy. But it’s just as bad, if not worse. I talk to him every day, and sometimes for hours on end.

I sometimes think that if Anthony were 15 years younger and just a little bit less… weird, he would be my soulmate. We would probably be married by now and have three kids. I told this to a friend in program recently and she said, “So if he were a COMPLETELY different person he would be your soulmate?”

Um, well, when you put it that way…

The thing is, I don’t even believe in soulmates. But my addiction does. It tells me that it doesn’t matter that insert name here is married, or that he is a sociopathic liar, or that he is 21 freaking years older than me and he’s a swinger. He (whomever “he” happens to be at the moment) is the ONE!

This is bullshit.

I care about Anthony probably more than I have ever cared about any man I have been romantically linked to. That’s why it’s so fucked up that I am using him for a high. The last time we talked Anthony (who knows I’m in a program for sex/love addiction) said something like, “I guess I’m flattered by all the attention you give me and how fixated you can get.”

“Don’t be, because it’s bullshit,” I replied. “You could be anyone. I have given this level of attention to men that I hated. Obsession is nothing to be flattered by. It’s all about me and has nothing to do with you.

“Once I stop contacting you, then you should be flattered. Because that will mean that I authentically care about you enough to stop using you.”

But it’s not that easy. I do authentically care enough about Anthony to stop using him. I genuinely care about him so much. But true affection isn’t enough to override addiction, obsession, and compulsion. No matter how much I care about anyone, I am still powerless over all this shit. I can’t stop on will power alone.

It’s now been just over 24 hours since I last had contact with Anthony. And to anyone who thinks love addiction isn’t a real thing, well fuck you, because I’m currently going through a physical withdrawal. I’m shaky, I have a headache, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Maybe some day in the very distant future I will be healthy enough to have an appropriate friendship with Anthony. I hope so, but I can’t think about that right now. I need to concentrate on filling the space in my life he took up with my higher power, and getting through one minute, one hour, one day at a time.

Image via Wikimedia Commons, Author: Landii

What Addicts Really Want

On kink and casual sex sites it’s common to see terms like “cock worship” and “pussy worship” bandied about. I never quite understood exactly what these terms meant, but my best guess is amazing head delivered by someone who cannot get enough of the receiver’s genitals. While not everyone on these sites is a sex addict, many of them are. I’ll go out on a limb and say I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk about worshipping genitals who wasn’t an active sex addict (sorry if I’m offending any non-addict genital worshipers who will undoubtably find their way here after googling “cock worship” and/ or “pussy worship”).

It’s interesting that worship, a term which literally means reverence or devotion to a deity i.e., a higher power, is used in this context. I picture religious pilgrims knelt down in prayer between a stranger’s legs. Why not say “I’m into cock adoration” or “pussy devotion,” or maybe, “I want to venerate your genitals”? These words all have the same meaning as “worship,” without the spiritual element.

I was never into worshiping sex parts, but this reminds me of other behavior I did have. When I was active in my love addiction, I spent most of my free time looking for that perfect partner. I thought once I found the man who would take care of me and make me feel whole, then I could start living my life. Having this man in my life seemed almost as essential as oxygen. Once I found him, then I could work on my career, my finances, my writing, and all my other hopes and dreams. I didn’t realize it then, but what I was really looking for was my Higher Power.

Similarly, on the BDSM sites I used to frequent I was quite literally looking for a man that I could turn my will and my life over to, which is basically Step 3. Except instead of making a decision to turn their will and life over to a dominant, 12-steppers turn it over to the care of a Higher Power.

This all seems so obvious to me now. The whole time I thought I was searching for an amazing lover I could lose myself in, who would take away all my pain; a boyfriend that would save me from myself and make life tolerable; and a dominant who would take over and make all my decisions for me; I was actually looking for a Higher Power.

I don’t presume to speak for all addicts, but it seems like this could be a major component in most addictions. We’re trying to fill a God-sized hole with drugs, alcohol, food, sex, men, whatever we can find. It’s an impossible task. There will never be enough of anything to fill that hole. Note: I don’t think Higher Power and God have to be synonymous. For me, they are, but I know many atheists and agnostics in 12 steps who put their faith in a non-god higher power—nature, for example.

The more work I do on my recovery, the greater my relationship with my Higher Power becomes. And with that relationship comes hope, peace, and serenity, and everything else I thought I would gain once I found the perfect man.