Our program offers us the Promises; but, when we are swept up in the throes of our addiction, those Promises seem far off, transitory, unreal. Though I can only speak from my own experience, strength, and hope, I can attest to those Promises being fulfilled. This is my story:

I lie awake: The cold hospital floor bleeds through my sleeping bag. I hear metal clanging, echoing down the abandoned corridors. At eight, I’m old enough to fear the noise yet too young to recognize it as a radiator heating.

For comfort I glance to my brothers. I hear only their breathing. The oldest and youngest make a high-pitched wheeze through their mouths. The quietest younger brother lies next to me.

We’re here to visit dad. He moved out months ago, and even I am old enough to know you don’t leave your family seven states away when things are good.

My dad: tragic, temperamental, brooding. I’m already accomplished at reading the tea leaves to know when I can approach. Some days I misread and get it wrong, and then what can I do but brace for the torrent of shouting? 

And so I escape. What else can I do? In my ever-changing world of schools, homes, friends, and relationships, a single wrong word threatens to upset the chaotic balance.

My brothers learned more quickly than I that when we are punished, we suffer in silence. Fighting back or protesting the injustice only further confirms our hardheadedness, opening the way to ever-more-inventive punishments. 

I cannot fight back, as my elementary frame is too small and too weak to protect me. And so I tune out with fantasy. Every night, I fall asleep to visions where I am attacked. In these dreams, unlike my waking reality, I have the opportunity to negotiate with the attackers. To bargain. To overpower. To intervene to protect others, especially the females in my life. Nightly dreams of rescue turn to lust. I daydream about how my grateful female classmates will reward me.

My story in my childhood was obsession and escape through fantasy-fed lust. That lust, in turn, led to early sexual experimentation and serial girlfriends; then being unfaithful to those girlfriends. After each relationship ended, I would swear to myself that the next one would be different. I would find the one who would make me whole.

I married young, desperate to have this be the relationship that would last forever. I believed that I would be fixed. Unhealed wounds festered, and white-knuckling only got me so far. I turned to porn and masturbation. When that no longer satisfied, I turned to serial affairs in an attempt to make the pain stop. Idealize, seduce, grow disenchanted with, discard—and repeat the pattern scores and scores of times.

My inside sense of filth, guilt, and despair didn’t match my carefully cultivated exterior. Eventually, I had to face my reality. My self-reliance failed me, leaving me with a broken marriage, fractured family relationships, and troubles at work. The depth of my bottom mirrored the intensity of my acting out.

My marriage was in shambles. My guilt weighed me down at every turn. My boss sat me down for an intervention to talk about my behavior at the office. I attended marriage counseling with my wife, and in turn was referred to an individual counselor. In therapy I found the courage to come clean about my addiction and become involved with Sexaholics Anonymous.

I attended meetings. I worked the Steps. I made connections with others, especially when I didn’t feel like it. My recovery began, a day at a time. As I worked the Steps, I had the opportunity to understand the root causes of my resentments and of the wounds I tried to heal through sex.

The Program hasn’t been a get-out-of-jail-free card that kept me from dealing with the consequences of my acting out. I lost my marriage, my house, my reputation, and much of my time with my kids. The SA Program has helped me understand why I kept lusting after the Big Fix and why I was never going to find it in a hotel room with a random woman.

I’ve begun to put my life back together. I’m a better father to my kids. I’m a better friend, a better brother, and a better son. I’m excelling at work and have had doors opened to me that I never thought would open. I’ve become more comfortable with who I am. It hasn’t been an easy journey. Over the course of time in SA, I have seen the Promises fulfilled.

I’ve learned that my joy doesn’t come from power or self-reliance. My joy comes from acknowledging that I am powerless, that I cannot do anything alone. In honest community, in acknowledging myself and loving myself for who I am and for who my Higher Power made me to be—this is where I’ve found joy. This joy reclaims those moments on the hospital floor.