By the time I had sense enough to feel ashamed of my acting out, the allure of lust had its hooks in my mind and heart. As a young child, I became lost in my own private hell: trying to navigate right from wrong, discovering family secrets and keeping my own, and experiencing a growing desire for pleasure. My need to chase that high would eventually surpass every obligation to respect myself and others. My peers were going through the awkwardness of maturing sexually and moving on to developing responsible relationships. Not me! From the start, I was swept away by the torrent of lust. Whereas others developed self-restraint with regards to sexual desire, I developed an irrational greed that defied every attempt at control.

This mindset permeated every aspect of my childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. Every relationship, every career choice, and every daily plan for my life was somehow wrapped up in the pursuit of lust. This wasn’t easy for me to see. Shrouded in self-deception, I moved through the lives of others, devouring objects of desire. In fear and secrecy, I watched my life descend into self-hatred and despair. Nothing was sacred; not friendship, not brotherhood, not marriage—not even the bonds between father and child. This thing that compelled me did not rest until it had what it wanted. To others, I probably appeared to be a monster. No one suspected that trapped inside of me was a person yearning for peace.

My greatest shame was that I had molested three of my children, who were the pride and joy of my life. Of all the disgraces I would endure, none could compare to the torture of my own conscience. When my mind turns on me, condemning and torturing, the scorn of others cannot begin to compare.

Lust had promised so much pleasure and escape from pain, but in the last years of its dominion in my life, it delivered only suffering. I became suicidal. With a handgun tucked neatly in my mouth, I cursed God for ignoring my cries for help. I felt utterly alone, contemplating suicide because I was unable to conquer lust, and believing that even God had turned his back on me.

With my first marriage ruined, I went to work on a second. Somehow, my ex-wife’s plunge into post-divorce misery afforded me custody of our five children. This was problematic, for even though I loved them very much, my obsession with lust had proven harmful to them. So I set out once again in search of the “right woman” who would “fix me.” This only made matters worse. Grabbing at people in order to make everything perfect was merely another expression of my lust.

At first, my second marriage seemed to be the answer to my problems. The sex was fresh and exciting, we were able to get along and compromise, and our families blended without much of a fuss. I was even able to give up pornography and masturbation. What a sham! Then came the day when jealousy and low self-esteem provided an excuse to act out.

You would think that after thousands of attempts at using lust to dampen emotional pain, I would have remembered that it always ends up controlling my freedom of choice. But I was always ignorant of the relationship between desire, acting on desire, and the inevitable consequences. So after satisfying myself, with the sincerest intention that it be only one time, the force of this illness crashed down on me. My brief period of control had caused the compulsion to worsen.

Terror set in. I was in a new home with new stepchildren, as well as those I’d already hurt. Then a strange thing happened: the veil of ignorance was temporarily lifted. I realized that on my current path I would eventually harm someone in our home. I realized that the beast must be exposed to the light. I had never shared my secret with anyone, but things were critical now. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or work.

My new wife asked what was wrong. I took a deep breath; it was now or never. It was time to let the light shine on my deeds, or use the handgun. Certain that my life was over either way, I told her in detail who I truly was and the harm I had wrought upon my children. There is no way to describe the pain in the room that day. We spoke until the only right action revealed itself: our children needed help. That meant others must know. The next day we went to the police, and I confessed the abuse. The day after that, I stumbled into an SA meeting seeking something; I did not know what.

I was amazed to find that the men and women there spoke my language. Listening intently, hope welled up in my heart. These people knew what I was experiencing! As they shared their experiences, I saw that victory over lust could be a reality. I was headed to prison, watching my family disintegrate, unable to work, and unsure about the future of my marriage. Yet even though these had been my deepest lifelong fears, I began to experience periods of peace. I found a sponsor, began working the Steps, and attended as many meetings as possible.

After a few weeks, I was formally charged and jailed for a month before making bail. Halfway through that month, I lost my sobriety. In a panic, I called my sponsor from prison. Bracing for a rebuke, I was surprised by his reaction: “Okay, so you lost your sobriety. It happens to many of us. We just start over again, that’s all.” After making bail, I was on the streets for six months. During that time, I shared a Step One with my home group and a Step Five with my sponsor. I made some difficult amends. I surrendered, not only to a Higher Power, but to the concept that life is not mine to control. Meditation became a daily habit, replacing fantasy and intrigue.

A workable method for overcoming lust temptations began to solidify in my life: I realized that, to stay sober, I needed to help the sick and suffering sexaholic. At long last, I was walking the path out of Hell. Watching me, my wife admitted her own addiction and pursued help. We agreed to uphold our wedding vows as sacred, and to weather the storm ahead with loyalty, compassion, and honesty.

On September 25th, 2006, I was incarcerated. I was sentenced to 6 ½ to 13 years in a state penitentiary. I was frightened by stories I had heard that sex offenders are at the bottom of the prison food chain. So while sitting in the county jail waiting to be moved upstate, I asked God to help me accept the situation and be able to let go of fear. I surrendered the final destination to Him, asking only that if it were possible, I be placed in an institution where SA existed.

After being transferred to the main hub in the State system, I was moved to a general population block. Several seasoned inmates sat down with me upon arrival to tell me what to expect and how to act. I listened politely for half an hour, then one of them asked if I had any questions. “Does this block have an SA meeting?” I asked. “Yes,” was the reply, “one is scheduled this very night.” I wound up on the one block out of 17, in one of only two prisons out of 30, in which the SA fellowship had been established. This could only be God’s grace!

Prison life can be tumultuous, but I have found that it is a great proving ground for practicing the principles of our program. I have learned that fear need not dictate my thoughts, beliefs, or actions. I believe that, if we are willing, we will have opportunities to practice all Twelve Steps and Traditions during our sentence, and if we choose to, we can be of service to others.

Our group was a motley little crew when I found it. Only one fellow was holding it together—but his sobriety was kept alive by that service. The rest of the attendees were only haphazardly involved. At my sponsor’s suggestion, we began to pray for opportunities to carry the message. Before long the group grew in numbers and strength. People were being sponsored and getting better. The fledgling group became a safe haven.

In many ways we are perhaps more blessed than our fellows who are free, because we are forced daily to confront ourselves in an environment that allows little comfort. Emotional disturbances that might go undetected for months in the world outside become obvious every night when we are locked in our cells. My conscious contact with my Higher Power is vital, because sometimes that’s all I have when a corrupt mental state arises. We see each other throughout each day and at one or more of our five weekly meetings, but if we don’t put in the individual work of the program, we’ll have no defense against lust if it manifests during a lockdown.

Twelfth-Step work has been critical to my recovery process. I’ve been blessed to have a group of people who empathize with me. But if I want to overcome the compulsion to act out and the obsession with lust (not just stay sober), then reaching out to others is vital. In the meetings, I watch for men who seem to want to learn something. Afterward I approach them, share my story, listen, and if they’re ready, invite them to work the Steps with me. It is in these interactions that I recover. I’m not sober just to feel better, get stuff, or be released from prison. I’m sober to provide an example of what’s possible for the sex-drunk who doesn’t know there’s a way out.

As our group has grown, we have been learning how the Twelve Traditions function. We are confronted with a multitude of politics in this environment. There are the prison’s rules, the staff members’ unwritten rules, and the inmate code. None of these coincide. In order to find serenity in this mess we’ve had to be vigilant at finding the most effective combination of anonymity, unity, faith, and membership requirement, while staying in balance with our primary purpose (to help the addict who still suffers) and placing the group’s survival ahead of its individual members. We don’t always get this right, but we learn from our mistakes.

I’ve also discovered compassion toward those who persecute me. There is a real path to peace with even the harshest of men, even if only to learn patience and self-restraint. When confronted with negativity, injustice, or abuse of power, I must remember two things: I am fortunate to have survived this addiction, and whoever is before me being offensive is really a human being full of dignity. And while society may have cast us here to be forgotten, I refuse to believe that any of us are hopeless.

Fellowship is important to me, so I’m always happy to hear from members of my home group on the outside—especially the newer members who are facing jail time. These members seek some assurance, and I am glad to share my experience with them. When some members of my home group became unable to continue writing, I reached out to the next closest Intergroup. They’ve been happy to correspond and even visit at times. When the well’s dried up, you’ve got to go where the water is!

Initially, I felt great resentment at the prison system because I felt that it was not designed to help me. But when I became willing to take responsibility for my own recovery, I found that real change was possible here! If I had not come to dwell in this pressure cooker, I might not have learned so many lessons. The inconsistencies and hardships are what has made my transformation possible. I am truly grateful to be here, alive in this present moment. Peace, contentment, and harmony aren’t contingent on location; they’re products of a clear mind, polished through self-sacrifice for others.

All of us in SA, whether free or imprisoned, eventually arrive at a place where we must make use of our SA experience. Sometimes I revisit my personal inventory. Sometimes I apply Tradition Five by sticking to my primary purpose at work or in the chow hall. Sometimes I need to make amends to an inmate or officer. Sometimes I practice being self-supporting by giving my Big Book to a newcomer. Sometimes I stop to meditate on a wise course of action. Sometimes I have to concede to our SA group’s conscience. Sometimes I listen to someone’s Fifth Step. And many, many times, I practice being powerless over this place and its inhabitants. There are always opportunities to apply the principles. But the responsibility to do so rests squarely on my shoulders. If I can be restored to a sane and useful life, anyone can.

Today, I’ve been sober almost five years. My wife and I enjoy a finer intimacy than either of us has ever known. Our relationship is based on mutual respect, honesty, kindness, sharing, and love. We’ve been able to use this time to learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses—forming the type of friendship, acceptance, and trust I had always dreamed of. Our children have returned home (after being removed for a time), and I am working diligently to be the father they deserve.

Instead of sitting around waiting for the fellowship to happen, I help create it, reaching out to other inmates and to SA members all over North America. My current sponsor is big on service, and that legacy has been passed on to me. I try to stay active in SA’s Literature and Correctional Facilities committees. Although in prison, I live a full life. The compulsion to act out has subsided. And the mental obsession with lust has become something easily dispatched by one of the many tools in my spiritual tool kit. Every once in a while, I’ll meet a man with the same 1,000-yard stare I had in the beginning. I try to show him he’s not alone anymore.

Right now I’m considered state property. That’s because I sold myself for a lifetime of lust. A 13-year prison sentence—to pay the debt for that much pain—is mercy in the long run. It’s a funny thing to face your worst fears, to rise up out of the ashes and into a new way of life. Because on the other side of that experience is what one would never expect to find: liberation.