Reynslusaga
As a child, abuse meant love to me, and throughout my twenty-six years of adulthood, I have twisted myself and those around me physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually to perpetuate this belief. Looking back from the perspective of a newcomer in S.L.A.A. who has used the Twelve Steps to recover from alcoholism, cigarette and marijuana smoking, and compulsive overeating, it seems to me that self-abuse became my major coping mechanism for dealing with life.
Although certain American values were fostered in my parents’ house— such as hard work, success, punctuality, obedience, political involvement, and maintaining a good appearance—there was no attempt to practice a spiritual approach to life. When the pressures of too many children, not enough money, or general neediness overwhelmed my parents, they had no higher Power to help make things easier for them, to cast their burdens upon, or to turn to for light and love.
Instead, my parents made “higher powers” of each other, with the result that the four walls of our small house often resounded with anger derived from unmet expectations, creating intolerable tension for everyone. My father would deprive himself of rest, relaxation and help in his efforts to get ahead, and in resentment and frustration he would lash out at the family. This could stimulate my mother to emotionally manipulate us through suicide threats.
Afterward, she would be very loving, both physically and emotionally. She also physically released her frustrations on her children, and I learned to fight with my siblings as a protection. I never suffered any broken bones, but no part of my body was safe and I was often hit about the face and head. I wanted desperately to love and be loved by my parents, and I decided that I must deserve abuse since they had to be right, and something had to be wrong with me that I would expect any better. At this point, I bitterly and secretly vowed never to be vulnerable again and to keep all power over my feelings to myself.
I discovered masturbation at around five years of age. Between then and age twelve, I often enjoyed myself privately in this way, but it became hard when I had to share a double bed with my sister. A desire to have sex with my sister occurred to me, but I did not act it out since sex was a powerful taboo in our house. I was ashamed of my curiosity about my genitals, the sexual act, preg¬nancy, and the difference between boys and girls. Even underwear was “dirty.”
During pre-adolescence, I began to imagine what sex was like. I was a vora¬cious reader and began to search for descriptions of love and sex in written matter ranging from True Confessions to medical books. I wondered how I would know when I was in love. It never occurred to me to look to my parents for a model since I had vowed never to be like them.
I began to have crushes on both male and female adults and, having no one to confide in (not even my peers), my imagination ran wild. I felt that I was capable of homosexuality, sado-masochistic love, prostitution, white slavery, and all the most sensationalistic forms of sex and “love.”
I was allowed to begin dating at sixteen and, because I had learned flirting and manipulating techniques from my mother, I had many boyfriends. I wanted to be taken places so I used my sexuality by teasing men enough to obtain favors, but not going all the way. I began to go to bars and at twenty-one, in an alcoholic blackout, I came to, sitting in the bushes in my own vomit, my virginity gone. I guarded my body fairly well for two more years out of fear of pregnancy (there was no readily available birth control then) and at twenty-three met and married a fellow alcoholic/sex and love addict.
For sixteen years, a downward progression into alcoholism and sex and love addiction co-existed for us. Charles loved what I had—a female body—and I loved what he had—money, savvy, assertiveness, and a weakness through which he could be manipulated. Early in our marriage, after a country club dance where we had been drinking, I quarreled with him and tried to slap him. He hit me and, when I saw stars, I felt a sense of power. I was again involved in the abusive type of love I knew from childhood. I thought I had license now to drink more, fight more and make up more.
I was raped in my own bed by a burglar after one year of marriage. Soon afterward I found that my skin crawled when I was touched, and I got the shudders. I tried psychoanalysis to cure my resulting frigidity but it did not work. However, increasing my use of alcohol and drugs numbed me enough to have sex.
After five years, my husband told me he found our sex life boring, and in my desperation to cling to him I went to the other extreme and became very active sexually—talking trash, wearing revealing clothing, using pornography, going to strip joints and gay bars, seeking out swinging friends, getting into drunken adulterous episodes. Charles next wanted us to swap with other couples, but I was afraid he’d find a better sex partner and leave me so I would not consent. Our sex life became increasingly sado-masochistic. I would be drunk or high on speed most of the time and would provoke hostility from him. He would try to argue with me or hit me, and either I would get turned on and find the sex more exciting or he would force me to perform oral and anal sex. At other times I went for kinky sex—spanking, whips, belts, bondage, costumes I sometimes masturbated after he went to sleep since I almost never had an orgasm with him. I didn’t really know what an orgasm involving intercourse could be.
By now I could no longer deny the reality of how alcohol was ruining my life so I tried to stop my drinking. After thirty days on the wagon I took a drink at a job-related social and came home to find my best friend and drinking companion, a black prostitute, and my husband doing some drinking. After I did some cocaine and booze, my husband passed out and she undressed, started masturbating, then asked me to help her come. I felt I had to do what she asked. I had now progressed into marital swinging. There were several other bisexual and lesbian alcoholics with whom we had sex. It was never satisfactory.
I hit a bottom with alcohol and drunkenly and repeatedly told my husband to move out. To my surprise he did, and I humiliated myself by begging him to return. When he did not, I went to A.A., found a higher Power, and sobered up, but I swore revenge and tried to humiliate him by accepting as a sex partner every black man who called me from the bar my husband owned. I caught herpes and body lice, but I didn’t tell my sex partners. I had sex with married men, had noisy sex in the daytime while my teenagers were home, gave money to sex partners, had group sex, and teamed up with another woman to do trios. One day I had sex with four different men. Eventually, I had sex with lesbians I met in A.A., and then I met Sheila, my addictive/abusive lover for five years.
Sex with her was guaranteed to make me come, and I came to need it like a drug. I felt only she could give it to me. I did everything she wanted in order to protect my supply. For someone who loved abuse, she was made to order. Once I was pushed out on her front porch naked with the door locked behind me until my screams brought her gay male roommate to the door. Another time I was thrown out at midnight without money or car keys. I had money stolen from me and my children, was threatened with exposure as a lesbian at my job, and participated in many other hysterical events. I always saw her as the problem and could not be honest about my own sickness, my need to be abused.
We finally broke up, and my anger kept me celibate for almost three years while I earned a Ph.D. During this time I held on to Sheila mentally since I had repeatedly said that in five years we’d both be ready for our great love to flourish. Well, in half that time I felt that I had earned some sex so I called her. She came immediately and, to my amazement, the insanity and the power of the disease had progressed in me. The symptoms were obvious. My job search lost momentum and I began to clean offices part time. I lost my car, ran up a lot of debt, and imposed on friends and family when running from her. I lied, cheated and stole in order to keep her for my sexual use. I manipulated her emotionally as had been done to me as a child. I hated myself and could not look at myself in the mirror.
On a geographical cure to Boston, I heard about S.L.A.A. at an A.A. meeting. I knew that I was addicted to sex and love so I went to a meeting. I had resistance to letting go of Sheila though, and for six months I kept calling her and playing games until she finally made the break final. When I realized it was really over, I wanted to die, but this time I let go absolutely. I did not tell myself that in five years we’d be together again. This time, I felt the feelings of withdrawal. I lost interest in living and let my appearance go. I binged on food and then starved myself, thereby continuing the abuse to which I am addicted. I had very little energy and needed lots of sleep. I imagined that strangers on the street wanted to attack me. My attitude was negative, I cried constantly, and I hated God for my situation in life.
However, a day at a time I adhered to my bottom-line of not calling Sheila. Today, my bottom line also includes celibacy with no masturbation for a period during which I surrender to the S.L.A.A. program and the Twelve Steps and learn to apply them to my life. The energy transformation that is occurring is incredible. All I have to do is turn to God for help, wait for the sexual feelings to pass, and not act out. I am being rewarded with the ability to make friends in the program, get involved in service at various levels within S.L.A.A., sponsor S.L.A.A. beginners, resume exercise and meditation, take up racquetball and running again, dance, learn typesetting, and accept a more challenging job.
My program comes first today. Anything I am tempted to place before my program and/or God, I am certain to lose. I do not know if there will be another lover in my life, but living one day at a time, I really don’t care. I am learning to eliminate abuse of all sorts from my life. I have had to accept my character defects—my readiness to fight, the way I set myself up for abuse, my free-floating hate and anger. I have had to stop judging myself for having obsessive thoughts about another S.L.A.A. member. I have slowed down the punishing schedule I set for myself. I stick with the winners and learn from the losers. I give all I can, in whatever way I can, so that when the time comes that I get the insane urge to throw myself away on an abusive sex or love partner, I will be saved. S.L.A.A. and God can save me if I put them first before my sex drive and my need for love.
I believe that all my needs will be met if I practice a spiritual approach to life. I believe there exists a parallel world of the spirit which contains all the experiences of my childhood and the active phase of my sex and love addiction. When I stay sober and fully experience the pain and the joy of the present, I claim those experiences and grow towards becoming a whole person again. As I call upon God and S.L.A.A. for help, the power of the disease lessens and the reconciliation of love and abuse can take place. It takes place within me as I learn to accept and love myself. I am very grateful to be a recovering sex and love addict today.
S.L.A.A. á Íslandi 