Sex is a Hell of a Drug

I never imagined that I would become addicted to anything. When you hear the word "addiction," you always think of it in context of something like alcohol or drugs--things you can go to rehab for.

Nobody ever told me you could be addicted to sex. At least, not in the context that I was. See, when I picture a sex addict, it's someone to sleeps with hundreds of people (or a rich, male celebrity who got caught cheating). A nymphomaniac. Someone who really, really, REALLY loves sex.

But I was very much addicted to sex and I hated every minute of it.

One of the lasting impacts of sexual child abuse is that you brain learns from that situation and your reality becomes how you begin to cope with the world around you. Because I would feel trapped at home, I would go to my father's house, and because I went there, I was abused. My very first lesson in sex was that you use it to escape from your other problems and I carried those lessons into my adulthood.

Boyfriend broke up with you?

Go have sex.

Lost your job?

Go have sex.

Going through a depressive episode?

Go have sex.

My go-to response for every problem was to fuck it away. I felt great. And then I felt like shit. I despised the person next to me. I despised myself for doing it. I swore not to do it again but I didn't know how to cope. I never learned how to and I was never able to find anything that gave me that quick and intense sense of satisfaction that came with having sex.

Now imagine having this problem and trying to be in a monogamous relationship with someone you seriously care about.

This was actually the time when I realized I had a problem. I was sitting buried under my anxiety. I was worried about money. I was worried about school. I was worried about getting a job. I was worried about being a good girlfriend.  I was falling into my usual cycle of depression and self-sabotage but I knew it was absolutely unacceptable to cope in my usual way. Thus I began experiencing what I now can only properly refer to as "withdrawal". I thought about every single person I had ever had sex with I thought about how great it would be if I could hook up with this person or that person. Then I immediately felt guilty because I absolutely loved my boyfriend and the the embarrassment and shame of those fleeting thoughts pushed me further into the darkness of depression. I felt like I needed something, anything to replace that feeling. My other vice was shopping which I couldn't do because I had no money. I couldn't go out and do anything because I had no money. I drank what alcohol we had in our house.

Nothing helped.

I needed a vice. I kept repeating this to myself. I needed to pay for my inequities. I needed to pay for uselessness. I needed pay for being terrible. I needed to be punished because in my mind I was a worthless individual. An unhelpful girlfriend and a pathetic excuse for a mother.

And finally I gave in to my vice and I got caught.

And seeing the pain that I had wrought, the damage I caused with trying to be self-destructive, I felt like I run myself through with a knife. I was fine as long as was the one being hurt. Now I was hurting other people.

That was the moment I realized, I had a problem.

And a serious one.

And I needed help.

Because even though I had come to terms with what had happened to me and held no hatred towards my father, I was a wreck and I didn't want to be one anymore. I wanted to be a woman who could stand as an example of courage to my kid and a woman who could accept that she deserved to be treated with love and respect. I didn't have that yet and I decided that finally, after so many years, I wanted it.

And I regret nothing.

https://www.rainn.org/

RAINN

I've decided that from now on I will end every post with a link to the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN). I called them at the end of last year and that's what got me started on the journey that's taken me to this point. The hotline is available 24/7. Even when you're up and crying at 3am, they'll be there for you. 800-656-HOPE

https://www.rainn.org/get-help/national-sexual-assault-hotline

Stranger Danger

My mom loved me. I have no doubts about that but she was obsessively worried about the stupidest things. When my mom and I moved to Memphis, she never let me outside. She was always worried about someone snatching me. She wouldn't let me spend the night over my best friend's house either. She'd tell me, "We don't know those people. They could be Devil worshippers for all we know!"

No amount of persuasion would change her mind. The world was full of dangers. She just kept missing the real ones.

Nothing bothers me quite as much as people who accuse transgender individuals of being potential child abusers. These invisible boogie men distract away from the fact that the majority of abuses are done by people the children know and know well.

My mom was worried about stranger danger. All my dangers were intimate and real. Cousins. Family friends. A parent.

The trouble is that intimacy makes it really hard to turn that person in. Even though these people hurt you, you love them. You don't want them to get in trouble but you also want them to stop. Many times you assume that it's easier just to give them what they want. They'll get tired of it eventually, right? That's child logic anyway. So you put up with it because you don't want to see them go to jail and you certainly don't want to have to actually tell anyone everything that's happened to you. Even thinking about it puts me in a catatonic state. Plus, it made you feel better about yourself. Someone actually liked me. They didn't yell at me. They didn't slap me. They didn't make me feel like I was a failure. Someone touched me with tenderness when I was suffering everywhere else. I escaped into it. It was an awful thing to do. That I went willingly into sometimes also kept me silent. I was embarrassed and humiliated.

To me, talking about it was a zero sum game. Many times I just hoped someone would just find out. I wanted to be rescued because I didn't know how to save myself. I wanted someone to ask me what was happening at home. I wanted someone to ask me why I started crying in class. I wanted, I needed a savior. I never got one. I told my best friend one day. She was the first person I ever told. She didn't know what to do with the information. We were young. I was terrified.

So I suffered.

And I suffered long after the abuse stopped. It never ends really. The effects of it stay with you every day of your life. It affects your relationships, your decisions, your attitude. All of it. There's no moving past it. Simply, living with it and coping with the aftereffects

Breaking Up with Jesus

About three years ago I made a conscious decision to end a rather long relationship.

I ended my relationship with Jesus.

It wasn't an easy thing to do. I remember the day it happened. I was in the shower, sobbing, feeling the weight of the world on top of me and asking what could I have possible done to deserve the things that I've experienced in my life. I wasn't perfect but I certainly wasn't terrible but I was alone and broken. I curled into a ball in the corner. This was rock bottom. I could not find justification for believing anymore. It wasn't for a lack of trying. I try to conjure up old idioms that I would always hear: "He won't put anymore on you than you can bear," "He may not come when you want him but he'll be on time,"

But I couldn't take it anymore and I needed help now and I wasn't getting it.

All I could think was how could these things happened to me, if God loved me?

I realized it was because he didn't love me at all and that the thought ran through me like a knife. When I walked out of the shower I resolved to walk away from Christianity.

It's not easy to step away from something that has been a major part of your life and remains a major part of your culture. I have relatives that are ordained in the church. This was no small decision but I simply could no longer reconcile my beliefs with what life had shown me. I am concerned that a number of my relatives will attempt to have a few words with me after reading this.

I found that a lot of my fear in speaking to my parents about what happened to me stemmed from the way sex was presented to me growing up. If you had sex before marriage you were a whore, I remember my mom telling me. Not her words, of course. It was God's. I was a ten year old whore. What kind of awful things would be waiting for me in hell? I was obsessed with sex. My mind was dirty. I was dirty. I couldn't talk about it because I knew that I had committed a grievous sin, especially since I didn't stop it.

The fear of God was a silencer. It kept my mouth closed. I fear it keeps many mouths closed.

In many ways, the church is inadequate in handling abuse. There's no good explanation for child abuse. You cannot rationalize it. You may be asked if you did anything to provoke it. You may be told, reassuringly, that everything happens for a reason and that God makes no mistakes. They'll tell you that you have to forgive your abuser. They'll offer prayers and suggest you do the same. There's little comfort in those words.

I spent a lot of time in the church praying for peace and the power to forgive and, for awhile, it helped but it was never enough. I found myself still firmly in the grip of depression. I felt unsatisfied. I was told that God loved me but I didn't feel loved. I felt abandoned. I reached a point of exhaustion. But as painful as that separation was, I felt a sense of relief when it was over with. I no longer felt the loss of self-esteem that came with constantly fearing letting down an all-powerful deity. Strangely, as I look back on it, I think this marked the moment when I really began the steps towards truly healing these old wounds.

Black People Need Therapy Too

"Black people need therapy too."

Sounds stupid when I write it out but it's a mantra that I find myself repeating as I take my weekly trip to the Sexual Assault Center and my monthly trips to the Mental Health Co-op. It took a long time for me to acknowledge that getting help was not a sign of weakness or a sign of failure. Even now, going into the Mental Health Co-op I feel out of place. I look at the people around me, older, mumbling and I tell myself that I don't belong here. Then I remember the days and nights I spent imprisoned behind a wall of my own unfounded insecurities and fears, unable to function and I know that I am where I need to be. 

When my therapist suggested I talk a psychiatrist, I balked. Medication? No. Not for me. In my mind, the "medicated" ones were controlled by their pills, excusing their bizarre behavior with "I didn't take my meds." The first (extremely abbreviated) stint at therapy, my dad flat out said "No medications. You don't need chemicals to control you." I didn't want to be controlled. I heard his same words tumble out of my mouth. "I don't want to be controlled."

She didn't press the issue and for that I thank her. She merely asked me about it gently when I came to my sessions and talked about her own experience. She took when she had anxiety attacks. It wasn't an everyday thing. It helped during trauma work, she told me. She hesitated bringing me into the trauma work until I had better control over my anxiety. It was comforting to hear a positive story about someone on medication.

But she was white and black people do not take medication like that. At least I didn't know anybody who did.

It wasn't until a casual conversation with one of my friends that I realized how big of a lie that was. He mentioned how much better he felt being on anti-anxiety medication. I was surprised he even needed it. He was always so cool, calm and collected. He was always the example I pointed to when my non geek friends questioned whether or not any of my other friends were socially adjusted. He was mature, responsible, and black. He was on anti-anxiety meds. I couldn't tell. He was exactly the same on the outside but on the inside?

He felt miles different and it was a good thing.

Shortly after that conversation, I messaged my older sister and told her I was thinking about going on anti-anxiety medication. She told me "I was on it for awhile too. It helps."

I started to wonder how many of my family members were dealing with this too and just weren't talking about it.

So here I am, talking about it.

Black people need therapy too. I don't know if it's something that's just rooted in the deeply religious culture of the black community but this intrinsic fear of being labeled as "crazy" is a very real roadblock to getting mental health care. It's not a sign of weakness. It's an acknowledgment that you've done all you can and you need help to go the next mile. Depression. Anxiety. Suicide. These aren't things that are inclusive to white people. Black people have these problems too and it's time we talk about them.