Joy: Diary of a Sex Addict

Tent Man and the Honesty Conundrum

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 13:50:58 GMT

Thanks to anyone and everyone who read this sporadic blog. I'm retiring it today, before my RADIO subscription runs out. I'll still keep my equally sporadic blog at http://thejoydiary.blogspot.com. Best wishes to you all.

A final word: My one-and-a-half month period of being "clean" ended this weekend. Picture a campsite in Big Sur, a man who knows how to pitch a tent, an ill-tended fire gradually dwindling to sparks. I met the man at a gas station on my way to meet a couple of friends at their cabin for an outdoorsy weekend. Ten minutes after starting up a conversation with him at the pump (he went premium unleaded, I went regular), I called my friends on my cell and told them I couldn't make it. My story involved car trouble--I was not feeling terribly inventive. Still, they seemed to buy it. As I dialed their number, I was thinking, they are very nice people, good friends to me, and I like spending time with them. Why am I lying to them? Why does this stranger at the pump mean more to me at this moment than my very dear friends? I couldn't think of a very good answer, and I almost hung up, but then my friend's voice mail picked up. It would have been different if she'd answered, but it was voice mail, which made it so easy to say, "Sorry, I can't make it. Car trouble. Call me when you get back."

And then the guy at the pump was giving me directions to the campsite, in case I lost sight of his car on the way. He had serious sideburns, which seemed painfully and sweetly out of date--even the hipsters don't really have sideburns anymore, do they? And his shoes--I can't help myself! I'm always noticing the shoes--were too clean, clearly new hiking boots, which made me wonder if he'd ever camped before. But when we got to the campsite it was clear he knew just what he was doing, and his tin mess kit was battered and well-worn. His hands were rough and just beautiful, and there were--miracle of miracles--actual stars in the night sky. And my husband was thousands of miles away--in Germany at the moment--but even if he'd been in San Francisco he'd still be thousands of miles away, because that's the way it is with us, the way it has been for so long.

Do you ever meet someone and start things off with them in exactly the wrong way, but think maybe it could turn out all right in the end? I know, I know, it is a bit off key for a sex addict to get sentimental. But I'm telling you, this man loved reading--Ian McEwan's early stuff, Murakami, Alice Munro--and he seemed to be a very kind person--the way he kept checking to make sure I had enough food on my little tin plate, the way he tenderly pulled a splinter out of my palm using tweasers that were attached to his little Swiss knife (who carries one of those things around? I got the feeling he had it with him all the time, not just when he went camping, like he's the sort of man who'd be perfectly equipped to slice crosshairs on your arm and suck the venom out should you succumb to a snakebite in Manhattan).

The sex was phenomenal, and I know it wasn't just the stars and the wind in the trees talking. It's the first time in a while I've gone to bed with a man without the aid of alcohol, and I was nervous about it, but it was great. I felt present for it. But who am I kidding? I'm not really cut out for relationships, am I? As much as I'd like to think that meeting the right person would suddenly "cure" me, I've been myself long enough to know that isn't going to happen.

So as we stood outside our respective cars at the same gas station where we met--each of us heading home, going our separate ways--he asked for my phone number. This morning, he actually called, wants to get together for dinner on Wednesday. And I said yes. But how far can I let this thing go? I can't let myself fall in love with a man who I'm only going to cheat on later, can I? Certainly, I can't tell him about my condition, because that would likely ruin his memories of our weekend in Big Sur, and I'd like for that to be a good memory for him, as it is for me.

Or maybe, by some perfectly ludicrous coincidence, Big Sur Tent Man is reading this right now. Maybe he has his own share of problems. Maybe...okay, probably not...but maybe he'd understand.

Oh Radio, Why So Difficult?

Mon, 12 Jun 2006 19:41:06 GMT

I ultimately stopped posting here in large part because, when the comments feature was turned on, it took ages for the page to load. Because a one-sided conversation is a dull conversation indeed, I sort of lost interest. I've found that the freebie blogs are strangely much more user-friendly than Radio. Why is that?

Update:
My husband and I have separated. Something about my addiction and his zillion-hour work weeks somehow did us in. I should note it's not divorce at this point, just a trial period of living apart. He moved out two weeks ago. Oddly, I've been "clean" for 39 days, and my bad behavior never came up as a topic of discussion. I honestly believe that, to this day, it hasn't occurred to him that I might have been off gallavanting. We simply spent too much time apart for him to notice much. Which, of course, is not to say it's his fault that I can't keep my undies on. I'm perfectly aware that this is my problem, and any other difficulties my husband and I may be having in our marriage cannot be used to rationalize my addiction.

So, you see, the girl is getting somehere, is she not?

Don't go getting any fancy ideas. I haven't become a disciple of therapy or a convert to some swank religion. Rather, I've found that my addictive behavior is inversely proportionate to my depression. The crappier I feel, the less sex I'm likely to have with strangers. I don't know why this is, but I'm sure some therapist could take the ball and run with it. So perhaps my ideal state is a state of depression. Anyone out there know what I mean?

Until I turn this baby off, you can contact me at addictionblog@gmail.com. Cheers.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

Thu, 05 May 2005 16:38:38 GMT

Let's get one thing straight. I will not be naming names. I'm not interested in ruining anyone's life, least of all my own. This blog is about one woman's unlikely journey into the abyss of sex addiction. Perhaps abyss is too strong a word. There are days when addiction feels like an overwhelming darkness from which I will never emerge, and days when sex is the only thing that keeps me going. Addiction is both friend and enemy, both comfort and pain.

My initial title for this blog was SHAME. Then I realized that JOY might be a more appropriate title. The truth is, sex brings me great pleasure, a kind of mind-blowing bliss I can find nowhere else. But it also brings me, on rare occasions, to the brink of suicide (I've peered over the edge, but have no desire to actually go there). As with any addiction, mine is self-destructive. But it is also, in many ways, restorative. More on that later.

For the moment let me just say that I am 34 years old, married, self-employed, the resident of a smallish city. If you were to see me on the street, you would not think anything was amiss. I do not have the gaunt, hollow-eyed look one might associate with addiction. My clothes are modest and clean, my hair is always combed, my shoes are, for the most part, sensible. I read books and go to movies and take public transportation. I eat well and do not overindulge in drink. I rarely do drugs.

In short, I am an average woman with an above-average desire, a desire which sometimes plays out in dangerous ways. I don't expect this blog to cure me. I don't expect it to cure anyone else. This is neither an exercise in self-help nor an experiment in public service. This is simply my story.