What I was Really Looking For

For much of my life, I thought my sexual addiction was about sex.

It wasn't.

I certainly didn't understand that at the time. Back then, I was chasing a feeling. Excitement. Acceptance. Validation. Escape. Maybe even the feeling that I mattered.

There was always something else to pursue. Another fantasy. Another image. Another person. Another opportunity to quiet whatever was stirring inside me.

And for a little while, it worked.

That's the part about addiction that's so deceptive. It gives you just enough relief to convince you to come back.

So I came back.

Again and again.

What I couldn't see was that underneath all of it lived a man who often felt inadequate, lonely, afraid and disconnected. I didn't know how to sit with those feelings, much less understand them. Escaping them seemed easier.

Fantasy gave me somewhere to go.

Lust gave me something to chase.

And sexual attention could make me feel desirable, even when I didn't particularly like the man I saw in the mirror.

But there was a problem.

Nothing lasted.

The excitement faded. The fantasy ended. Reality returned.

And so did I, carrying more guilt and shame than I had before.

That's the vicious cycle I lived for far too many years. I kept reaching outside myself for something that might fix what hurt inside me. Somewhere in my thinking was the belief that the next experience would be different. The next person would satisfy me. The next thrill would finally be enough.

It never was.

Worse yet, I eventually began to understand what my addiction was costing me.

Real intimacy requires something fantasy never asks of us: the courage to be known.

To love another person means allowing them to see you as you really are. It requires honesty. Vulnerability. Trust. It asks you to give rather than simply take.

I wasn't very good at that.

Sexual addiction offered me an imitation of intimacy without requiring much of the frightening stuff that comes with genuine love. I could pursue excitement and desire while keeping the deepest parts of myself safely hidden.

At least I thought they were safe.

They weren't.

I was slowly losing pieces of myself.

That is difficult for me to admit. But if I'm going to write honestly about my life, I can't clean up the ugly parts simply because they make me uncomfortable.

And this was ugly.

I hurt people.

I hurt myself.

I spent years searching for satisfaction in places that could never provide it.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn't really searching for more sex.

I was searching for wholeness.

I wanted to feel worthy.

I wanted to feel loved.

I wanted peace.

I wanted the emptiness inside me to stop hurting.

But I was asking people, fantasies and sexual experiences to give me something they were never capable of giving.

It took me a very long time to understand that.

Today, I know something the younger Alfred didn't know.

Freedom didn't begin when I finally got enough of what I wanted.

There was never going to be enough.

Freedom began when I became willing to face the truth about myself, surrender what I could not control, and allow God into the places I had spent a lifetime trying to hide.

That's when I began discovering what I had really been looking for all along.

Not another fantasy.

Not another fix.

Grace.

Love.

And the freedom to finally become the man God intended me to be.