The Day I Hit Bottom in Sex and Love Addiction
By: Marilyn Flower
Tags: Addiction, Life Lessons, Sex, Recovery, Self

It was January 29th, a Sunday that year. I sat on the steps of our Berkeley porch, so it probably wasn’t too cold. Or maybe I was too hot.

I watched our roommate Joey get out of his car with a gloriously elegant bouquet of flowers. In the midst of moving out to live with Luis, his lover, he’d stopped everything to buy me this lovely goodbye present. I was deeply moved.

Except that he passed me on the steps and kept going.

The flowers were for Luis, not me. I burst into tears.

Not so much about the flowers; they were the trigger. But my dear, sweet, young friend, who I adored, was leaving us, well me, in particular. Us, being my then-husband and me.

Joey, the younger brother of my best friend, not only a dear friend, funny, entertaining, charming, was a buffer between me and my husband. His presence while going to U. C. Berkeley, made it possible to live there and not be bored to tears. Or full of guilt. Or have to think about my behaviors and how unhappy I was.

His presence was a most welcome distraction. You could say I was emotionally enmeshed with him. His absence would be a most rude awakening.

When he got in the U-haul and drove away, my heart sank. I did not want to go back into that “empty” house and face its music — a dirge in a minor key.

The writing was on the wall; the gig was up. I cried. Not just tears of pain, but tears of truth.

That night I went to my very first Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous Meeting.

It was where I belonged.

It was where I’d belonged for months but kept telling myself I’d change on my own. By change, I mean stop. By stop, I mean, quit the boyfriend I’d met on the dance floor in one of San Francisco’s Outer Mission dives, Club Elegante, of all monikers.

Sad but necessary to admit, it wasn’t just one indiscretion. I’ll call him Roberto. He was one of a revolving merry-go-round of indiscretions. In a two year whirlwind of insanity, I breezed through perhaps a dozen young Latino men, trying to find what was missing in my marriage.

Just as soon as I realized nope, this guy didn’t have whatever that was, however cute, hot, or great a dancer, I dropped him like a hot potato, and the hunt for the elusive something was back on.

Six months before that Sunday, my best friend gave me a book. Right there in the dance club, she dared to hand me the “big book” (basic text) of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. “Here, this might be a fit.”

Oh, it was a fit alright!

I read it right away. And even started journaling my escapades, telling myself I would write a steamy bestseller one day. That delusional writing was vital in helping me break through my denial. As was the book. I identified with all the stories.

Like most addictions, we sex and love addicts use sex and/or love to numb out, to avoid dealing with the real issues in our lives, and to hide from ourselves.

In my case, using sex to numb while relying on Joey for emotional gratification and stimulation — thus dissing my marriage — qualified me as a sex and love addict.

We do this until something internal or external wakes us up. It’s called hitting bottom. Some folks die before that happens. And coming off of the AIDS crisis, this addiction proved itself to be just as deadly as drugs and alcohol can be.

I owe Joey a huge thank you for NOT giving me those flowers. If he had, I might not have burst into those hot tears of self-pity and existentially aching loneliness that got my butt in gear. If he had, who knows when my recovery might have started. Or if.

But thanks to Joey and my book-giving friend, I felt enough pain and saw enough light to get myself to the beginners meeting at the Mandana House in Oakland.

That began a whole life makeover for me.

I started working the steps, talking honestly to my husband and began exploring spirituality. I broke up with Roberto right away and separated from my husband later that spring. I even dared to apply for a job my ex-spouse said was too hard for me. And got hired!

I look back at that young woman crying on the steps with nothing but compassion. She is, after all, still me. But what a difference a day without a bouquet made.