I was nine years old when I first stumbled on a playboy magazine. It was my first encounter with porn. I remember the shame, the sense of taboo that I felt as my eyes fell upon that glossy zine. But most surprisingly, a rush of excitement coursed through me as I gathered around with a few of my classmates, crowding around the table and flipping through the pages.
It was all happenstance. I had come back to the classroom after school to pick up something I left behind. I was about to leave when I saw a few of my classmates excitedly looking through what I assumed to be a comic book. Stumbling on that magazine led me down a rabbit hole that I’m still (desperately) trying to climb out of.
In the years that followed since that singular event, I’ve learnt that everything has consequences. What I thought was harmless fun would eventually become a desperate attempt for me to ground myself in the helpless need for connection and love. Somehow, I conflated porn, and inadvertently sex as the emotional and physical intimacy I hopelessly sought. Over the years, the more I got lost in the maze that was porn, the lonelier I became.
As a young girl, I was familiar with self-hatred. I knew I didn’t like myself in a way I faintly suspected wasn’t normal. I was bullied a lot, and I didn’t really have a refuge. I didn’t feel like I was safe in most places, so stumbling upon porn was a welcome change. Something, for once made me feel good. In my teenage years, I developed a crippling hatred for my body. I was too dark, too fat, too big-boned, my face too wide. Nothing about me was small and dainty as I had hoped. Porn was that escape for me; fair (white), shapely women with long straight hair (as opposed to kinky afro), with boobs that were pert and up and a butt that didn’t have cellulite. Every time I needed reassurance about my body, I would turn to porn to feel good. Seeing those botox-enhanced images strangely soothed me.
At university, what had started out as something I occasionally dabbled in turned into a wildfire that I couldn’t put out. I tried, but it felt like as soon as I put it out, I would grow cold and then light a bigger fire. I always needed to watch porn. And from the side, I watched helplessly as I retreated into myself in a way I had never experienced. I grew more insecure, more anxious, more on the edge, and more traumatized. The more addicted I got, the lonelier I became and the more I hated my body in ways I didn’t think was possible. I directed so much hurt and vitriol to my body for not looking like what I watched.
In retrospect, the trajectory my life was headed towards was always going to make me dependent on people or something to fulfil my emotional needs. Because I lacked security growing up, it only makes sense that I would fall into an addictive cycle to help ease the pain.
In any case, I’ve learned somethings on this journey and I would explore all that in the next part of this essay, including the tools and resources I’ve been using to heal, as well as how far in I am in my recovery journey (which isn’t very far at all), and my fears and hopes for the future.
- TMWT Anonymous are faceless writers from our community who choose to tell their truth behind a screen.
