[Guest post by Andrew G.]
“Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love.” So goes the refrain of Robert Palmer’s well-known 1980s pop song. Given the sultry appearance of Palmer’s all-female backing band, it’s easy to conclude that what he really meant by love was sex. But that’s something we don’t talk about, right? Especially when it becomes problematic. Especially in the Church.
Hi, my name is Andrew and I am a recovering sex and love addict, is how I have been introducing myself to people for many years. Though not in public, I hasten to add. No, this version of myself I reserve for the precious few, often complete strangers, sometimes cherished friends, huddled together in a quiet room in the basement of a poorly heated church. But what does that mean? “A sex and love addict”?
Years ago, my life became so disfigured I was forced to confront a horrible truth about myself. I was addicted to using pornography, and had been since I was about fifteen. As I progressed through a difficult adolescence, my use of pornography became entangled with recurrent and painful feelings of abandonment, alcohol abuse and even self-harm, all of which I kept compartmentalized, in secret. As I entered the adult world the secret me became problematic, eventually taking its toll on relationships, career aspirations, and my crumbling sense of self-worth.
At the brink of the abyss I was gifted a solution: the contact number for a fellowship group that met, neither in secret nor shouting from the rooftops, in my hometown. The group’s principles were based on those of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), but applied to the realm of human sexual relationships. That included my relationship with pornography.
It took attendance at several meetings per week for six months before my dependency behaviours stopped, but stop they did. I experienced a prolonged period, measured in years, of what we in fellowship refer to as Sobriety. For the first time in my life I experienced a previously unknown serenity and spiritual connection with self and others.
Jump forward several years to 2020, when pandemic hysteria was sweeping the country. Venues closed. Face-to-face meetings were not permitted. Some meetings migrated online, but this presented its own problems. For many recovering people online chat rooms and ‘porn-hubs’ had been a staple of their addictive behaviour. Some people stopped attending. Many never came back.
By the time face-to-face meetings were again permitted much damage had been done. I confess that I had fallen into complacency. I was shaken from my slumber by a sermon on sexual ethics given by the rector of my Manchester church, which describes itself as being part of a “growing band of churches rethinking inclusion.” The sermon was a thoughtful précis of the often complex aspects of the human sexual rainbow. I procrastinated, inhibited by the familiar paralysis of fear and shame around self-disclosure, but eventually plucked up the courage to phone him. Within weeks a new fellowship group was up and running, welcoming “sex and love” addicts from all over the city.
Skeptics argue that using the word ‘addiction’ in relation to sexual behaviour and intimate relationships is hyperbole. There are not the column inches here to provide a comprehensive argument. Within the medical profession there is a lack of understanding of the nature of addiction, I believe. In popular culture there is practically none. Many speak of the need to reform traditional views. In his book In the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts, Dr Gabor Maté writes, “There is only one universal addiction process. Its manifestations are multiple, from the gentler to the life-threatening, but in all addictions it utilises the same brain circuits of pain relief, reward and motivation; it imposes the same psychological dynamics of shame and denial. In all cases, it exacts the price of inner peace, harm to relationships, and diminished self-worth.” [1] In Breathing Under Water, Richard Rohr writes, “I am convinced that on a practical level, the Gospel message of Jesus and the Twelve Step message of Bill Wilson are largely the same message.”[2] We don’t worry too much about labels in the fellowship group. We provide a safe space where anyone over 18 can come, get a brew and share, without fear of judgement, their struggles with any aspect of sexuality, as well as their strength and hope.
On the wall in the room where we hold our meetings hangs a picture. It is a collage of images of stained glass from the church depicting a passage from the Gospel of John, Chapter 15, Jesus the True Vine. Weeks ago after the meeting a young man, a newcomer to the fellowship named Jimmy*, asked me why there was a bunch of grapes in the picture. A lady named Tanja* who has attended meetings for many years also asked for an explanation*. I shared with them that Jesus told his disciples that he was the true vine, and his Father the vine grower. The vine grower will prune the vine and remove any branches that do not bear fruit. Those branches that do not bear fruit he throws into the fire. Those branches that bear fruit he prunes further so they bear more fruit. Quick as a flash Tanja said, “It’s just like Recovery, then.” I agreed. “I don’t get it,” said Jimmy. “Keep coming back,” I said. “You’ll get it, eventually.”
For further details on the SLAA Fellowship visit https://slaauk.org/
* Fellow’s real names have not been used.
* Fellowship tradition states that the fellowship is not affiliated with any other organisations, movements or causes, either religious or secular.
[1] Gabor Maté, In the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts: Close encounters with addiction (London: Penguin Random House, 2018), xxv.
[2] Richard Rohr, 2011 Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps (London: SPCK, 2016), xii.
Andrew G. was born and raised in Wythenshawe, a working class district of Manchester, where he lives to this day. He has a half decent baritone voice and enjoys singing in a local church choir. He identifies as neurodivergent, having undiagnosed ADHD and is a grateful, recovering addict.
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