I am now entering the second week of my porn addiction recovery, and boy is my dick not tired! Mainly, I’ve been stuck in the early levels of my “training room,” which consists of me watching their vast library of instructional videos, while periodically
updating my diary for my life coach. The following journal entry appeared in the porn addiction community chat room of my training website. Names and phrases have been altered to protect lil’old me.
Dear Journal,
I awoke this morning with red in my urine. It happens every few days, and I think it has something to do with my addiction, but my brother tells me it’s only because I’ve been drinking too much cranberry juice. I believe this is only an old wives’ tale, but I have not yet consulted a doctor.
The training videos are hard to sit through, especially because my addiction is only a click away. I tried sitting on my fingers to keep from touching the keyboard, but that only made things worse. Also, I could not advance to the next step of the training process, so I was forced to watch Dr. X’s presentation on “Distorted Thinking” five times. While I did not gain any new knowledge from the additional four plays, I developed an enormous amount of respect for the man, and I have found a role model for my recovery. In solidarity, I am attempting to grow a moustache. It’s coming in well.
My girlfriend no longer responds to my advances. I think she’s turned off by my addiction, which also causes my palms to sweat throughout the day. She has been spending most of her time with her hairdresser, although her hair always looks the same. It doesn’t seem like he’s doing a very thorough job, so I don’t know what all the fuss is about.
My favorite “indulgence,” the website “Big Salty Asses,” recently informed me that my credit card payment for the month of July has bounced. I don’t want to be in debt, and no other website features “asses” that are as big, or as wet (something that I have come to associate with my perceived saltiness of the ass). At my worst, my “rituals” became so obsessive that I placed salt on my tongue before each new “indulgence.” This also began adversely affecting my blood pressure. My family has a history of heart disease.
Thankfully, my coach has been at my side for the beginning of this painful process, and I don’t know what I would do without his messages. After all this is over, I hope that we can one day meet, although he repeatedly refuses to give me his address.
Best,
Me
A sad tale, is it not? Well, my life coach didn’t really care, although I’m becoming more and more suspicious of his credentials as a “human being.” His stock messages seem pretty bot-like, and when I sent him an email at one in the morning pleading with him to help me find relief, I didn’t receive anything for two days. I could have torn my penis clean off in that amount of time. And when he did get back to me, one of his “solutions” was for me to consult a “church leader.”
This program is pretty fucking hands-off. If I was truly in trouble, the last thing I would want to do would be to sit and watch elaborate PowerPoint presentations. Aside from the training videos, and the sporadic messages from my robot coach, I can upload content to my homepage (positive quotations, inspirational media, etc.). For the $300 dollars that the total program would cost, they should literally be coming to my house to hold my hands behind my back. But internet collages can be fun.
Additionally, the Jesus-factor is getting a bit disturbing, especially when the program instructed me to ask myself what God would think before I begin touching myself. I sometimes ask myself what my housemates would think, but rarely do I ponder the opinion of the Lord before I watch someone gagging on cock, but I’ll be sure to keep that in mind from now on. Talk about sacrilegious. Is it strange that I feel closer to Hell while I watch these training videos than I do playing with my junk? One of those activities seems fairly innocent, while the other has a whole bunch of odd calculation behind it. You do the math. But maybe I’m just a heathen. And, also, according to level four of the video series, certain highlighted areas of my brain are flooded with addictive smog. I can’t be trusted.
Next week I’ll have hopefully completed my video journey (please, God), and I can begin to truly confront my life coach about my masturbatory nightmare. I recently sent him an email discussing the traumatic “intervention” my parents coordinated in
their basement, so I’m hoping this will rouse that robot to actually speak with me. I’m starting to feel pretty terrible for people who actually believe that this site can cure their “problem.” Even as a liar, I feel neglected.
—Janet Reenho