How I Gave Up Pornography the Unorthodox Way, Part 1

And a Message from My Wife

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-laptop-typing-macbook-4034010/

Today is an important day in the life of The Unfiltered Scribe. It’s the day I first share with you the eBook I’m working on. I’ve given it the title, How I Gave Up Pornography the Unorthodox Way.

I’m terrified.

But I think it’s the right thing.

Thank you for being a part of my life journey, even the weird-ish parts,

Oh, one more thing…

When my writing mentions somebody else in my life, I usually ask them to read it before I publish, particularly if I know it’ll make them uncomfortable or provide information to the world they might not want shared. I don’t have the right to share their story without permission.

I cannot separate my story from my wife’s. We are two characters in the same story. So, I sent this piece of writing to her to be sure she was ok with the world entering into our life. She had some things to say.

This is my wife, Joy:

It's Sunday morning and as I flip over hesitating to pull back the covers and face the cold air of a new day, Jeff sends me a text that asks me to read his latest blog post. This isn't unusual, but the words that come with it - "mostly so I can know you're OK with me sharing it" make my stomach flip a bit. In the journey of married life, there's a perpetual dance of aligning with another human, where you willingly expose yourself to their narrative and choices in a manner that is often absent in other relationships.

So, I start to read. First paragraph in, I find my first grammar edit and I am feeling pretty good about all the value I offer my husband, but then I read on…

I must admit in my own unfiltered way that as a girl it is sometimes still gross and unsettling to hear about "boy" things, especially how they view sex. What you’re about to read is not how I experienced my middle school years. I would have quickly moved seats on that bus if I had any indication of the conversation that was occurring. It's not that I didn't have any clue about sexuality, my experience was just very different. It wasn't "dirty" in the way I feel reading Jeff’s words today.

I share this, because despite my 46 years of life, I read today's blog and immediately go back to the middle school bus and the gross face of overhearing some "boy sex talk" when I read it. It's hard to separate the young teenager in the story from the man I know today. He has won so many of his inner battles and is such a wonderful example to our kids of what if means to be real, authentic, and continually open to a work of grace in his life. (My words even if they wouldn't be his.)

This is a tough topic for all of us (maybe especially me and our kids), but it is important. The things in the dark will be exposed by the light. Without the light and the willingness to share the icky, we cannot truly grow and move beyond. 

I hope Jeff's honestly leads to healing and self-forgiveness for others who have struggled. I hope those of you who may get to the first "icky" part give yourself the grace to pass on this article and maybe even on this eBook. It just may not be for you. But, I hope you also take a moment to consider the leap of faith my husband is taking with this raw vulnerability and understand that there are others who may NEED to read it, who may NEED to feel like someone else relates to their journey, their struggle, and their pain.

It's interesting being married to someone who has chosen authenticity in a way that is uncomfortable. I worry for the comments people will make. I worry when I hear the whispers in the church about "Jeff and Joy's marriage.” I worry what our families will say, more in private than to our faces, but fear never moved conversations further. Fear never stopped the one I model my life after from speaking truth. I can assure you my family is closer than it has ever been. Our love for each other is beautiful and authentic just like the words my husband scribes. I choose love and light over fear and secrets. Give us grace on this journey. I assure you our hearts are united.

How I Gave Up Pornography the Unorthodox Way

Part 1-ish. First Draft.

I stood in front of my chair in the room. Several strangers were looking up at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something. So, I did.

“Hi. My name is Jeff, and I’m addicted to pornography.”

“Hi, Jef…”

“No … wait…” I interrupted the group, waving my hands at them in protest as they were about to greet me. “I mean … I might be addicted to pornography … but, I’m not sure. I don’t know if I need to be here or have the right to be here or whatever…”

Blank stares all around.

“Well, Jeff, then what are you doing here?” Asked one of the group members.

“I suppose I want to figure out if I am or not…”

**********

I wasn’t really in that room. I was in my car thinking about being at a sex addicts anonymous meeting. I wondered if I needed to be. In reality I was sitting in my driveway, in my car.

I’d pulled into my driveway at about 12:20 AM. I was in my early 40s and at the time was working a second shift job. I lived in a rural area, with few streetlights on my route. There was nothing much to see other than the lights of the dashboard or radio. Nighttime radio being crap, I was alone with my thoughts for the duration of the 20-minute commute home.

Generally, I like to be alone with my thoughts. But the midnight drive home was different. At about the time I hit the halfway point where I left the streetlights of the larger part of town behind me, the battle would begin.

Just go home, park the car, go up to your room, get ready for bed and then get in it. Don’t do anything else. Don’t even look at your phone.

I’d play the role of my own little motivational purity coach.

I’d mean it. Every time.

But usually that’s not what happened. Usually I’d pull into the driveway, turn the car off, and then for reasons I didn’t yet understand, I’d grab my phone to check my email/Facebook/twitter/Clash of Clans… you get the idea. I’d have the phone in my hand lighting up the otherwise pitch-black cabin of the car, somehow forgetting what “coach me” had said just seconds before. Then, before I knew what was happening, the battle was raging in my head again.

Was I going to look at pornography or not?

That was the question. It was always the question.

I’d get out of the car, walk up the front steps, go into the house, and there was the bathroom. I was downstairs, all alone and by myself. And then I’d say the one thing I always said to myself.

Just this one last time. This is IT. After tonight, I’m going to get it under control.

Not long after, as I was washing my hands of the act, I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. If I had the courage, I’d look up to my reflection. The look on the face of the person in the mirror was one of shame and disappointment. The thoughts in my head as I looked at the pathetic individual in the mirror were of disdain and … disappointment. My reflection and I had that in common.

Well, you did it again.

Then I’d head up to bed, doing my best not to wake my wife. In the back of my mind was always the thought that maybe she’d be awake wanting to make love to me, and I wouldn’t be able to. Thankfully, that never happened.

For the next few nights my willpower would hold. I’d manage to drive home and go right to bed. If over the next few days my wife and I did have sex, I’d be able to resist the urge to use pornography longer amount of time before the battle once again raged within me.

I rarely spoke of this to anybody. My late-night excursions into the world of pornography were lonesome, solo affairs. From time to time, I’d confess my challenge to close friends, hoping they’d be able to provide some insight or encouragement. The encouragement came, but not so much the insights. Besides, I knew enough to understand they were likely having the same experiences I was.

So, I kept this to myself. I always hid it. I always had.

*****

            I first masturbated at age 13. Nothing prompted it other than kids the things I was hearing at school. I was in middle school at the time and my classmates kept referencing “whacking it,” or “jerking off” or something like that, making hand gestures and laughing. There was always that one kid that was accusing people of “spanking the monkey,” or some other euphemism which he said in place of the word “masturbating.” The target of his taunts would always deny it, including me, even though I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. So, one night I tried to figure it out.

And figure it out, I did! From the moment of my first orgasm, I never enjoyed any sensation more. I “whacked, spanked, jerked, choked, tickled…” it whenever I could. It was the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, well before the internet or free online pornography, and even further away from the easy access I hold in my back pocket today in the form of a “phone.” But within a couple of years, free access to pornography fell into my lap. Almost literally.

It was early in the 9^th grade. I was riding the bus to my high school one day, trying to mind my own business when Krystopher approached me.

Now, normally I tried to avoid Krystopher. He was super annoying. A loud, rambunctious kid, he had the special ability to enjoy getting made fun of by the cooler kids. In a backhanded way, they kind of respected him for it. At the same time, he wasn’t someone you wanted to be friends with because everyone knew how obnoxious he was. Nobody wanted to hang out with him because of his loudmouth ways. So, as I sat in the back seat on the bus, pretending to be asleep in an effort to be invisible and avoid the social gauntlet high school so often was, I’d do my best not to make eye contact with anyone. Especially not Krystopher.

But then one day, after most of the other kids were off the bus Krystopher walked down the aisle and sat in the seat directly in front of me.

“Hey, Jeff!” He said in a loud whisper, which was weird. I didn’t reply. I just looked at him expectantly, giving him my attention because he was about 2 feet from my face talking directly to me. He looked around to make sure nobody could hear him.

“Dude… You’re never going to believe what I found!” He said, eyes wide behind his freckled, mischievous smile. I didn’t care. Hoping he’d leave after telling me his big secret, I relented.

“What?” I asked with a tone which showed how indifferent I was to anything he had to say. He got on his knees on the seat and leaned over the seatback so he could get closer to me. He checked the surrounding area again. Finding nobody within earshot he filled me in on his supposedly fantastic secret.

“Porn!” He waited for my response, which I didn’t give. Unfazed, he continued. “I found a shit-ton of it… in the woods behind my house. Like hundreds of pictures from old calendars. Gorgeous women! Buck. Naked. Boobs…bush…everything.” He paused again.

I studied his face. The kid was beaming with pride. I was intrigued.

“Really?” I said before remembering I was trying to play it cool. If he had porn well, I wanted to see it. Still trying to play it cool, I pushed the issue with a nonchalant, “No, you didn’t.”

“Duuude…I swear to god.” Kris crossed his heart and made a “scout’s honor” sign in the air. “Hope to die…”

Not sure what to say, but convinced by now he wasn’t lying, I just said, “Cool!”

“You want some?” He asked, still beaming, proud that he had the ultimate in contraband to give me.

“Seriously?” I asked, now intrigued as to whether he could really produce the goods.

“Yeah, man. If you want it, I’ll bring you some. I don’t have it with me today. But I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”

“Yeah. OK.” I answered. I was interested, even if it was Kristopher who was making the offer.

The next day as we got on the bus after school I looked at Kris, who had gotten on the bus before me. He was looking directly at me with a smirk. He gave me a knowing nod as I passed him and went to grab my seat at the back of the bus. I was soon feigning sleep as always. From time to time, I’d peak to see if Kris was headed my way. Then, at about the same time he had the day before, Kris made his way to me. This time right to my seat.

“Move over, dude!” He said, a duffle bag clutched to his chest. I obliged.

“Maaaannnn, look at this stuff!” He unzipped the top of the bag. There, just like he’d claimed were dozens of pictures of nude women. He pulled them out and handed them to me. I fingered through them like it wasn’t the first time I held dozens of pictures of nude women.

“Wow!” I said, truly impressed. “You really did find a lot.”

Krystopher was beaming. “Man, this isn’t even much. There are so many more. I don’t even need these. You can keep them.”

“Seriously?” I questioned.

“Yeah!” Kris was super proud of himself. “They’re yours man. Enjoy!” He walked to the front of the bus and got off.

I made a neat stack of them and shoved them into my backpack. I didn’t want to risk dropping them or being found out.

When I got home, I went directly up to my room, closed and locked my door, and went to my closet. I looked through those pictures slowly, unable to believe my luck. Kristopher…of all people… I thought to myself.

I did enjoy those pictures. I enjoyed them a lot.

I enjoyed those pictures every day after school, and sometimes before bed, making sure to hide them in my closet neatly. I never kept my closet neater than the days when I had those pictures in my possession. I couldn’t risk mom coming in to straighten things up and finding them.

I eventually gravitated towards one picture out of all of them. The model featured blond hair tightly braided on each side of their head. Kneeling in front of a tan, cloth backdrop reminiscent of a photography studio, a single rectangular bale of hay adorned the scene. The unbuttoned red flannel shirt revealed a country vibe. The subject gazed into the camera with a subtle smile, leaning back to prominently display her chest as the photo's focal point. A light tan complemented firm, symmetrical breasts with skin that had a hint of translucence, veins just barely visible just below the skin. Her neatly trimmed pubic area completed the image that etched itself into my memory.

The picture was burned into my subconscious.

I mean if you can’t tell.

The pictures being burned into my subconscious seemed helpful for my teenage brain. After a while, I didn’t need the pictures anymore. I’d just close my eyes anywhere, and there they were.

After a few weeks, I slowly began to dispose of the photos, carefully placing them in middle of the family trash when I took it to the garage, making sure the picture wasn’t visible through the white plastic bag. The clandestine disposal of my calendar girls was easy, a benefit of being assigned trash collection in the house. One by one, my stash began to dwindle. Throwing them away was my way of conforming to the expectations I had at church. I’d begun to feel guilty for having them. One by one, into the trash they went until all I had left was the picture of the braided blond. Eventually, she went into the trash too.

(This ongoing work will be continued…)