This is a very difficult and ironic post. A few days back I wrote a blog post that I was so proud of, I wanted to give myself all the hugs and kisses that I possibly could. I’ve been a porn addict for as long as I can remember from 7th grade, from the time internet came along. First it was the pictures, then as the bits per second started increasing from the local internet service providers, thanks (really?) to the technology advancements of silicon chips, optical fibres and memory hardware, it was video, streaming, steaming hot (really?) videos of naked women grinding over naked dudes, as though the women were their slaves or something.
On one of my sobriety streaks (I didn’t really keep a count, because I was afraid to also unintentionally then keep a count of how many times I’d failed), I was interested to see the background stories of female porn stars. So I started reading and watching documentaries. At the end of it all, I was perplexed, because while many of the porn stars tried to tell how searingly consuming this industry is, and how hopeless this business is in terms of actual human growth, some of the porn stars were the complete opposite — they enjoyed their work, wrote best selling books about their lives! When statistics come out from popular porn websites and search engine giants, telling the world that the majority of the internet traffic searches for porn, I’m not shocked, I’ve never been shocked, because for a long time, I’ve had been one of those persons. I never told anybody this, but the reason I requested a laptop while I was studying in Kota, taking prep classes for IIT JEE, was mainly for this purpose. I was consumed by it to the point where my conscience would fight with the part of my mind that was addicted. The addicted part always won, and went away for a while, leaving my conscience seething, so much so that I’d be upset with what I’d done for a long time — not able to study, not able to do anything really. Just fingers massaging the forehead a little too tensely, almost grappling. No word jumping out of my mouth for the lack of them, not being able to express or answer what have I done, why do I do this?
The night before yesterday, it resurfaced. I found myself home alone, and there was this innate unexplained desire to just open a porn site, and masturbate. I did, and then I spent the rest of my day angry at myself and irritated, to the point that it triggered a chain reaction — because I didn’t feel like doing anything because of wanting to be accompanied with my conscience for as long as possible, I felt more irritated, because being with the conscience was extremely painful. Being with that part of the mind which told me — What have you done again? felt like scrunching my nails off the wall, just to be able to not be bothered about it for a while. But without it, without my conscience, I’d return to the same old vicious cycle where I would want to be accompanied by the painful conscience. It was and is an endless cycle.
On top of that and very unintentionally Aum told me the exciting news that arre.co.in had accepted an article titled How My Grandmother Became a Feminist that she had written. She followed that I should send the one I had written about my porn addiction, and how the human society (most of it) today is programmed to feel horny, sexually aroused only to a particular set of humans shown in advertisements and magazines designed to sell because of the very same fact. I got really upset after she suggested that. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I shut down my laptop, shut down the book that I was trying to read, and just kept jumping around, not even able to cry. It was a state very close to an angry soul / spirit but having no body to express the anger with. It’s the most dejected and sad place to be. I couldn’t tell something from the other for a while. It was like I had the body of a primate, but not a mind of it. So I tried to shut down by sleeping. Sleeping when I’ve been distressed or dejected with myself, whether because of low exam scores, or something else, has always worked. It didn’t work that day. All I could do was scrunch my nose up, letting my forehead be a giant ground of tense frowns and ask myself — why why why, repeatedly, while my heels of palms dug deep inside my eyes, scrubbing them endlessly.
Last night, I was alone again. I did it again. My conscience couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it. I felt I needed to be checked, but there was no one I could tell that to. I’m too embarrassed to tell anybody anything about this. So in the fit of that moment, I did what I thought was the only possible rigorous punishment I could self inflict on myself. As I was trying to failingly distract my mind by a re run of The Shawshank Redemption, I paused the movie and started slapping myself, as hard as I could. I can not tell how, or why, but it felt good to be punished. It felt good that I had something to do which could tell my addicted part of the mind, that it was doomed to be fucked, and that I was to not partake in any of its activities from now on.
I’m alone again today. I remembered having seen a movie ( Thanks For Sharing ) about sex addiction and sex addicts, where people formed groups and shared their addiction dilemma with everybody, in the hope that sharing would help, that experiences exchanged from people who found themselves in the same God forsaken place in the mind would help. Today, I wanted to do it again. I can’t explain what this sudden urge is. I guess it’s called addiction for the exact same reason — it is unreasonable, you can’t explain why you choose to act on it anymore. At one point of time, it is not even the pleasure that one could hope for at the end of it. After that point of time, it’s even more unreasonable, and because it’s inextricable, it fucks up with the mind, with conscience even more than before. I decided to see that movie again today, in the hope that I’ll continue to fight it, by starting over. I’ve started over so many times it feels hopeless. But I can’t not fight. I can’t go back to the night where I have to resort to slapping myself to break this weird feedback loop that my dopamine has trained itself on — to seek pleasure over and over again, not for the sake of the pleasure anymore, but because it has become an addiction, without which my mind could feel not right, that’s the trick that addicted mind deludes/dupes itself into — that somehow if it doesn’t do it, it’s going to keep prolonging until the mind gives in and do it anyway, like the torture technique armies around the world deploy.
I’m writing this to refrain, to pull myself back and not open a porn website, and start masturbating. When I start to masturbate while watching porn, my conscience is pushed away into dungeons far away, and it returns as soon as I’m about to ejaculate, which makes the pleasure seeking addicted mind very weird, in that, at that point of time, I experience both pleasure and the guilt for it. It’s the most mind fucking thing in the world. I do not want to experience it again, ever ever again. I can’t lie to myself anymore.
The most astonishing thing about all of this is, that none of this even exist when I’m in front of women. In fact I loathe it at the back of my mind. That’s the disease, it makes you violate everything that you believe in. It’s all very confusing. So I’ll stop writing now and resume the movie.