When Addiction Replaced Intimacy

There was a time when I believed something was wrong with me.

I didn’t feel desired. I didn’t feel chosen. I didn’t feel seen.

I was married, yet deeply lonely.

My husband chose porn over intimacy—over connection, over me. Not once or twice, but repeatedly. When I tried to talk about it, I was met with promises to stop. Promises that never lasted. Instead, browser histories were deleted, explanations minimized, and excuses offered—like claiming the phone simply “ran better” when the history was cleared.

For a long time, I wanted to believe that.

I wanted to believe the problem wasn’t what it clearly was, because admitting the truth meant facing how deeply it was hurting me.

Porn became his crutch. His escape. And in the process, I slowly disappeared.

What it took from me wasn’t just sex—it was confidence. It was trust. It was my sense of worth as a partner and as a woman. I started questioning my body, my desirability, my value. I wondered why images on a screen felt easier than loving the person standing right in front of him.

And the most painful part wasn’t just the rejection—it was the gaslighting. Being told it wasn’t a big deal. That I was overreacting. That it had nothing to do with me. That I should just accept it.

But when intimacy is replaced by secrecy, when honesty is replaced by excuses, something fundamental breaks.

Over time, I stopped asking. I stopped initiating. I stopped hoping. I built walls where vulnerability used to live—not because I didn’t care, but because caring hurt too much.

This kind of addiction doesn’t stay contained. It seeps into everything—communication, emotional safety, self-esteem. It teaches you to doubt your intuition and silence your needs. It teaches you to shrink.

Healing has meant reclaiming the parts of myself that were slowly eroded. Learning that his addiction was never a reflection of my worth. Understanding that intimacy requires presence, honesty, and effort—not secrecy and avoidance.

I am no longer willing to compete with a screen.

I am no longer willing to be lied to in ways that make me question my own reality.

And I am no longer willing to disappear to make someone else more comfortable.

This chapter hurt—but it also taught me how much I deserve.