Hi, my name is ________ and I’m an alcoholic.
There isn’t much in the identity of an alcoholic in recovery that makes one think of sexy things. In fact, I spent the first month of sobriety in an inpatient rehab center going through physical withdrawals that included panic attacks, flop sweat, and uncontrollable sobbing fits as every sober breath hit me with the reality of my life. I couldn’t imagine living a life without alcohol, and the idea of sober sex was terrifying.
In addition to being an alcoholic, I have also mentioned in previous “A Queer in Recovery” pieces that I am both a sexual assault survivor and a person who struggles with an eating disorder. I think these three pieces of my identity all swirl together when we talk about lust, love, sex, and sexuality. Oftentimes, it was easier to let loose and let go of the horrific memories of assault, as well as the hangups I have about my body, when I’ve had a sufficient amount of alcohol. However, as a person in recovery, I must face these things with a sober mind.
When I think back over the years of sexual encounters I’ve had, I can count on two fingers the number of queer partners I have slept with while I was sober. I specify queer partners because prior to coming out in 2012, I wasn’t overly sexual. Before I understood who I was, and who I was attracted to, I preferred to avoid sex altogether. So, you’d think that coming out, and coming into my own sexuality, would make it easier to physically connect with another person. Alas, this was not the case
Alcohol is known as a social lubricant, something that many use as a way of being comfortable around strangers or letting loose and having fun. For me, as an alcoholic, it was a way of getting out of my head and into my body. I didn’t shy away from touch when I was drunk, as I did when I was sober. I didn’t allow my discomfort inside my body to lead me; I had nothing to hold back and nothing to lose when I was drunk.
In the last year of my active alcoholism, I would have considered myself a “functioning alcoholic.” I was able to hold down two jobs; I had a decent relationship with my family; I had close friends, and I had a partner. No one in my life told me they worried about my drinking, and it proved to me that I was still active and present in my own life. However, I knew better. I was sneaking alcohol, both at home and at work, and I was to the point where I drank all day, everyday, as a way of hiding the withdrawal tremors and keeping away the anxiety attacks of coming down.
It wasn’t until I got sober, and about three months of active recovery under my belt, did I fully realize how much alcohol was truly saving me from feeling the unbearable feelings of intimacy and physical connection. The first six months of sober sex were met with dissociative episodes, as my mind would flood with the memories of my assault. I also became acutely aware of every ounce of fat on my body as I tried to relax beneath my partner’s touch. The rolls on my stomach, the ways my thighs touched, the jiggle of my upper arm; my body felt foreign as I watched it move and quake as I climaxed.
I feared that I would forever be plagued by these observations, memories, triggers, and episodes. I was fortunate, though, in so many ways. My partner was kind and gentle; they were patient with me while I processed the events of my trauma in therapy. My psychiatric team was helpful as I discussed my fears with medication, eventually bringing me closer to a headspace of balance and softness. My family, friends, colleagues, and community provided me the strength and confidence to heal, feel empowered in my accomplishments, and in my connection to myself.
While I still struggle to feel sexy, it is a work in progress, and something that I get closer to the more proud of myself I become. The urge to drink has not entirely dissipated, and the struggles to overcome trauma and body dysphoria have not disappeared. However, the longer I am sober, the more capable I feel to face these things and the more I am able to align my values with my actions. I am no longer ashamed of the fact that I used to drink in secret because that was the only coping skill I had, and I was doing my best with the tools I had at the time. Today, I trust the process a bit more everyday, and I no longer have to hide in my disease, and that makes me feel sexy AF.
-An anonymous queer in recovery
Email a.queer.in.recovery@gmail.com for additional support and resources.
