SLAA Dropout
Last May I attended an SLAA meeting for the first time.
If you’re not familiar, it stands for Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous and is meant to help people like me — people with intimacy disorders — learn how to be in healthy romantic relationships.
While the disorder can manifest in a variety of ways, some specific to my experience are: fearing abandonment, becoming distracted by romantic/sexual obsessions, continually searching for relationships, and confusing love with physical attraction.
After learning that I had many characteristics of a love addict several years ago, I decided to take steps to cope with my self-diagnosed condition. I sought out therapy to improve self-awareness of my “bottom-line” behavior (any emotional/sexual act that leads to loss of control), and subscribed to a daily newsletter to enhance my emotional and erotic intelligence.
But last year I decided to take my recovery a step further. It was during the period when I started spending more time with Blake. I felt myself going down a path of infatuation with him, plus I was putting up with the fact that he had a girlfriend. I guess deep down I knew I shouldn’t have been with him.
It didn’t take long for a quick internet search to yield results for an in-person SLAA session. I found a local group and went to a meetup where I was surrounded by others who struggle just like me.
The meeting was held at a church’s outdoor amphitheater. There were probably about 50 people in attendance, seated several feet apart from each other due to the social distancing protocol of the pandemic.
Characteristically, I was a few minutes late. I quietly took an aisle seat while an announcer was already speaking into a microphone, getting the session underway. I looked around and noticed women and men of varying ages and orientations. Differences aside, we were brought together by the same ailment; our addiction united us.
Newcomers were invited to step up to the mic and introduce themselves, so I got in line and waited my turn. Before I reached the front I was given a silver token with “SLAA” printed on one side and the preamble on the other: “Sobriety, Sponsorship, Steps, Service, and Spirituality.” I received a welcome pamphlet as well.
Clutching my new souvenirs, I approached the assembly and projected my voice: “My name is Ashleigh and I’m a love and sex addict.”
Like clockwork, the congregation sang “Welcome, Ashleigh” in unison. I made my way back to my seat and didn’t open my mouth for the rest of the meeting.
Instead I sat listening uncomfortably as the other attendees aired their dirty laundry, sharing stories of sex, drugs, and betrayal. It was jarring. A lot of people cried as they told tales of heartbreak, lust, and manipulation. I was stunned.
There was a portion of the meeting dedicated to reciting the 12 steps of SLAA, which were adapted from Alcoholics Anonymous. Most of them pointed back to a relationship with god, and that turned me off.
I believe in a higher power, but the whole thing began to feel tainted by religion and holiness (though there’s no particular denomination affiliated with the program). Maybe I was just looking for an excuse not to go back.
As I listened to my counterparts voice their narratives, I considered going up to talk about my journey. But I decided against it.
The organization is a great resource for people seeking treatment and looking to overcome their affliction. For me, there was just one problem… I didn’t want to be sober.
Against my better judgment I ended up dating Blake for the rest of the spring and into the summer — and we all know how that ended. Maybe I’m out of my mind, but I don’t regret spending those months with him, regardless of how much our ending hurt me. Maybe he was right about what he said during our argument back in June.
Maybe I like being sad.
