Pornography used to be somebody else's problem. Distant and separate from my existence and those that I love, it was hardly a second thought. Cruising carelessly along the highway of life, however, I suddenly found myself careening into a stone wall of reality; pornography is a pervasive disintegration of society from which none can hide.
The theory that the tiny flapping of a butterfly's wings may ultimately influence the direction of a tornado is the most fitting analogy for the course of destruction that pornography took as it trampled through my life.
I used to be beautiful. Women everywhere probably share this sentiment. Usually, Father Time is the thief of beauty who leaves wrinkled skin and grey hair in his wake. In my case, it was the crippling effects of pornography that sneaked into my psyche one summers day, and slipped silently away, dragging the remnants of my identity behind him.
Finding out that the man you love is addicted to pornography is a little like being thrown head long into an ice cold river—without enough notice to gasp your last breath. Left suddenly to inadequate resources and in unknown territory, I floundered. It was a regular day. I hadn't expected to find myself sorting through the cob-webbed covered chambers of a secret fixation; especially a fixation that wasn't mine. As the images of women I could not ever be leapt off of the monitor and burrowed themselves into my brain—something snapped. Burned into my memory, these women who had stolen the infatuation of my best friend, became voices in my head.
I should have seen things clearly. However, at times like this in life, I think we rarely do. In a tempest of pulsating emotion we do our best simply to survive. For some reason, as the weight of the shocking discovery set in—it became my problem, not his. My responsibility—not his. That night, as we held each other and sobbed, I doubt he'd ever guess that I was wracked with guilt. The sun set that day as the almost undetectable beating of a butterfly's wings, and the course was set in motion.
I am sure as I awoke on that morning in mid-July of 2007 that in the eyes of any other I appeared the same as the day before. But to me, the lens through which I saw the world and everything in it had changed. I was hideous. I felt a tortured soul trapped in a skin of disappointment and shame. Those women who had taken up residence in every corner of my mind became the standard. Anything less was unacceptable. Obsession was born. They sat there, in my brain, dripping in beauty and sexiness. They scoffed at every calorie consumed, every misplaced curve. They would slink around the apartment, waiting to snicker at a glimpse of my body sneaking by the mirror on my way to the shower. My sense of self was shattered, and my relationship in shambles. I would do anything to be like them. And I tried.
Those times were dark. As I spiraled downward into a nightmare of self-deprecating gloom, the habits I developed to cope with this newfound "reality" were grim. I trudged through the valleys of self-harm and abuse. I sat in many a counselor's office, grappling with the chasms between my reality and one where the rest of the world seemed to reside. Though the idea is still a painful one to swallow, I had a new label to attach to my withering sense of self: Bulimic. In my quest for beauty and acceptance, I had resorted to means that were anything but glamorous.
Many seasons have come and gone since the summer of distorted perceptions. The journey has been extensive, excruciating, and exhausting, and I still have not arrived. Rebuilding reality is tedious. Constantly, a battle rages within my mind. However, through the love and patience of those that care for me, I have begun, once again, to see myself the way they do. Those taunting voices still speak up, but I have finally found my courage, and this time I talk back. I am slowly becoming the woman I used to be. Just yesterday, I could have been found dancing around my room. And you know what? I felt pretty damn sexy.
-Mellissa

