“Forgive me. I have sinned.” I’ve always counted it a privilege to hear these words, to offer forgiveness. But for years, it was tainted with self-recrimination: You’re a hypocrite. Indeed, who was I to forgive or offer counsel, when I struggled with sin that I myself refused to confess because I couldn’t give it up and wasn’t sure I wanted to? Now, I have a confession to make.
It began during seminary, scanning photo galleries of models and actresses that I was attracted to. It seemed harmless, no threat to my celibate commitment. I took that promise seriously. I had no illusions that it would be easy, and it wasn’t. This might take the edge off, I thought.
I had no fears about its effects on my everyday life. I maintained proper boundaries in my work. I was especially vigilant when I was aware of my attraction to someone. I stayed away from sexually suggestive comments, and never flirted or acted inappropriately. I was the model of propriety, even as my browsing turned from the scantily clad to the unclothed.
My busyness seemed like a grace. Studies, ministry and social life always took priority over my explorations in the developing world of online pornography. Keeping my commitments, I reasoned, would ensure it remained a harmless diversion. My self-deception continued, unconfronted.
More Than a Distraction
During a stressful summer assignment in an unfamiliar city, it became more frequent. I was overworked. I spent a lot of time alone. I had no friends nearby. Increasingly, my companion became my computer—a means of escape and an endless supply of new and provocative images. My answer to stress. When people asked what I did for fun, I struggled to find an answer. Even the occasional night out with friends ended in the loneliness of my room.
My summer work struggles were chalked up to unreasonable expectations. Ironically, there was some worry that I was watching too much TV. I was convinced that I had handled the work to the best of my ability. Overwork had led to the increase in my pornography use, not vice versa. I told myself still had my priorities straight.
When people asked what I did for fun, I struggled to find an answer. Even the occasional night out with friends ended in the loneliness of my room.
My next assignments were more balanced. Porn went back to being a distraction. But the increased frequency had carried over, as had my need for novelty. Videos replaced still images as my preferred medium. I quickly found myself immersed in and uncomfortably conversant with the adult film world. But there was no conversing. I was living that life alone, in secret, carefully separated from the real life that I was involved in and loving most hours of most days. One mitigating grace was that my conscience forbade me to involve someone else in my alternative life. I remained just a spectator, pretending, not connecting.
Soon I was a newly ordained priest. Despite my enthusiasm for my new duties and identity, my habit continued. I could blame it again on stress, but I wondered now if it was more problematic, even if it wasn’t interfering with my ministry. I wondered if people saw something amiss, especially when I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. If they noticed, they no doubt imagined it had more to do with too much enthusiasm from a young priest than with clandestine hours spent on porn. For my part, I was amazed at the ways in which God was able to use me to serve and inspire people in my ministry, even while this breach in our relationship remained. This consciousness of God’s mercy helped alleviate the guilt, but also contributed to the illusion that things might still be O.K. God had not abandoned me to pastoral disaster.
When a penitent’s sexual temptations came up when hearing confessions, I would offer advice once given to me. Know your limits. Can you watch an R-rated sex scene untroubled? Or is that too much for you? When it comes to porn, when are your defenses down? At night? In your bedroom? Can you have a computer in your room? Or do you need to keep it somewhere else? I could hardly tell them that I was struggling myself and not taking my own advice. I became somewhat jealous of these penitents. They were confessing what I could not. I was aware of my sin. But I was equally aware that I didn’t intend to stop.
Guilt and shame were often conspicuously absent, except when the nightmares came. Vivid dreams of getting caught woke me from my slumber. I felt the pain of disappointing those closest to me. Several times these had caused me to stop, at least for a while. After the most devastating of these dreams, I thought maybe I’d reached my limit. It featured one of my dearest friends, one of the greatest supporters of my journey to priesthood. She saw the good things I didn’t see in myself. Sometimes her love for me, her enthusiasm about my vocation, was painful. If she only knew the truth. In the dream, I was discovered. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it, but I couldn’t lie. It’s all true, I admitted. I have a problem with porn. I felt more ashamed than I ever had in real life. I had let her believe I was somebody else. The sense of loss was overwhelming. I never wanted to feel that pain for real. As I purged my computer, I thought this might be enough to end this once and for all.
I was aware of my sin. But I was equally aware that I didn’t intend to stop.
The fact that it didn’t finally made me consider the possibility that I was addicted. Though I was still hiding it well, I started to be more compulsive and less careful. I took fewer precautions—unlocked doors, less secure networks. Deep down, I think, I wanted to get caught. If asked directly if I was looking at porn, I would have told the truth. But I was too scared to take the initiative and confess.
While all this was happening, I had started work on a graduate degree. All I had left was the thesis. The writing was going slowly. Pastoral opportunities were easily distracting. But were they distracting me from writing, or from watching porn? Outside of ministry, both were probably getting equal time. It was suggested that moving somewhere else might help me focus. I agreed, and hoped it would. If I could just get past the thesis, things might get better.
But things only got worse. Sidelined as a “priest in residence,” with no regular pastoral duties, I found myself lonely, isolated and disconnected. I had no friends. The other priests were busy and afraid of distracting me from my work. And despite my loneliness, I treated any time spent socially as a trade-off against the writing I was supposed to be doing. This only isolated me further. I slept a lot. I watched too much TV. Viewing porn became a regular part of my day. I enjoyed opportunities to go out and celebrate Mass sometimes. But then it was “back to writing,” which I was doing less and less. I’d never experienced depression, but I knew enough to recognize the signs. I started seeing a therapist. It might have helped, except I never mentioned the porn.
Asking for Help
I hadn’t hit “rock bottom,” but I was on my way. I tried a prayer exercise that I’d once learned. If I were to die today, I prayed, am I who I would want to be? The answer was an unequivocal no. I realized that even a less isolated environment would not fix the underlying problem. Things were too far off track. I knew fellow priests who had gone to intensive therapy programs, and found one that I thought could help me. Now I just had to find the freedom to ask for help.
My internal struggle continued. Then, one day, the words of a song at Mass moved my heart. Let your gentleness be known. Do not worry. Reach out to God in prayer. The peace of God will be with you. An invitation to transparency. I resolved then to ask for help. I talked to a friend the next day, so as not to lose my nerve. I asked for permission to go to the therapy program, mentioning only the depression. But then there were forms to fill out, and there I told the whole story, porn and all. Sharing my secret, I began to feel free.
The words of a song at Mass moved my heart. Let your gentleness be known. Do not worry. Reach out to God in prayer.
It was hard enough to tell family and friends that I was depressed and leaving town. I said nothing about the porn. Depression they could accept. I wasn’t sure about the rest. Still, one friend I told the whole story to was unfazed. “It’s not as shocking as you think,” she insisted. She’s probably right; but still, I’ve told only a few people everything.
I started attending 12-step meetings for people with similar addictions. I wasn’t sure I fit in. Sometimes, I’m still not sure. I felt that most people there had gone further, and suffered more, than I had. I wasn’t sure if I was an addict, but I was deeply moved by the way they confessed their addictions and the effects on their lives, what might cause them to relapse and what they were doing—staying connected with fellow sufferers and supporters—to stay sober and not be controlled by lust. All the conventional wisdom of our sex-obsessed culture, what people were or were not capable of, and what was “normal,” was thrown out the window. I discovered a room full of people trying, and many succeeding, at keeping a commitment to remain chaste, as I had promised to.
Did it really matter that I hadn’t gone as far as they had? A friend, a longtime recovering alcoholic, told me that she, too, had felt at first that she didn’t fit in. She hadn’t hit rock bottom either. “But one day I realized,” she said, “that no matter how I got there, I was just as screwed up as the rest of them.” My fears that others might think my issues insignificant or suspect I was still in denial somehow were pointless. I could only be honest about my own situation, and trust others to help and support me.
The First Step Forward
It helped when I was asked to do a “first step,” a narrative of how my addiction had progressed. It gave me a clear sense of how my life had become unmanageable. Maybe differently than others’ lives, but unmanageable nonetheless. I was congratulated for my courage, but I felt uncomfortable receiving praise for sharing something I was ashamed of. Another priest said, “It makes me angry to see someone as gifted as you are fall victim to such a great evil.” This moved me deeply, both the affirmation of my worth and his characterization of pornography as an evil. I suddenly knew he was right. It is an evil, more than I ever realized.
I was congratulated for my courage, but I felt uncomfortable receiving praise for sharing something I was ashamed of.
Recognizing porn as an evil has changed the way I approach it in confession. I no longer think of viewing porn as harmless, or inevitable. It can be stopped, by recognizing its power and asking for help. I respond more mercifully than before, and from a place of greater strength. Outside of the confessional, I’ve also resolved to help others overcome this evil in their lives. I’m still not certain how to go about this, but I hope this article is a start.
As for my own confession, the chance to return fully to the sacrament was one of the things I most looked forward to. I said as much when I began my treatment. Still, I put it off for a while. I think I wanted more time sober, to be sure of my resolve. But as I let my gentleness be known, especially to myself, and offered my sins to God, I knew the only surety was God’s love and mercy. That, I decided, was more than enough.
The week that I revealed my addiction was also when I stopped, I hope for good. One year later, through the grace of God and the help of others, and with some surprise, I’ve experienced no relapse. I have my share of temptations, but the isolation of addiction has now been replaced by circles of support that, thankfully, it would take great effort to free myself from. Sometimes when I am tempted, I make a phone call. Sometimes I just go looking for someone to talk to. I might talk about my temptations (with those who know about my addiction), or I might just talk about anything. That connection with another human being is crucial for me, and not just when it comes to my addiction. Sometimes I have to force myself to make a call, even though I’d rather deal with the struggle on my own. Other times, I imagine myself surrounded by all those to whom I’ve become accountable. If I relapsed, I would have to tell them.
And, while I know they would be far less disappointed than I would be, I don’t want to fail them, or God. I also don’t want to go there again. I didn’t like who I was. My life isn’t perfect now, but it’s better. My prayer life and my relationship with God are the best they’ve been in a long time. I’m surrounded by people who I let care for me as much as I care for them. I’m free. And I can sit on both sides of the confessional feeling less of a fraud, enjoying God’s merciful grace for me—the sinner and the addict.
Read "Create in Me a Clean Heart," the U.S. bishop's pastoral response to pornography.
Resources for people seeking help:
