You know, sometimes I wonder… What am I even doing here?
Why am I still fighting this battle when it feels like every step forward comes with two steps back?
I can feel the urge creeping in again, that familiar pull, the whisper that says, “Just one more time won’t hurt. You deserve it.”
I wish I didn’t believe it.
But here I am, wrestling with myself, trying to make sense of why this thing has such a hold on me. Why this urge keeps coming back stronger, louder, more relentless, no matter how many times I try to shut it out.
I’ve heard people say it’s like a wave, that you just need to ride it out until it passes. But for me, it’s not a wave.
It’s a riptide.
It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t crash and disappear. It pulls me under, drags me down, and makes me question everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
[wiping away a tear]
I hate this.
I hate how it makes me feel. How it strips away my confidence, my self-worth, my belief that I’m capable of more than this.
I’ve tried to be strong, to fight it with discipline, with rules, with every ounce of willpower I have.
But there’s always that moment—you know the one—where it feels like you’re winning, and then suddenly… you’re not.
Suddenly, I’m back where I started, staring at a screen, feeling that disgusting emptiness creep over me like a cold shadow.
[choking up]
And then there’s that voice. The one that tells me I’ll never be free, that I’ll never be good enough, that I’m wasting my time pretending I can be more than this.
It’s exhausting.
But deep down, I know why I’m still here, why I haven’t given up completely.
Because I refuse to let this define me.
I refuse to be just another person who got swallowed up by his demons.
[exhale slowly]
I’ve started to realize that maybe the problem isn’t the urge itself. Maybe the problem is that I’ve been trying so hard to fight it, to crush it, to destroy it, that I’ve forgotten how to listen to myself.
Maybe this urge is just a signal. A cry from some deeper part of me that’s desperate for attention, for meaning, for something real.
And maybe, instead of running from it, I need to face it.
To ask myself, “What am I really looking for?”
Because the truth is, porn has never been about pleasure.
It’s been about escape.
It’s been about hiding from the discomfort, the stress, the fear of not being enough, of not knowing where my life is headed.
[stop crying - keep writing]
But what if—just what if—the only way to beat this thing is to stop running?
What if I need to sit with the discomfort, to feel the pain, to face the emptiness without turning away?
Because maybe that’s where I’ll find the answers.
Maybe that’s where I’ll discover who I really am, beyond the distractions, beyond the noise, beyond this relentless urge that keeps trying to drown me.
I’m tired, man.
Tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m not. Tired of fighting a battle that feels impossible to win.
But I’m not giving up.
Not yet.
Because somewhere inside me, there’s still a spark. A tiny flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I’m stronger than this.
That I’m capable even if it means facing the darkest parts of myself along the way.
So, here I am.
Still fighting. Still struggling. Still refusing to let this be the end of my story.
And maybe that’s enough for today.
[wiping away the last tear]
Maybe that’s enough for now.
