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My name is Abena. I am twenty-three. I study at the University of Cape Coast. And I was addicted to sex.
I do not even know where to begin. Maybe at the place where most people start pretending. Because that is what I did, I perfected the art of pretending. I laughed loud, wore cute dresses, showed up to class early. Everyone thought I was in control of everything, the perfect girl.
But I was drowning.
It started when I was sixteen
That year, my uncle moved into our house after he lost his job. At first, he was quiet. Then, late at night, he would knock on my door. Tell me to “just keep quiet.” Tell me it was my fault if I said anything.
After that, it was like something broke in me.
I never actually told my parents. I could not. I tried to act normal. But I started looking for ways to feel okay, even if it was just for a moment.
The first time I had sex willingly, I was seventeen. The boy barely knew my name. He left right after. But for five minutes, I felt powerful. Seen. In control.
That was the beginning.
By the time I came to UCC, I had already learned how to live a double life.
I was the quiet girl in the front row. The one who always had her notes well prepared. But after lectures, after everyone went home, I would text someone, sometimes a stranger, and meet them in the most random places: hostels, bars, parked cars.
Sometimes I used protection. Sometimes I did not even care.
I did not actually enjoy the sex, not really. But I was chasing something. Maybe it was attention. Maybe it was punishment. Maybe it was just a way not to feel so damn empty.
And every night, I cried after.
“You should talk to someone,” my roommate once said.
She did not know the whole story. But she saw the signs. The random guys. The early morning walks of shame. The way I would shut down during conversations about relationships.
I laughed it off. “I just like fun. Not everyone is built for commitment.”
She stared at me for a long time. “No one cries like that for fun.”
That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and stared at the mirror. I looked like me—but I did not know who that was anymore.
The lowest point came in level 300.
I hooked up with a married man. I knew he was married. I even saw the wedding ring. But I did not want stop.
Afterwards, he paid for my Uber and gave me money for “lunch.”
I sat in the car and hated myself.
I went back to my room, took a long bath, and stared at a pack of sleeping pills in my drawer.
I did not take them. But the thought stayed.
That scared me more than anything.
That week, I told my roommate everything.
She couldn’t stop her tears from flowing. It made me cry too.
I remember she placed my head on her laps and whispered, “it will be well”.
After a lot of convincing, she got me to talk to one counsellor. When I first met the counsellor, she was very warm and welcoming.
But my hands were shaking. My voice trembled. But I told the truth. For the first time.
“I think I am addicted to sex.”
The counselor—an older woman with soft eyes—did not flinch. She just said, “You are not the only one.”
That sentence broke something open in me.
I was not disgusting. I was not evil. I was a young woman in pain, using my body to cry out for help.
After some sessions with her, I began to gain control.
There were relapses, honestly. There were nights when I still called someone I should not. Moments when shame felt heavier than my textbooks.
But I started understanding the why.
It was not about desire. It was about trauma. About control. About worth.
I started journaling. Praying again. Saying no. And meaning it.
I joined a support group—quietly, under a fake name at first. We met online every Friday. A girl from Nigeria said something I will never forget:
“Every time we use our pain to punish ourselves, we lose a piece of who we are. But healing gives it back. Slowly. Gently.”
Now, I am still at UCC. Still studying. Still living. But I am no longer hiding.
Some days are hard. But I no longer chase attention like air. I no longer cry after sex—because I do not say yes just to feel something.
I am learning to feel without shame. To want without destroying. To be touched without disappearing.
Takeaway
I used to believe that if people knew the real me, they would run. That I was broken beyond repair.
But healing begins the moment we tell the truth.
Sex addiction is real. It is messy. It hides behind smiles and A+ grades. But it does not have to be the end of your story.
If you are struggling, please hear me: You are not alone. You are not dirty. You are not too far gone.
You are worth healing.
And you are still here.
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