Has anybody else ever felt that there’s a huge correlation between addiction to alcohol and addiction to Love and Sex. I know that addiction to male attention is something that I may never shake. I still remember my first kiss. It was at the local swimming pool. My friend approached a blonde boy of a similar age to me, I was 12. This seems so young now. That first kiss was something that I daydreamed about day after day for months to come. After that I was like a woman obsessed. I would leap at the opportunity to kiss any boy that would have me. Throughout my drinking this was something that never really changed. I feel I did some terrible things. I hurt people. Boyfriends. Friends were impacted. I would put the chase of someone I liked above everything else. This is something that I have learnt, perhaps through age and perhaps through sobriety, that no matter how much you may want somebody, it’s never worth risking a good friendship. At the age of 14 I met Paul. He was a boy who lived on the same street as one of my friends. This friend, Suzie, had said that she had a crush on him. For some reason this didn’t stop me from starting a relationship with him. Paul and I quickly went from a couple of kisses to saying that we loved one another, despite the fact that the second time we met up I felt physically repulsed by him (there’s been a common theme throughout my life that I have never let this stop me). Some months later, two horny teenagers, we found ourselves in bed together, at home, on a Sunday afternoon. Nobody was at home. “I could just slip it in” announced Paul as we fumbled around under each others underwear. So he did. It was fully consensual. I felt like a grown up afterwards. I boasted in school the next day that I was no longer a virgin. At 14 I now look back and see that I was a child. A couple of months later, my periods had stopped. The worst had happened. I was pregnant. Just a child myself, I felt sick. I wanted to end my life, to end the life of what felt like a parasite growing inside me. I was made by my school to visit a family planning clinic, where a nurse without warning, put a hand into my vagina to feel around inside me. I still don’t know why this happened. After I left there I fell apart to my best friend, crying, wishing my life would stop or that I could be somebody else. Lost in despair and with a threat from the school nurse that if I did not tell my parents that she would, I went to a friends house. That evening, we all got drunk. I watched as my friend wanked Paul off, I allowed my friends brother to kiss me, to shave my pubic areas, to kiss me, everywhere, we ran around the streets, naked. I drank beers, spirits, whatever we could, for some reason I always remember eating spicey chicken pizza that evening. I was determined that the thing inside me should die. Even as I write this it occurs to me that even at this stage I believed that alcohol was the answer. Needless to say that this didn’t work. I remained pregnant but experienced one of the most painful hangovers I can ever remember having. The situation continued and it was out of my control. One morning as I sat eating my morning bowl of coco pops, my mother received a letter. The letter told her that I was booked in for an out patient appointment at the hospital. “What’s this?” she asked. I took a deep breath and said the words that seemed unthinkable at the time. “I’m pregnant and I need an abortion.” To her credit in this moment after initially erupting she did move on and stay calm. However, some months later, mid argument, I was called a slut, when I cried and said I wasn’t she screamed “well, what was it? the immaculate fucking conception.” These words will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. The sickness I felt, the anger at the situation, towards Paul, may never leave me. After the abortion I refused to talk about it. I broke up with Phil. Taunted him cruelly with my new boyfriend, wanting to inflict on him the pain that I had felt within me. Perhaps my life was already in a spiral at this point, it was a spiral that did not stop, until I was 27 I never felt I regained control of my own wants, needs, thoughts and emotions again.