Suicidal Sex Addict

By Joy Moore

A raw, authentic peek inside a woman's struggles with self-worth, mental illness, and sex addiction. She walks readers through real-life events that shaped the author into the person she is today. Her vulnerability is refreshing and inspiring. She covers childhood, puberty, and adulthood in detail. After analyzing her challenges, regrets, and most embarrassing moments, she discovers many behavioral patterns she wants to change. She shares her life lessons in hopes of helping people find self-acceptance, forgiveness, peace, and happiness. She believes it's never too late to make the changes necessary to have a beautiful life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662458613

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Suicidal Sex Addict

Joy Moore

Copyright © 2021 Joy Moore

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-5860-6 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5861-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Childhood and Family Tree

Adolescence and Insecurities

Sex Addiction Begins

I’m Thirty, Now What?

I Want a Baby

Recipe for a Mental Breakdown

Recovery and Self-Love

Conclusions/Revelations/Mantras

Relationship Updates

I’m dedicating this book to my DAY-ONES my family and friends who have stuck by me during my darkest and ugliest days. You’re my why and my how. I love you all beyond words! Thank you for helping me and believing in me.

Introduction

I’m a single thirty-eight-year-old woman, mother of two, living in my sister’s basement. It’s November 2020. Month 11 of the COVID-19 pandemic.

I’m writing this for four reasons—to help others understand the life and struggles of a person with mental illness, to debunk taboos about mental health, and to give inspiration to anyone who has struggled with depression, suicidal thoughts, addiction, toxic relationships, money problems, and all the other effects of mental illness / lack of peace. The final reason I’m writing this is for my own therapy and to understand my journey and review and collaborate my life lessons, so I can continue to grow and be better. If not for myself, for my children.

I started writing a memoir about my relationships and realized during the process, my toxic relationships were a result of me denying I had mental health issues. I was never officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder until June 2020. I didn’t want a label. I didn’t want people to not like me. I didn’t want to feel more like a misfit than I already did.

I had so much fear attached to being called mentally ill, I ran from my demons for thirty years—metaphorically and literally…ran. The problem is, Wherever you go, there you are (Thomas à Kempis).

I’m dedicating this book to my two beautiful daughters: Frankie, two years old, and Sophia, twelve. I strongly believe, I manifested them. Being a mom is something that comes naturally to me. When I was a child, I preferred to play with baby dolls over anything else. I’m a natural caregiver. I’ve never felt true and unconditional love, until I had my children. They are my bliss and my motivation. Everything I do now is to support and nurture them. My #1 goal is to provide them guidance to minimize their pain and suffering.

I hope my story provides you relief and understanding of yourself and others. At the end of the day, we are all human and extremely flawed. Let’s embrace our flaws and differences together. Let’s use compassion, kindness, and science to change the ideas, ideals, and taboos about mental health in general. Let’s change the mental health system all together, please! I believe it starts with all of us talking and sharing our stories. I’ll start.

Childhood and Family Tree

September 23, 1982, I arrived in the world. I was the third baby in three years. My mother said she got pregnant with me with an IUD.

My assumption was she had postpartum depression too. I can’t imagine having three babies in three years. No way! It couldn’t have been easy.

I’m not sure my mom bonded with me as an infant. She confirmed with me it was a difficult and challenging time in her life. I think she had a lot of responsibility. She probably needed more help, and me, being the third baby in three years, I probably didn’t get the attention I needed or wanted. I strongly believe this is the reason I sought validation and attention from outside sources my entire life, and the reason I am so sensitive.

My Aunt Betty lived next door to us. We lived on a ten-acre farm site together. My uncle, Betty’s husband, purchased a barn next to the house my father purchased and turned it into a house. So we shared a farm site.

Betty was the one adult in my life I felt like really cared about me. She would do extra things to show how much she loved me. She had a way of dealing with me that made me listen and open my heart. I loved her with every fiber. At eight, complex feelings were hard to understand. I may have created that narrative because it’s easier to have a reason to not like your mom. Either way, I was destroyed when Betty died. A piece of me died with her. I don’t know if I will ever get it back. At this point, I don’t think so. This event was by far the most tragic and defining moment in my life.

My parents didn’t deal with her death well either. My dad and mom were also close with her. She was the glue that kept everyone together. She was the one everyone looked up to. My mother described her as a saint with a golden heart.

My father came from a family of fourteen—twelve brothers and sisters and parents. My dad had two people that had a bunch of kids and were just trying to stay alive. There was no emotional support, and they were poor. They didn’t have running water in their home until my dad was twelve or thirteen years old. And we live in Minnesota where it’s sometimes forty degrees below zero.

To say my dad’s life was hard is an understatement. The kids raised each other. They lived in a three-bedroom house with twelve children. One room for the girls and one for the boys—six girls and six boys. My grandmother was a Goddamn saint and had a super uterus, apparently.

My grandfather was in WWII. My dad said, When he came home from war, his hair was gray. His eyes were different color, and he was very depressed. My dad proclaimed his dad never told the kids he loved them. Those were the times. That wasn’t a thing. That’s not what people did. There was no time for communication and emotional support. They were trying to keep food on the table. Survival mode was all they knew.

My mother’s childhood wasn’t much better. She came from a family of ten—eight children. They were farmers. The difference was they grew and raised all their food. So they were never starving.

My grandfather was always so sweet and loving to me, but many people have said he wasn’t a nice person. I’m not saying it was my grandfather. I’m saying my mother and many of her sisters show signs of being abused in some fashion.

I never had role models growing up. Not one adult in my life, besides Betty, took me under their wing and built me up. My sisters and I fought for attention. We were mostly on our own—playing together all day, while my parents did what needed to do to kept us alive, fed, and clothed.

My grandmother was a quiet woman. Never said too much. Always cooked and baked for us when we were there. She always followed my grandfather’s lead and agreed to what he said.

I think it’s amazing that my grandparents stayed together for sixty-five years.