What a sorry-sack bunch of losers we are, I thought to myself as I scanned the closet-sized office space. There were a couple of old guys, a couple of stereotypical nerds who looked as though they still lived in their mother’s basements playing video games semi-professionally, a Hispanic dude, and me. And then, holy fuck no, you have got to be kidding me, directly before my eyes, the pretty boy. The type of guy whom I was constantly scanning dating sites to find, the exact fulfillment of everything I was looking for in a man, physically anyway, right there. Right in front of me. I could literally fall to my knees and be right at his feet and beg him to run away with me and be with me forever. Yep, I was triggered.

I was triggered, but I was there. I had made the first giant leap of faith and showed up. Once I was in the meeting room, I was hooked. I had a place where I felt I could belong. These guys were in worse shape than I was, or so I thought at the time. I didn’t realize how messed up I actually was. I didn’t realize how out of control and unmanageable my life had become. All I knew was that I kept having sex compulsively and couldn’t stop. It was out of hand; it was getting dangerous, and something had to be done about it, something had to give.