My sexual Addiction

There was something wrong with the way he looked at me.Not lustful. Not judgmental. Not even curious.Just… steady.Like he’d already got me open and was just waiting for me to admit it.I sat back in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. That didn’t happen often.Most of the time, I wore discomfort like lingerie—tight, revealing, and a little daring. I liked being stared at. I liked making men shift in their seats, feel hot under the collar, trip over their words.But Dr. Lane Carter didn’t shift. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t even blink at my crossed legs or the curve of my shirt.It pissed me off.“I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed like I’m some damaged little girl,” I said flatly.“You are being psychoanalyzed,” he replied, calm as ever. “And you’re not a little girl. You're a woman who uses sex to hide her insecurities.”I laughed under my breath. “You say that like you’ve read my diary.”“No. I read your file.”“Was it juicy?”“Disturbing, actually.”I raised an eyebr

He didn’t answer the way I expected. That was the worst part. When I asked him if he wanted me, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean back. Didn’t deny it. He just said, “That’s not the question you should be asking.” And it followed me. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Back to my car. All the way home. I lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, heart thudding like I’d run a mile, legs tangled in too-warm sheets, the silence of my apartment pressing in around me like a weighted blanket I never asked for. What question should I be asking? Do I want to be wanted? Do I want to be loved? Do I even know the difference? I didn’t sleep much, again. But I showed up to therapy the next day anyway. Hair in a bun. Hoodie. No mascara. No defense. I sat cross-legged on the couch and didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t push. Just waited. Like he knew I’d talk when I couldn’t take the silence anymore. It took four minutes and thirteen seconds. Probably. I guess... “Can I ask you

I should’ve ignored the knock.I should’ve turned off the lights, curled into my blanket, and pretended I didn't heard him knock.But I didn’t.Instead, I walked to the door slowly, barefoot, heart clung in my throat.And when I looked through the peephole, there he was.That old, sick pull in my chest.Jason.The man I swore I’d never let back in.The one who made me feel desirable and disposable at the same time.The one who taught me that pain could be suppressed by sexul pleasures.I stood there frozen, one hand hovering over the doorknob, the other curled into a fist at my side.He knocked again. Three soft, confident taps.He always knocked like he knew I’d answer.I hated that part of me, the part that wanted to.Just to hear what lie he’d tell me this time. Just to see if he’d still look at me like I was the only thing worth ruining.I opened the door an inch. Just an inch. The chain still locked.“Amelia,” he said, voice smooth, low and soft like melted chocolate and bad deci

I walked out of his office with tears rolling down my cheeks.The air was still thin. Like it didn’t know how to carry me anymore.I didn’t run I marched. Every step out of that building felt like a dare. Like a dareBut when I got into my car, the silence hit louder than anything he’d said.I sat there for a full minute, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. My chest ached. I wanted to scream, cry, punch something.Instead, I turned the key.And I drove.First out of the parking lot. Then past the familiar corners of campus. Then through the back roads of the city I knew too well.I didn’t go home.Not right away.Because home felt like the kind of place you go when you wanna be still. I guess And stillness meant feeling. And feeling meant facing everything Lane made me look at.Eventually, I pulled up to my apartment. My body moved like it was out of control—keys, door, bedroom.I sat on my bed, I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me.My hea

Some folks express themselves with words. Lane? He speaks through his eyes.He didn’t have to say a thing for me to feel it the calmness in his gaze, steady yet gentle, focused yet soft. His eyes didn’t flit around; they were steady on me, patient and firm, almost like they were grounding me without ever laying a hand on me.That day, I arrived for therapy five minutes early, which was a bit of a change for me. Normally, I enjoyed making others wait. There was something satisfying about being in control.But that feeling didn’t apply with Lane.I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt no urge to play games with him. I didn’t need to impress him or make him chase after me. All I wanted was to just… be there.I knocked softly and stepped into the room when he called me in.He was in his usual chair—dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, with a calm and quiet vibe.Yet, something in the atmosphere felt different.Or maybe I had changed.I took my seat, hands folded neatly in my lap. I di