Sex Addiction and Intimacy Avoidance.

The term “sex addiction” can be misleading. It often sends people down the wrong path, suggesting that the problem is an overactive libido or too much interest in sex. Anyone who works with this issue knows that it’s rarely about sex at all. Like most compulsive behaviours, it’s usually a response to emotional pain. The behaviour is a symptom, not the root of the struggle.

This can be hard to see at first, especially when the behaviour causes chaos or hurts relationships. It’s understandable that people want the behaviour to stop. But focusing only on the symptoms might bring short-term relief while doing little to address the deeper issues that keep the cycle going.

For many people who struggle with compulsive sexual behaviour, the real difficulty is intimacy — or more specifically, the avoidance of it. Some professionals use terms like “intimacy dysfunction,” but I tend to avoid that language. It feels harsh and risks shaming the very people who are already steeped in shame. What we’re really talking about is the struggle some people have with forming close, honest, emotionally connected relationships. Even those in long-term partnerships can feel profoundly alone. They may be physically present in the relationship, but emotionally distant. The cost of letting someone get close — truly close — can feel unbearable.

An old saying describes intimacy as “in-to-me-see.” For many people, the idea of being seen as they really are — flaws, fears, vulnerabilities and all — is terrifying. This fear is almost always rooted in shame, and not the everyday sort. It’s deeper. It’s that quiet, persistent belief of “There’s something wrong with me.” That shame rarely starts with the sexual behaviour; it has usually been there since childhood. The behaviour only reinforces it. The person doesn’t just feel ashamed of what they do — they feel ashamed of who they are. And when you believe who you are is unworthy, intimacy feels threatening. Avoiding it feels safer.

We are wired for closeness. From infancy onward, we need connection, comfort, and affirmation. When those needs are met, we grow up with a sense that we matter. When they’re not, we form painful beliefs about ourselves — “I’m not good enough,” “I’m not loveable,” “If people really knew me, they’d leave.” These beliefs follow people into adulthood and colour every interaction. Intimacy becomes a risk rather than a refuge.

Someone who is intimacy avoidant often operates in one of two ways: they become overly compliant, agreeable, and passive — terrified of upsetting others — or they stay aloof, distant, and guarded, protecting themselves from potential rejection. Some move between these positions depending on the person they’re with. Either way, their authentic self — their thoughts, feelings, needs — is held back. The aim is safety. The cost is disconnection. And disconnection is lonely. Even in a relationship, it can feel like standing behind a pane of glass, watching life happen but not really taking part.

Pornography, cyber-sex, and prostitution offer something that intimacy does not: the illusion of closeness without the risk. No vulnerability. No fear of judgment. No danger of rejection. For someone terrified of being seen, these behaviours feel safe and controllable. They offer a momentary escape from emotional pain and a counterfeit version of connection. But like all quick fixes, the relief is short-lived. Afterwards comes the crash — shame, guilt, self-disgust — which deepens the original wound and strengthens the cycle.

A simple analogy may help. Imagine driving home after a long day, exhausted and starving. You’re looking forward to a proper meal, something nourishing. But you’re tired, irritable, frustrated — and then you see it: the bright yellow arches. You know it won’t satisfy you. You know you’ll feel worse afterwards. But in that moment, it’s easy, familiar, comforting. So you give in. And afterwards? You feel full but not fed. You feel guilty, uncomfortable, annoyed at yourself. The real need — nourishment — goes unmet. Sexual compulsivity works the same way. It offers the illusion of meeting a need while leaving the person emptier than before.

Recovery isn’t just about stopping the behaviour. It’s about slowly learning to tolerate closeness, vulnerability, and emotional exposure. It’s about building a sense of self that can risk being known. In therapy, this often begins with small, manageable steps — feeling a feeling rather than avoiding it; expressing a need rather than burying it; letting someone in just a little more than feels comfortable. Over time, the person begins to see the compulsive behaviour for what it is: a substitute — a shallow, fleeting stand-in for the real connection they’ve always needed. And as real intimacy becomes safer, the pull of the compulsive behaviour begins to loosen.

Who, in the end, would choose fast food over a home-cooked meal?