I kept hearing this line. “Porn addiction isn’t real.” It made me pause. I’m a reviewer by trade, and a curious person by habit, so I tried it on my own life. How did it fit? Did it help? Did it harm? Short answer: it helped with shame. But it didn’t fix my habits. Not even close.
You know what? That’s the messy part. The label is fuzzy. The pattern was not.
Quick take
- Saying “it isn’t real” lowered my shame for a while.
- My behavior still felt compulsive. It cost me time, sleep, and trust.
- The label matters less than the harm.
- If it’s hurting your life, treat it like a problem. Name it however you want.
My real story, no frills
It started as a stress snack. Long day, sales pipeline on fire, inbox overflowing. I’d watch a bit at night “to relax.” No big deal. Then it grew legs.
Real things that happened:
- I missed two morning standups because I stayed up too late.
- I lied to my partner twice about “just scrolling.” I wasn’t just scrolling.
- I blew off the gym for a whole week. My back let me know.
- I hid tabs when someone walked by. That made me feel small.
- I kept saying “just five more minutes.” Forty minutes later, I was still there.
When I tried to stop, I got twitchy. Not sick. But edgy. Restless. Like my brain wanted a sugar hit. I snapped at small stuff, like a coffee order gone wrong. That wasn’t me, and it was me.
Then I heard the claim
I read a piece from a therapist who said there’s no formal “porn addiction” diagnosis. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition (DSM-5) likewise stops short of listing “porn addiction” as an official mental-health condition, pointing to insufficient evidence. At the same time, the World Health Organization’s International Classification of Diseases, 11th edition (ICD-11) includes Compulsive Sexual Behaviour Disorder—covering compulsive porn use—but places it under impulse-control disorders instead of addictions. I listened to a podcast too. They talked about habits, shame, and moral panic. Even high-profile figures wrestle with the same loop—Kanye West’s reflections on porn and faith show the pattern isn’t just a private struggle. The idea made me breathe. I wasn’t “broken.” I was human, with a loop.
But I also used that idea as a shield. “See? It’s not a real thing,” I told myself. So I kept the same loop. My results didn’t change. Funny how that works. If you want a deeper dive into how different kinds of adult content can affect your headspace, Wild Porn Reviews has surprisingly thoughtful breakdowns that put pleasure and mental health in the same conversation.
A small experiment (that felt big)
I ran a 30-day test. Nothing heroic. Just a plan:
- I tracked triggers: boredom, stress, late nights, fights.
- I put my phone to charge in the kitchen at 9:30 p.m.
- I used Freedom on my laptop and Screen Time on my phone.
- I texted a friend a thumb emoji at night to say, “I’m good.”
- I set a timer for showers. Sounds silly. It helped.
Real moments from that month:
- Friday night, alone, bored. I made tea and walked the block. Ten minutes. Urge dropped from a 9 to a 3.
- After a rough call with a client, I did 20 push-ups and a slow exhale. It didn’t cure me. It bought me five clean minutes.
- I slipped on day 11. I wrote it down. No drama. Next day was better.
What it felt like in my head
It wasn’t about sex, not fully. It was about escape and novelty. Like junk food for my brain. Fast, easy, always new. It felt a lot like how I used to scroll TikTok at 1 a.m. Same loop. Different flavor.
So is it “addiction”? I don’t know. It walked and quacked like one. Labels are tricky. Consequences are plain.
What helped me steady the ship
- Friction: blockers, phone out of the bedroom, no laptop on the bed.
- Replacement: tea, a short walk, a call to a friend, even the cheesy Forest app.
- Sleep: if I was tired, urges grew. A boring truth, but it mattered.
- Honesty: I told my partner, “I’m working on this.” She didn’t need a debate. She needed eye contact and a plan.
- One session with a therapist: we built a trigger map and a routine. Simple beats heroic.
- One unexpected trick was shifting some of that novelty drive toward actual human interaction. For instance, dipping a toe into a casual-dating arena like JustBang gave me a place to channel sexual energy into conversations with real adults, and their verification tools and clear consent guidelines make the experience feel a lot healthier than an endless autoplay queue.
Another avenue I tested, especially when work trips put me near western Michigan, was a local classifieds hub—Backpage Holland—which organizes verified personal ads, shares practical safety tips, and lets you arrange real-life meetups without slogging through spammy swipe apps.
For a raw look at how this conversation can strain a marriage, I divorced a porn addict—my honest take is worth a read.
Pros and cons of “it isn’t real”
Pros:
- Less shame. I could breathe and start.
- Focus on behavior, not identity. Helpful.
Cons:
- Easy to use as a pass. I did, for a bit.
- My partner felt brushed off when I quoted articles at her.
- I delayed getting help because the label debate became a stall.
A tiny digression (that still fits)
I saw the same pattern with late-night snacks and endless email refresh. Different doors, same hallway. My brain chased “new.” When I made “new” harder to reach, life got calmer. Not perfect. Calmer.
So, what’s my verdict?
“Porn addiction isn’t real” gets a 3 out of 5 from me. It can lower shame. That’s good. But it can also blur the harm. If your sleep, work, or trust is getting chewed up, call it what you want—just treat it like a real problem.
My simple rule now: if it hurts my life, I give it a plan. Labels can argue in the hallway. My habits ride home with me.
And hey, if you’re in it, you’re not alone. Make one small change tonight. Put the phone in the kitchen. Set a timer. Text a friend a single emoji. Not forever. Just for today.
Honestly, that was enough to get me moving.