Porn Is Not the Problem—Pain Is
Confessions of a Man Who Tried to Die Just to Feel Free
As a person who has struggled with porn for over 30 years, I'm here to say that porn is not the problem; it's the pain.
I came out of my mother's womb into this world broken world.
Shattered by trauma.
My heart and soul were in pain.
No, not pain.
It wasn't pain. It was absence. The feeling that something sacred had been lost.
My journey with porn began when I was 5 years old.
It was at that time my sacredness as an innocent child was lost.
Porn was the siren to me lost at sea of neglect.
Tempting me with its pixelated screens.
When I was a child, I was in a lot of pain.
I had countless surgeries done on my ears, nose, and throat.
It seemed impossible to articulate my thoughts as a kid because I couldn't hear or speak well.
I didn't have many friends, and as I grew older, I gained weight and became isolated.
Porn was my savior to my pain.
My parents did their best to protect me and help me through my childhood.
And I wished they were more affirming and strict in their discipline.
I don't blame them; I blame our fallen world and, ultimately, even though I can't see it, satan.
The question is, why now?
Why is it that you finally broke the addiction, and how come you depended on it for so long?
Honestly, that's a great question.
As I was writing this and sharing how long I have been chained to this addiction, 30 years seems like a long time.
I'm 34 now, and my recovery started when I was 32, but the decision to walk away and start a new life happened when I was 30.
The reason why I wanted to kill myself was not only because I was symptomatic of my condition, bipolar, but at the core, I wanted to escape this life of hypocrisy.
I hated the fact that I would go to church and act like my life was put together, and then I would masturbate and look at porn after church service.
How could I call myself a Christian when I practice lusting all the time?
Didn't Jesus say that whoever lusts in his heart commits adultery?
I was my own worst enemy; I kept reverberating the pain in my heart and condemning myself.
But here's what I didn't understand back then:
Condemnation doesn't heal. It only deepens the wound.
I thought guilt would purify me. That if I punished myself enough, I'd finally change.
But God wasn't asking for punishment—He was offering presence.
You see, Jesus didn't come for the perfect. He came for the addicted.
The ashamed, the angry, the ones who can't stop going back to the same well, hoping it'll finally satisfy the thirst that's been there since childhood.
And somewhere in my brokenness, God whispered:
"You are not what you've done. You are who I've called you to be."
That whisper didn't come with thunder or fire.
It came in the quiet moments, like when Elijah was at his lowest.
It came after I survived my attempt to end my life.
It came after two months in the hospital when my body began to heal—but more importantly, my heart began to listen.
I realized something I had never entirely accepted before:
Porn was never the root. It was the numbing agent.
The real issue was the unspoken ache. The absence. The wound from years of emotional disconnection, spiritual confusion, and unprocessed grief.
So I made a decision. Not a perfect one, not a once-and-for-all kind of vow—but a real one:
To walk toward wholeness.
To let go of the illusion that porn could ever make me feel alive.
To believe that I am more than the struggle. That God still sees me as His.
Even if I walked a thousand miles away from Him, He never left.
Now I write—not because I've arrived, but because I've returned.
Returned to the truth.
Returned to the path.
Returned to the whisper.
If you're reading this and feel like there's no way out, let me tell you—there is.
It starts with honesty. It continues with grace.
And it leads to freedom that isn't based on your perfection, but on God's relentless love.
As a final note, I genuinely believe it is because of God that has allowed me not to practice porn like I used to.
You may be wondering, but Barnaby, weren't you a Christian for most of your life?
The way I reconcile my decisions and my heart when it comes to this addiction is that I was born a child of God.
He was my Father, allowing me wisdom and a good life.
I chose to fester in the muck of my sin throughout the years, and it led to a point where I wanted to kill myself.
Yet, my Father was there with open arms as I returned to Him.
It's a classic tale of the prodigal son.
We are all like the son, but God is there waiting for us to return home.
So, let's end this post with a prayer.
A Prayer for the Man in the Struggle
Father God,
I come to You, not as someone who has it all together,
but as someone who has been wounded, tempted, ashamed, and afraid.
You know the weight I've carried—the cycles I couldn't break on my own.
You saw me at five years old. You saw me in the hospital. You see me now.
Thank You for never turning Your face away.
Thank You for whispering truth when all I could hear was condemnation.
Thank You for calling me son, even when I felt like a fraud.
I give You the shame I've carried. I give You the secrets I've buried.
I surrender the fake strength—and ask for real healing.
Show me how to walk in freedom.
Teach me how to be whole again.
Remind me, again and again, that I am not beyond Your reach.
That I am not what I've done—but who You say I am.
Give me the courage to step forward.
Give me the strength to stay when it gets hard.
And give me the grace to believe that wholeness is still possible.
In Jesus' name,
Amen.