Sex Addict or Low Libido, Could It Be Due To Your Trauma From Sexual Assault and Rape?

*This is the script of the above audio journal found in my YouTube channel

Sexual assault and rape. As someone who talks openly about difficult topics, I’ve had the privilege of people sharing their stories with me—things they rarely discuss. Among the stories I’ve been entrusted with, there’s a particularly heavy theme I want to explore here: the lasting effects of sexual assault and rape on a person’s relationship with sex and intimacy.

First, let’s talk about these terms. Generally speaking, non-consensual sexual intercourse is referred to as “rape,” while any unwanted sexual contact falls under “sexual assault.” But over the years, I’ve noticed that even using the word “rape” seems to provoke a different reaction in people. There’s a weight to that word—an intensity that makes people uncomfortable in ways “sexual assault” doesn’t.

I’ve even had people ask me to say “sexual assault” instead, saying that “rape” feels too disturbing, too raw. But words matter. If we can’t talk about rape openly, we’re adding to a culture of silence and avoidance. This discomfort, I think, reflects how deeply conditioned we are to shy away from confronting the reality of it. Society often finds comfort in softer terminology, which creates a barrier, distancing survivors from feeling like they can share their stories openly. It’s as if “sexual assault” allows us to acknowledge what happened without facing the full gravity of it, while “rape” brings everything into harsh focus, almost demanding a response.

And when society hesitates to engage fully, it sets a tone. That tone can make survivors feel even more isolated, as if their experiences are somehow too much to handle. This resistance to confronting reality only deepens the silence around these traumas, and it’s why I think we need more open, honest language.

Creating a space where survivors feel heard and seen, without judgement or discomfort, is crucial. By being direct and honest, we take steps toward breaking down the barriers that keep survivors from speaking up. It’s about creating an environment where healing and understanding can take root, instead of silence and shame.

As someone who’s been trusted with these stories, I can say that sexual trauma affects far too many people. Many of the cases I’ve heard about were not from strangers or random encounters but involved someone the victim knew—a babysitter, a relative, someone close. When I hear these stories, I’m reminded of how deeply this trauma lodges itself within us.

Did you know that trauma, even when it’s not in our immediate memory, gets stored within us? Our bodies hold onto these memories, even when our conscious minds might block them out. Survivors, including myself, often find that trauma like this lingers long into life, affecting relationships and how we experience intimacy.

This impact on sexual intimacy in romantic relationships is something I’ve heard from every single survivor who has shared their story with me. It’s not always obvious. Some might appear as if they have a high libido, engaging in casual sex frequently, which might look like “sex addiction” from the outside. Others, myself included, might feel little interest in sexual intimacy, seeing it as less important or even as something to be avoided.

So, why do some survivors seek casual encounters? What’s going on beneath the surface? Could it be that, in some way, they’re trying to regain control after an experience where they had none? Could choosing casual sex be a way of reasserting ownership over their bodies—a way of saying, “This time, I decide”?

And when these encounters lack vulnerability or attachment, perhaps this distance offers a sense of security. It could be a way of self-protecting, of keeping things safe without risking the vulnerability that comes with deeper intimacy. Or, it might be a form of distraction—a way of avoiding the deeper emotional pain they aren’t ready to face.

Others, though, take a different path, one of low libido and limited intimacy. This isn’t just a choice but a response to trauma, a way of coping that doesn’t involve constant encounters but rather keeps intimacy at a distance. Although these paths might look like opposites, they’re both deeply shaped by trauma, each response reflecting a unique way of coping.

And this is where it becomes personal. I know these patterns because I’ve seen them in myself, too. Often, this discomfort with intimacy doesn’t even appear until later in a relationship. In the early, exciting stages, the honeymoon phase, everything might feel fine. But when that rush fades and a relationship becomes more stable, that’s when the subconscious patterns kick in, like a “comfort behaviour” that’s been there all along.

It’s like unbuckling your jeans after a long day and finally relaxing into your “at-home” self. Once you’re in that space of comfort, these deeply rooted patterns can start to surface. For many survivors, sexual intimacy feels like something they need to guard or protect, not something that’s freely given.

And there’s the added layer of shame, a weight many survivors carry. Trauma can leave a lingering sense of shame that twists our relationship with intimacy. It’s as if our brains have rewired to see intimacy as something to avoid, something dangerous. And when survivors do feel desire, they might bury it deep down, choosing distraction over action, because that shame pushes them to hide from what feels vulnerable.

Now, some might wonder how I even feel comfortable asking these questions, especially when people aren’t always aware of these connections in themselves. But that’s where my own journey has made a difference. I’ve become aware of these patterns in myself, and I think that’s why these conversations come naturally to me. It’s only by becoming conscious of our own experiences that we’re able to truly understand and support others. I really believe the depth of our understanding—the work we do on ourselves—is what allows us to help others turn their own trauma into strength.

These questions, these reflections—they’re not definitive answers. But if we truly opened up these conversations, could we finally shatter the silence that keeps so many survivors isolated, and make room for them to be seen without fear or judgement?