When Sex Becomes a Survival Strategy and Understanding Hypersexuality After Trauma
- Brainz Magazine
- May 29, 2025
- 4 min read
Written by Kellie Sheldon, Trauma and Sex Counsellor
Kellie Sheldon specialises in helping clients overcome childhood and complex trauma, as well as sexual difficulties, to find their voices. Using human connection and evidence-based frameworks like EMDR, she boldly addresses the shame and stigma around trauma and sex, promoting healing and empowerment in her practice.
You’ve been called intense, needy, or too much. You’ve used sex to feel powerful, to feel wanted, or just to feel something. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it leaves you hollow. And then the shame hits hard.
Hyper-sexuality isn’t talked about enough, especially not in a way that makes people feel seen instead of diagnosed. We talk about low libido, avoidance, and shutdown. But what about the other response? The one that chases closeness to avoid feeling empty? The one that reaches for sex because it’s the only time your body doesn’t feel like the enemy?
This is for the people who aren’t “numb,” but feel like sex is running the show, even when they don’t want it to. And while I often write for women, this isn’t only a woman’s experience. Anyone with a nervous system and a trauma history can find themselves here. Hypersexuality is a Trauma Response, not a lifestyle choice.
If you’ve lived through trauma, especially sexual trauma, your body might reach for sex not because it feels safe, but because it feels familiar.
Some people freeze. Some avoid all intimacy, and some - maybe you - lean into sex in ways that feel urgent, overwhelming, or completely out of sync with what you actually want.
That’s still dysregulation. It’s not desire, even though it wears the same costume. “I Don’t Even Know If I Like It. I Just Keep Saying Yes.”
This is the part nobody wants to say out loud. Sometimes, you’re not craving sex, you’re craving relief. You want to escape anxiety, shame, numbness, or loneliness. Sex gives you a window, however brief, where you feel something else.
That doesn’t make you broken, manipulative, or dysfunctional. It means your nervous system is doing exactly what it was wired to do: find the quickest way to safety, even if that safety costs you afterwards.
What it can look like
Saying yes when your whole body is screaming no
Feeling turned on by danger or disconnection
Using sex to self-soothe or punish yourself
Feeling checked out during sex but continuing anyway
Believing sex is the only thing you have to offer
Chasing the high and feeling nothing once you get it
If reading that makes your stomach sink, that isn’t shame, that’s your body asking for something else. It's the Belief Underneath It
Beneath all of it, the urgency, the numbness, the compulsive yes, there’s often something more painful.
A belief like
“This is all I’m good for.”
“My body is the only thing people want from me.”
“If I stop offering sex, they’ll leave.”
This is where coping becomes identity. You’re not just using sex to survive. You’ve been taught that sex is who you are. That attention, care, and even love must be earned with your body.
That belief was learned, often early and it can be unlearned, slowly, gently, and without shame. This Isn’t About Being “Too Sexual”. This isn’t about repressing desire.
It’s about telling the truth: there’s a difference between wanting sex and needing sex to survive.
You can be deeply erotic, curious, playful, even wild, and still carry this pattern. Survival and sexuality can both live in the same body, but they don’t feel the same. One grounds you, the other empties you.
The quiet moment when it stops working
The turning point rarely comes like a movie scene. It’s quiet. Uncomfortable. Familiar.
“I felt gross afterwards.”
“I cried in the shower but still went back.”
“It’s the only time I feel alive and that scares me.”
They know it’s not working. They just don’t know what to do instead and that’s not failure. That’s unmet need.
What healing might look like
Healing doesn’t mean avoiding sex. It doesn’t mean becoming celibate or rejecting desire. It means finally asking yourself, with care: “Do I really want this or do I just not know how to sit with myself right now?”
It might look like
Noticing what triggers the urge
Getting curious about your erotic self, without performance
Practising consent with yourself before you practice it with others
Learning how to sit in discomfort without fleeing into sex
Finding pleasure that feels chosen, not automatic
If this feels familiar
I know it feels like you are broken. You are not dramatic. You are not attention-seeking. And you are not out of control. You are someone whose body learned to survive through closeness, even when that closeness hurt. You’ve used sex like armour, like escape, like currency. And that made sense. It was never a weakness.
But it doesn’t have to stay this way. There is nothing wrong with wanting sex.
But you’re also allowed to want stillness. Slowness. Safety. Space. You don’t have to earn closeness with your body. You don’t have to leave yourself behind just to feel loved. You get to choose what sex means from here on out.
You’re allowed to pause. To ask. To take it slower next time. That counts as healing too.
Read more from Kellie Sheldon
Kellie Sheldon, Trauma and Sex Counsellor
Kellie Sheldon specilises in helping her clients move through childhood, complex trauma, and sexual difficulties to find their voices. She uses psychodynamic (exploration of childhood), the body, emotions, and memories to remove the shame and stigma that is often found around complex trauma and sexualities.
Her university education, as well as practice-based evidence, has led Kellie on a mission to work with clients in a unique way that empowers her clients to find their lost voices and build a life of joy and resilience. Her bold methods of working attract those who are tired of living in the shadows.
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