Birth caused my porn addiction
Singer Will Young has revealed he became addicted to porn and saw a shaman to conquer trauma.
The Leave Right Now star, 38, claimed that reading self-help books helped him discover the source of his trauma – his birth.
He said: “I read these things very quickly and it was, like, ‘Oh, I get it.’”
“That’s why I watch a lot of porn. I’m a porn addict’.
“I didn’t real ise that. That’s what goes on with the love (addiction) thing. Didn’t realise that either.”
Young was born 10 minutes before his twin, who had pneumonia and was put in an incubator.
The star said: “I think that created a nervous system that was on edge, and understandably so.
“Trauma lies beneath 99.9 per cent of addictions.”
Discussing his spiritual journey, the former Strictly Come Dancing contestant said: “I heard about her and thought, ‘ I’ll give it a go.’
“I don’t talk about what happens in the shamanic process because it goes beyond words.”
Young also denied he quit Strictly because of a row with Len Goodman, then the head judge of the BBC show.
He said: “It was important for me to leave Strictly for my own wellbeing.
“It was a number of things. It was nothing to do with the people on the show, and it wasn’t because Len dissed my salsa. I mean, come on.
“Because of the stuff that was going on personally, I wasn’t enjoying dancing.”
Because what can you say about something like Manchester? What can I add this Sunday to the thousands of articles that have been written about the atrocity since Monday?
Beyond the obvious – expressing your fullest sympathy for those who lost loved ones and saying that you hope the killer burns in hell – what is there to say?
Some of you probably can’t even face reading another word on the subject and would welcome some light relief. But to ignore it feels churlish at best.
I have spent the week with the same kind of thoughts in my head that I am sure many of you have been entertaining.
I have been remembering taking my little sister to her first concert – The Smiths at the Magnum Centre in Irvine in 1985, when she was 11 – and imagining that evening ending not as it did, with us walking all the way home singing and laughing, but ending differently, with one of us bent over the other’s ruined body on the cement floor of the arena.
I have been imagining taking my eight-year-old daughter to her first concert and the evening ending not in the taxi or the train but in the ambulance, in the hospital, in the mortuary.
And then you realise that imagining these things is nothing, zero, compared to the vortex of real grief being suffered by the relatives of those murdered in Manchester. So you stop, feeling ashamed of yourself.