done,” Joan says. Then she turns to Troy, her voice saccharine sweet: “Now you need to respond using the communication boundary.”
I look around and see Calvin drifting off again, no doubt fantasizing about Carrie. I see Adam sitting next to him, probably wondering how to convince his wife he’s been cured. And I see Santa Claus retreating further into his mental hell, desperate for attention and advice. No one’s problems are being dealt with. They’re going to leave rehab the same as they walked in, just with more guilt and an awkward way of communicating. I can’t take it anymore.
My voice cracks as I open my mouth to speak for the first time, and the question spills out clumsily: “How is this helpful to us?”
“The way that we’re communicating in here is how people should be communicating with their spouses,” Joan responds coolly.
“And that’s going to stop them from sleeping with other women?”
It’s a serious question, but everyone laughs. Joan’s face trembles for a moment, as if nervous she’s about to lose control of the room. But then she regains her composure and answers, “You learn to love yourselves by learning to be relational with each other.” She emphasizes the word relational as if it’s a magical healing salve.
I don’t completely understand her answer, but it sounds like an important concept. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by ‘relational.’”
“Being relational is being in the moment—in the here and now—with someone else. Here’s a tool you can use: Your mind can only do two things at once. So if you can sit and feel your breath go in and out as you listen to someone else, you are in the moment, in action. And when you’re not in action, you’re not relational: You’re in reaction.”
Finally, she appears to be teaching us something relevant. “So you’re saying that if we’re relational with people, then we won’t want to cheat?”
She sizes me up for a second, trying to ascertain whether I’m a threat or not. It’s the first time she’s actually looked me in the eye. “What I’m saying is that if you have true intimacy with your partner, you won’t need to seek sex outside the relationship.”
She holds me in her gaze for a moment longer, then slowly scans the room. “This is the reason all of you ended up here. If you’re addicted to sex, you’re probably co-addicted to something else, like drugs or work or exercise, and this is because you’re afraid of intimacy and you’re afraid of your feelings.”
I’m trying to get something out of this. I really am. But the accusations and diagnoses fly around so quickly that it’s hard to accept them just on faith. You come in as an alcoholic or a sex addict, and you leave as an alcoholic codependent sex addict love avoidant with PTSD, OCD, and ADD. We’re all suffering from low self-esteem, so I don’t see how making us into walking DSMs helps.
Joan writes the words S.A.F.E. SEX on the blackboard. The acronym was devised by Patrick Carnes, she explains, and it means that sex must never be “secretive, abusive, a way to alter feelings, or empty of a committed intimate relationship.”
Before I can ask what’s wrong with casual, consensual sex, Joan announces that a counselor named Lorraine is going to speak to us after lunch about something called eroticized rage. Then she curtly dismisses us to eat.
“I kept this to myself, but there was more to my fantasy,” Calvin whispers as we rise to leave.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the picnic.”
In the hallway, Adam and Troy are waiting for me. “Hey, man, I like the way you stood up to Joan,” Troy says under his breath. “We all have those questions, and it’s cool that you’re asking them.”
“Thanks.” From the corner of my eye, I notice Charles speaking with Joan in the therapy room. I’m pretty sure he’s telling on me. Some folks live to say, “I told you so.”
“Don’t give in to her,” Troy encourages me as we head to the cafeteria. “She’s going to try to break you so you can be like Charles. But you have to stand up for us.”
“Why don’t you guys just speak up for yourselves?”
“You know, we just want to make it through to the end of the program.” He and Adam exchange glances. Troy is here because his wife caught him having an affair with an import model he met on a website for women seeking sugar daddies. “Joan, she doesn’t forget. And when our wives come for family week, we don’t need her making things any more difficult for us, if you know what I mean.”
I’ve heard other guys here mention family week like it’s the equivalent of an IRS audit, so I ask them about it. They explain that the program is divided by weeks here. In week one, you do your timeline; in week two, you go through a psychological head trip known as chair work; in week three, parents and wives visit so your therapist can help heal your family system; and in the final week, you design a recovery plan for when you leave.
For sex addicts, the family-week process includes something called disclosure, which requires coming clean with a partner about past affairs and transgressions. Ideally, once these final wounds heal, the couple can build a new relationship from a place of truth and intimacy. With a therapist who’s not tactful, though, or one who has a hidden agenda, disclosure can quickly turn into disaster—and the next time the addict sees his wife will be in court.
Los Angeles, Two Weeks Earlier
I haven’t been able to cry since this happened. I keep trying. My friends have cried for me, but I can’t. I gave him my heart and my soul and … everything.
This is the first time I’ve seen Ingrid since she said she never wanted to see me again. It took countless emails, flowers, and coaxing from mutual friends to bring her to couples therapy. And now that she’s here, I can see what I’ve done. She’s pale and emaciated. Her eyes stare ahead vacantly and her skin seems devoid of nerve endings, like a combat veteran with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Do you think you can trust him again?
I don’t trust him. I just don’t. I feel hopeless.
And it rips me apart to know that I was the traumatic stress.
Did you trust him before all this happened?
Yes, of course. I had 150 percent trust in him before. I thought our relationship was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was like I was on ecstasy every day. I was walking on a cloud.
And how did you feel, Neil?
I felt the same way.
Ingrid shakes her head slowly and a distant voice inside her replies.
That’s not possible. There must have been something wrong for you to do that.
There wasn’t, I swear. It had nothing to do with you. I just got … weak.
Ingrid, what would you need to even consider being in this relationship again?
I just need three things.
What are those?
Honesty, trust, and loyalty.
The therapist turns to me. I know what she’s going to ask. The only question I don’t want to answer.
Do you think you’re able to give her those things?
This is it: I must make a choice. The truth or the lie. Just one word either way. If I choose the truth, I risk losing her forever. If I choose the lie, I get to stay with her, but I continue living in deceit and risk hurting her again.
I start to speak. It’s hard to get the words out. It’s hard because I’ve opted for the