off and on that night. The phone rang around 2 a.m. The caller was Sally, one of Ben’s therapists from Menninger. She said Ben had called her and told her what he had disclosed to me over the phone. Everyone at Menninger had asked him not to do that over the phone. She said she was sorry he had. They wanted him to wait until I was there with him.
“How are you feeling?” Sally asked.
“How do you think I am feeling?” I said, my voice was flat and emotionless.
She started to give me some pat therapy jargon—bullshit—and I cut her off.
“I can’t go into this right now,” I said. “I have two small children sleeping beside me.”
She suggested I call Menninger first thing in the morning to plan an immediate trip to Kansas, so I could meet with Ben and his doctor. Then Ben’s therapist said something I’ll never forget, something I now say to other people in crisis.
“We certainly understand if you don’t want to deal with this and just decide to divorce Ben immediately,” she said. “A lot of people do that. However, if at all possible, I would encourage you not to make such a major, life-changing decision when you are in the midst of such severe emotional distress. If at all possible, Maurita, come out here, learn about your husband’s addiction, take the time to work through some of your extreme emotions before you decide what to do with your marriage.”
It was one of the most important things anyone had every said to me in my life. It made sense.
This next journal entry is what I wrote after my husband’s disclosure. It reflects the first few days of me trying to wrap my brain around what I had just found out about Ben and his double life.
August 8, 1997
…Had a good day today blocking everything out until about 5 p.m. What I found out about B’s behavior before and during our entire relationship and marriage is just too much to take in at once. After finding out two nights earlier about all his sick fucking fucks—all the hundreds of lies and manipulations—my whole married life to this point has been a fraud and a hideous joke. I just can’t take it all in at once, because it is too much for me to bear. I hate him. I want him to feel what it is like to give so much of yourself to someone and have it mean nothing. I am going out on Tuesday to meet with his main therapist Sally (what a weird voice she has) and some guy named Dr. Richard Irons to learn more about his “fucking disease.” I am filled with fear, rage, and hopelessness. I have to accept the fact that I allowed a stupid, selfish pig of a male (he does not deserve to be called a man) walk all over me and humiliate me in public and private. He didn’t protect my beautiful kids or me. I will now call them “my kids” because the selfish pig doesn’t deserve them. I hate him.
I flew out to Kansas a few days later. Since my husband’s disclosure, I had the feeling of living in a continuous nightmare, except I was walking around and functioning like a regular human being. I felt like a freak, a fraud, someone who was no longer of this earth. Every moment of my life became drenched with indecision and self-doubt.
At the rental car counter in Topeka, for example, the attendant asked me an innocent, benign question.
“Is this business or pleasure?” he asked.
I thought to myself, How could I possibly answer what this trip is for, what this means for my life, my children’s lives? Nothing about my life felt normal anymore and wouldn’t for years to come.
During the drive to the hotel where Ben was staying, my heart was pounding. He was allowed to live off the grounds of the treatment center after it was determined he was clean and sober and not a danger to himself. I honestly didn’t know how I would react to seeing him for the first time.
Suddenly, I found myself caught in a horrible, dark thunder and lightning storm. The storm grew so dangerous so quickly that I had to pull off the interstate under a bridge and sit out the torrential downpour. I leaned over and rested my forehead on the steering wheel and cried my eyes out.
Grief and fear of the unknown became my new, constant companions.
I eventually arrived at his motel and went up to his room and knocked on the door. The rain was down to a drizzle as he opened the door. We just looked at each other for a moment and then we hugged each other. I cried and he wept. We didn’t really talk much that first night—we were like strangers and very careful with what we said to each other.
The next day I met with Ben’s treatment team. He had a main physician, Dr. Richard Irons, plus a couple of different therapists who specialized in different areas of treatment. I’d been told to wear long pants and shirts with long sleeves that did not reveal much skin. They wanted Ben to be in a zero stimulation environment.
We sat down in Dr. Irons’ office along with his primary therapist, Sally. Ben was sitting beside me—a big gap between us, drinking a cup of coffee and staring down at the floor. Dr. Irons and Sally sat directly in front of me.
Before going to Menninger I had already decided that if he had not raped anyone or touched a child in an inappropriate way, I would at least stay with him until he completed any suggested in-patient treatment. Now, here I sat listening to an introductory course on sex addiction and how it relates to men in general and Ben specifically.
Ben buried his face in his hands. Every once and a while, I looked over at him and his face was gray with anguish at what was being said. The truth about how he had been living his life was finally out in the light of day.
At Sally and Dr. Iron’s urging, I asked Ben a couple of questions.
“Ben,” I said slowly, “have you ever raped anyone?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“Have you ever molested anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever inappropriately touched a child?” Then, I
asked, “Our children?”
The gravity of that question hit my husband hard. He looked over at me, horrified, that I would even think to ask that and said, “No, absolutely not.”
After a few moments , I looked at Dr. Irons.
“OK, Dr. Irons, I will stay and hear what he has to say.”
“Thank you, Maurita,” Dr. Irons said.
Because of Ben’s fear of my reaction and extreme shame in telling me about his double life, he could barely look me in the eye. It was Dr. Irons who summarized the bulk of Ben’s sexual behavior and told it to me in a professional yet “matter of fact” way. Because of Dr. Iron’s demeanor, I was strangely calm as we began the session. Still, there was no softening the meaning behind the words.
“Ben has had, over the course of your relationship and marriage, over a hundred extramarital sexual encounters,” explained Dr. Irons. “Some men in their addiction have to take on higher levels of risk to receive the desired feelings of reward. They build up a tolerance, if you will. Ben was always after the next high, the next thrill. The thrill of taboo sex, like prostitutes and strippers, was a tremendous high for him. Both of you will need to undergo HIV tests every three months to permanently rule out infection.”
I was horrified. I immediately thought I had AIDS. It would eventually take me almost ten months to get tested, I was so afraid. I thought people would say, “Why is Ben’s wife coming in for blood work? He must have cheated on her.” I was mortified. My mouth was too dry to verbalize it right then, but I think my face went a shade lighter as Dr. Irons continued to speak.
I thought, What about the kids? Do we have to get the kids tested, too?
Dr. Irons continued to divulge some of the scattered and sordid details of Ben’s sexual compulsions. Ben’s conscious exploits manifested during his time in Grenada at medical school. There seemed to be a forever steady infusion of tourists going to the islands who enjoyed several drinks along with anonymous vacation sex.