The Truth. Neil Strauss

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СКАЧАТЬ that?” I ask. Too many questions. I can tell they don’t like them here. But I’m just trying to understand. This isn’t how I thought things were supposed to go. When I visited rehab to see a rock guitarist I was writing a book with, it seemed like a cross between a country club and overnight camp.

      “We get a lot of people withdrawing and we want to make sure they’re going to be okay,” she explains. She listens to my pulse and lets me know my blood pressure is high.

      Of course it’s fucking high, I want to tell her. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life. You’re taking away all my shit and treating me like I’m going to die. Withdrawing from sex isn’t going to kill me.

      But I stay quiet. And I submit. Like a good cheater.

      She gives me a pager I’m supposed to wear at all times, in case they need me in the nursing station. Then she thrusts one form after another in front of me—patient rights, privacy, liability, and the rules. More fucking rules. One paragraph forbids me from having sex with any patient, nurse, or staff member. The next says that patients may not wear bikinis, tank tops, or shorts—and must wear bras at all times.

      “So I have to put on a bra?” I joke, futilely trying once more to show how stupid their rules are.

      “It’s kind of silly,” the nurse concedes, “but we have sex addicts in here.”

      The words escape from her mouth with scorn and fear, as if these sex addicts are not normal patients but creepy predators to beware of. And suddenly I realize that the alcoholics and junkies have nothing on me: They harm only their own bodies. I am after the bodies of others. I’m the worst of the worst. Other addicts can’t find drugs in rehab, but my temptation is here. It is everywhere. And anyone in flirting distance must remain vigilant, lest I prey on them.

      “Do you have any suicidal thoughts?” she asks.

      “No.”

      She clicks a box on the computer and a form appears titled Promise Not to Commit Suicide.

      She thrusts a small digital pad and a stylus toward me and asks me to sign the form.

      “What are you going to do if I kill myself? Kick me out for lying?”

      She says nothing, but I notice her dig the nail of her index finger into her thumb. I think I’m annoying her. It’s the questions. The fucking questions. They don’t like them here. It’s because questions are powerful: The right question can expose the flaws in the system.

      But I sign. And I submit. Like a good cheater.

      She looks over my file on the computer, sees something that evidently surprises her, then turns the monitor away from me and quickly types a few words. I’ve only been here twenty minutes, and on relatively good behavior considering, and I’m already in the doghouse. And that’s fine with me, because so far I hate the whole process. This is not about making me better. This is about covering their own asses from lawsuits, so they can tell the victim’s family, “Well, he promised us he wouldn’t hang himself. See, we have his signature right here, so it’s not our fault if he lied to us.”

      “Do you have any homicidal thoughts?” she asks.

      “No.” And in that moment, I have a homicidal thought. It’s like saying, “Don’t think of a pink elephant.”

      She moves to the next question. “What are you here for?”

      “Cheating.”

      She says nothing. I think about that word. It sounds lame. I’m in a fucking mental hospital because I couldn’t say no to a new sex partner. So I add the other reason I’m there: “And I guess to learn how to have a healthy relationship.”

      I think of Ingrid, whose heart I broke, whose friends threatened to kill me, who never did anything wrong but love me.

      The nurse looks up to face me. It is the first time she’s made eye contact. I see something soften. I’m no longer a pervert. I’ve said the magic R word: relationship.

      Her lips part and moisten; her whole demeanor is different now. She actually wants to help me. “Of course,” she says, “the first part of that is finding someone to date who’s healthy.”

      “I found that person,” I sigh. “She’s totally healthy. That’s what made me realize it’s just me.”

      She smiles sympathetically and continues looking through my intake folder. I ask her if she thinks I’m really an addict. “I’m not an addiction specialist,” she says. “But if you’re cheating on your relationship, if you’re visiting porn sites, or if you’re masturbating, that’s sex addiction.”

      She opens a drawer, removes a red square of paper, and writes my first name and last initial on it in black marker. Then she slips it into a small plastic sleeve and loops a long piece of white string through it. It’s the ugliest necklace I’ve ever seen.

      “You’re in red two,” she says. “You’re required to wear your badge at all times.”

      “What does red two mean?”

      “The tags are color coded. Red is for sex addicts. And the red two group is in therapy with”—she pauses and flashes a brief, uncomfortable smile—“Joan.”

      I can’t tell whether it’s fear or pity in her expression, but for some reason the name fills me with a crawling dread.

      She then picks up a large poster board from the floor and holds it on top of the desk, facing me. There are eight huge words on it:

      JOY

      PAIN

      LOVE

      ANGER

      PASSION

      FEAR

      GUILT

      SHAME

      “This is called a check-in,” she says. “You’ll be required to check in four times a day and report which emotions you’re feeling. Which ones are you experiencing right now?”

      I scan the display for crawling dread, for utter worthlessness, for total confusion, for intense regret, for rule-hating frustration, for the impulse to jump up and run away and change my name to Rex and move to New Zealand forever.

      “I can’t find my emotions on the list.”

      “These are the eight basic emotions,” she explains with practiced patience. “Every emotion belongs in one of these categories. So select the ones you feel the most right now.”

      I don’t get this. I feel like someone just made this shit up. It’s completely arbitrary. It makes me feel …

      “Anger.”

      She types it in my file. I am now officially institutionalized. I feel another emotion coming on.

      “What’s the difference between guilt and shame?” I ask.

      “Guilt is just about your behavior. Shame is about who you are.”

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