The Truth. Neil Strauss

of my past comes rushing back. I’m a teenager lying in bed, imagining what my life will be like in the future. It’s always the same scene:

      My brother is living in a large suburban house with a big green lawn and a beautiful blond wife. I visit and ask if I can stay for a while because I have nowhere else to go. My clothes are dirty and wrinkled, and my face is unshaven. I crash on his couch, emitting a funny smell and watching TV, until one day his perfectly put-together wife asks him, as politely as can be, “Is your brother ever going to get a job? He can’t stay on this couch forever.”

      And now, two decades later, I actually manage to achieve the happy life I never thought possible—a home, a job, a girlfriend oddly similar to the wife I imagined my brother with—and I wreck it. It’s as if the prediction didn’t come true, so I willed it to be. I fucked it to life.

      “What are you thinking about?” Ingrid asks.

      “I’m just happy you’re here.”

      There’s an energy between us. It’s a stronger feeling than I get with anyone else, like the pull of two magnets held just slightly apart. “What’s in your hand?” she asks.

      “It’s my timeline. I want to explain it to you, so you can know who I am.”

      We walk to the lawn and sit in the grass near where the men’s circle was. It’s just below the patient lounge and I notice the sex addicts clustered along the outdoor benches above. They also seem taken in by Ingrid’s magnetism. I wonder if they’re thinking of being with their wives or of cheating on their wives.

      Ingrid listens closely as I walk her through each event on my timeline. But when I reveal the punch line—emotional incest—she strains to understand. “How is that incest?”

      “I know. I hate the term. Everything is diagnosed as some sort of crippling psychological disorder here.” It feels so good to be talking with her, sharing with her, smelling her again that, despite the subject matter, I’m giddy with happiness. “But this is what pertains to us: They say here that if you tell them what kind of relationship you had with your opposite-sex parent as a child, they can tell you what kind of romantic relationship you’re going to have as an adult. Unless you’re gay, in which case it would be the same-sex parent.”

      “I don’t know. That sounds oversimplified.”

      “Maybe it is. I have no idea what’s true anymore.” Ever since presenting my timeline, my head’s been a mess. So I explain to Ingrid what I’ve learned since that afternoon …

      They say here that there are three ways of raising children. The first is functional bonding, in which the parents or primary caregivers love, nurture, affirm, set healthy limits with, and take care of the needs of the child. I turn over my timeline and sketch it for her:

      This creates a child who has healthy, secure self-esteem and relationships.

      But then there’s neglect, when a caregiver abandons, is detached from, or doesn’t appropriately nurture the child. This can range from a parent who isn’t physically present, to a parent who is physically present but emotionally distant, to a parent who doesn’t provide adequate care or safety, to a parent lost in a work, sex, gambling, alcohol, or other addiction. If you grew up feeling unwanted by or unimportant to a parent, this is a sign that neglect likely occurred:

      This creates wounded children, who are often depressed and indecisive, see themselves as flawed and less valuable than others, and feel they can’t face the world alone. In relationships, they tend to have what’s called anxious attachment. They may feel like they’re not enough for their partners; become so wrapped up in their relationships that they lose sight of their own needs and self-worth; and be emotionally intense, passive-aggressive, or in need of constant reassurance that they’re not being abandoned. Here, they call this type of person a love addict.

      As Ingrid listens intently, I look for any recognition in her eyes. After all, she was abandoned by her father throughout her childhood, even before he tried to kill her mother and narrowly escaped her uncles. When I see none, I move on to explain the third type of parenting: enmeshment. This is my upbringing.

      Instead of taking care of a child’s needs, the enmeshing parent tries to get his or her own needs met through the child. This can take various forms: a parent who lives through a child’s accomplishments; who makes the child a surrogate spouse, therapist, or caretaker; who is depressed and emotionally uses the child; who is overbearing or overcontrolling; or who is excessively emotional or anxious about a child. If you grew up feeling sorry for or smothered by a parent, this is a sign that enmeshment likely occurred:

      In the process, enmeshed children lose their sense of self. As adults, they usually avoid letting anyone get too close and suck the life out of them again. Where the abandoned are often unable to contain their feelings, the enmeshed tend to be cut off from them, and be perfectionistic and controlling of themselves and others. Though they may pursue a relationship thinking they want connection, once they’re in the reality of one, they often put up walls, feel superior, and use other distancing techniques to avoid intimacy. This is known as avoidant attachment—or, as they put it here, love avoidance. And most sex addicts, according to this theory, are love avoidants.

      I tell Ingrid that I asked if there was a fourth category for physically or sexually abusive parenting, but was told that this could register on a child as either neglectful or enmeshing. They explained that a rule of thumb to use is that when a parent’s abuse disempowers a child, that’s neglect; when it’s falsely empowering, that’s enmeshment.

      Ingrid blinks back tears, places her rock-paper-scissors-playing hand warmly over mine, and says, “I would give up anything to see you healed and free of the enmeshment that’s keeping you from living.”

      In the past, I would have thought this was the most beautiful thing in the world to say. Now, instead, I worry that wanting to give up “anything” for someone else’s happiness is a dysfunctional symptom of love addiction and codependence. Then I worry that being scared by her selfless caring is a symptom of my own love avoidance. They’re really screwing up my mind in here.

      “I’m working hard on it,” I tell her. Wait, that’s not completely true. “Some of the stuff here is a little too over-the-top for me, though.” That’s better.

      “I think this is going to be the best thing that ever happened to you,” she responds. And for the first time since I cheated on her, I see the light return to her eyes.

      “Do you really think so?”

      “I know it. I’ve never told you this, but I was in rehab for two years.”

      “So all you really want in a relationship is freedom?” Ingrid asks as we walk to the cafeteria for dinner later that day.

      “Yeah, I think so.”

      “I’d like to give you more freedom, then.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes, starting now.” She grabs my jeans playfully and starts pulling them down. “This is what freedom feels like!” An impish smile, which I’ve sorely missed, spreads across her face. “Why don’t you show everyone here your freedom?” she mocks, pulling next at my boxer shorts.

      I yank the waistband up to keep from exposing myself: If Joan saw this, she’d probably add compulsive exhibitionist to my permanent record. But Ingrid keeps fighting to remove my clothing, yelling “Freedom!” at the top of her lungs.

      We walk into the cafeteria, grinning ear to ear. She’s making a joke out of the issue all us red demons