The Truth. Neil Strauss

      After dinner, I walk across the grounds to the art room to work on my timeline. I’m supposed to present the story of my life from birth to age eighteen, which Joan doubtless plans to use to pathologize me as a sex addict and troublemaker. And if that’s the truth, so be it. I’ll give her everything she needs.

      I grab a long sheet of butcher paper and a black marker. Then I read a handout with instructions. I’m supposed to write my family message along the top of the butcher paper; words describing the different members of my family down the sides; and, along the bottom, a list of my family rules, my most prevalent feeling growing up, and the role I played in my family system.

      Then I’m supposed to draw a long horizontal line from one side of the paper to the other, and to write positive memories above it and negative memories below it in chronological order.

      Carrie sits two chairs away from me working on her own timeline, her nipples practically jutting through her shirt. “How’s it going, Neilio?” she asks with a friendly smile.

      I show her the slip of paper in my badge and trace a fake tear out of my eye. She pretends to catch it and put it in her pocket. This feels a lot like flirting.

      I turn away instantly, exercising too little self-control too late. Next to me, a large-jawed, broad-faced man in a white T-shirt and jeans is working feverishly with a charcoal pencil. He looks like he could play the romantic lead in a Hollywood film, except for his forehead and his posture. The former is deeply furrowed, as if his brain is in pain; the latter is rigid, almost bristling, as if the slightest touch will send him into a fit of tears or violence or both.

      I look at his drawing. It’s a very detailed rendering of a demonic, childlike face behind bars. And it’s beautifully done—good enough to sell to Goth kids. He notices me admiring it and I avert my eyes. Too late.

      “Have you heard the story about the kid who wanders into the forest and gets captured by a witch?” he asks, his voice monotone.

      “Hansel and Gretel?”

      “No, this kid was bound with a golden cord. And when he got free and told people, no one believed him.”

      “I don’t think I know it, but …”

      “That’s me,” he says laconically, pointing to the creepy child face. “The bars are what separate me from everyone else. And no one can see through them to the monster I’m hiding inside.”

      His tag is purple for post-traumatic stress disorder. His name is Henry. It’s clear someone did something horrible to Henry—probably repeatedly—and no one believed him when he sought help.

      Henry says he runs a furniture-manufacturing company. As we discuss our lives, I’m aware that Carrie is nearby, listening to every word. And although I’m speaking to Henry, I’m also talking for her benefit. I’m following the rules but missing the point.

      “Guys don’t shoot themselves in the heart,” Henry is telling me. “They shoot themselves in the head because they’re trying to shut their brain up.”

      I try to focus on my timeline. I write a few words describing how I saw my mother when I was a child, then a few words about my father.

       MOTHER

      Punishing

      Strict

      Secretive

      Complaining

      Suffering

       FATHER

      Distant

      Unemotional

      Selfish

      Temperamental

      Alone

      As I review the list, I realize that my family fits neatly into the sex addict mold that Lorraine taught us: Mother is strict and punishing (i.e., rigid) and father is distant and unemotional (i.e., disengaged).

      I press on, writing down my most prevalent feeling growing up (“misunderstood”) and my family role (“the black sheep”). Next I’m supposed to list my family rules.

      And that’s when I get stuck. Not because I can’t think of any rules, but because there were so many of them. Too many rules to think about right now.

      I feel a rush of anxiety and decide to postpone this part of the assignment. In the meantime, I start filling in the timeline with childhood memories that had a strong impact or imprint. Until I explored my father’s closet, I never thought of my childhood as particularly bad or unusual. Although my parents were strict and at times eccentric, they loved me and provided for me. But as I start unpacking my memories, a small black cloud drifts into the idyllic picture.

      I remember that some days my mother told me never to be like my father; but other times, when she was mad at me, she’d say I was just like my dad. And this was a man she apparently hated. She complained about the way he smelled, the way he slouched, the way he chewed his food, even the way he put his hands in his pockets. She’d call him temperamental, selfish, awkward, embarrassing, and a loser with no friends.

      Suddenly, I notice that her constant admonishments that I’m just like my father are not only the root of my self-esteem problems, but that every word I used on the timeline to describe him was a word I’ve also used to describe my negative qualities: distant, unemotional, selfish, temperamental, alone.

      For a moment everything in the room goes silent, and I feel an old wound begin to tear open. I shake it off and try to focus my attention elsewhere, like on Carrie.

      “I’m running a meeting tonight for incest and rape survivors, if you want to come,” a monotone voice tells my ear. It’s Henry. And suddenly my tiny black cloud seems like a small white wisp compared to big-T Trauma.

      “Okay.” Anything to avoid having to think about this stuff.

      As I put away my supplies and prepare to walk out with Henry, Carrie writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

      I read it instantly: “When I’m in L.A., we have to hang out.”

      I nod yes. And then I realize: