Tag: intimacy

Lying, Manipulating, and Sleeping Around: Sex Addiction and Recovery

I was fine labeling myself a hedonist, a kinkster, or a playboy, but to actually admit that I couldn’t control my destructive behavior took years, even decades.

With the exception of certain harm reduction models, when it comes to addiction, there isn’t much controversy around what constitutes sobriety. If you went to rehab 10 years ago because you couldn’t stop drinking alcohol or injecting heroin, you probably have a pretty solid idea of what sobriety looks like in your life. But if you went to treatment because of sexual addiction or sexual compulsion issues, recovery might feel a little different.

Almost all of us want some form of sexual satisfaction. When, if ever, does a sex addict move forward with their life and feel comfortable with themselves sexually again? Is that part of you gone forever?

Completely Out of Control

Years ago my life was completely out of control, all due to my sexual behavior. To say that I was sexually compulsive was an understatement. I knew my life was a disaster, but even so, it took me a long time to get help and to come to understand that I had a real problem. I was fine labeling myself a hedonist, a kinkster, or a playboy, but to actually admit that I couldn’t control my destructive behavior took years, even decades. I kept lying, manipulating, and sleeping around, all to give my brain enormous shots of dopamine, which of course was designed to keep me from noticing how miserable and anxious I was.

I was having numerous affairs, but they were never enough to satisfy me. My whole goal was to cheat on the person I was cheating on, then cheat on that person too. My entire life’s purpose was to either get laid or indulge my kinks, and I put a ton of effort into accomplishing this. I lost jobs and two marriages and went into financial ruin because of my sexual behavior, but to get off that ride of adrenaline and anxiety seemed impossible. I lied constantly and was deeply ashamed of who I truly was.

Soul Searching

Finally things got so incredibly awful that I went to rehab, twice in fact, because the first time didn’t quite take. The first time, I went to an outpatient clinic in Los Angeles for two weeks, where we hung out at night and ate sushi. Another time I spent a month in a gritty inpatient facility in Philadelphia.

At the time, it seemed impossible that I would change my behaviors, but with a lot of soul searching and some hard work, I did. It took a while. In fact, it took years. Going to rehab was just the beginning of my journey. I’d walked a long way into the woods and it took a long time to walk back out.

Now, I consider myself to be doing well. I rarely think of myself in terms of being an addict or sexually compulsive anymore. But what is long-term recovery for a long-term sex addict?

Dr. Rob Weiss is an expert at Seeking Integrity, which offers treatment for men struggling with sex addiction/intimacy disorders or co-occurring sex addiction and chemical dependency. He told me, “In early recovery, when it comes to sex addicts or people with intimacy disorders, the treatment is all focused on what negative things have happened in the addict’s life and how to avoid them happening again. But at a certain point, even if the addict struggles for a bit, many sex addicts get to a point where what has happened in the past isn’t ever going to occur again in their lives.”

That certainly has been my experience; I still struggle at times, I still have to watch myself and am still more than a little outside of the norm sexually.

But now, 12 or so years post-rehab, I am in a long-term relationship. We have sex, much of which indulges the same sort of thoughts that I used to be ashamed of. I’ve made amends with people I care about. I am even really good friends with one of my exes and hang out with her all the time.

Lying or Compartmentalizing

So am I cured? Not hardly, but I’m totally honest about who I am with pretty much all the people in my life, including those I am romantically involved with. More importantly, I’m actually honest with myself, and I like who I am.

The honesty piece matters, perhaps more than anything else. Dr. Weiss said, “At some point recovery isn’t about sobriety; it is about integrity. How honest you are in your relationships, how meaningful are your relationships, how connected are you to the people in your life? How much are you being completely honest? Are you doing anything that takes you out of integrity? Are you lying or compartmentalizing?”

If you’re sexually compulsive or an addict, you’re going to have to find a whole new way to look at and understand sex and all the things that surround it. This new outlook must exclude compulsive behavior and all your old destructive patterns. It isn’t the sex itself that’s the problem; it’s how the addict misuses it and turns it into something dangerous and compulsive.

Triggers and Compulsions

Your bottom line behavior is probably going to stay the same over time and there are certain things you used to do that you might need to stay away from forever. No matter who you are, you’ll have triggers and compulsions that you need to avoid. But not all sex addicts are created equal. Your triggers are going to be different from mine.

One of the biggest tools used in treatment for sex addiction is something called the three circles. You draw three circles: an inner circle, a middle circle, and an outer circle. Your inner circle is where you list everything you do when you’re acting out in your addiction—things you simply cannot do. For some, it might be porn or phone sex, but for others, those might not be problem issues. The base issues in my inner circle were lying, manipulating women, or having affairs. Those behaviors stay constant over time. If I do them, I am not being honest with myself or other people in my life, which is dangerous for me.

Your middle circle is filled with the actions and behaviors that might lead you to engaging in your inner circle issues. Then you have your outer circle; these are activities that help you have a productive and healthy life. These activities and behaviors are likely to change. Something that might have caused you to act out sexually ten years ago might not even be a blip on the radar today.

Practicing Honesty and Love

In my experience, the most important mindset for combating sexual addiction and compulsivity is honesty, loving yourself, and being okay with who you are. Once you stabilize your life and start being honest and true with yourself and those around you, you’re most of the way home.

Dr. Weiss agrees: “If I were working a program of sexual recovery and I was spending time with a prostitute, that would mean I wasn’t living with integrity. My goal is to not have anything in my life happen that I would be embarrassed about, or be ashamed about, and that the actions in my life are things I would be glad to tell anyone about and feel good about. No matter what those are.”

View the original article at thefix.com

30 July 2019
My Life with Phil

If anyone could relate to loneliness, abandonment, depression, it was Phil. We got each other.

If my cat could talk, he’d say “You’re so fucking crazy.” Also, feed me, asshole. And not that gluten and grain-free slimy shit. Meow Mix from the corner bodega, where you’ll often spend seven dollars on an activated charcoal latte paired with a fifty cent Camel Light loosie, which I judge your embarrassing fat ass for. You’re actually insane. I’ll kill you.

Phil, that’s his name, has tried to kill me before. He’s a very dramatic attention-seeker. Anxious, needy, moody. Damaged goods. I’ve got similar symptoms because, according to several psychiatrists, I’m bipolar II and, according to me, crazy. Phil’s been through a lot, and admittedly, I am partially to blame.

Oh, and Phil is a pyromaniac. Though I can be and have been terrible, I’m pretty sure I’ve never deserved to die via apartment fire—puking under the bed would’ve been more reasonable— but Phil takes his feline frustrations to the extreme.

The first time Phil turned the gas stove on, I thought, maybe his back paw had innocently hit the knob on his way up. But that was my brain on drugs. Despite being perpetually overweight, he’s not clumsy. He’s light on his feet; a decent ballerina in a past life. This was intentional. This happened more than once. This was really testing what my problematic as-a-result-of-anxiety-and-amphetamines pulse could handle.

Redundant scenario: Phil would just LOVE greeting me when I entered my apartment at 7-ish AM by standing perfectly still over a flaming stove burner in taxidermy pose, staring right into my bewildered AKA tweaked-out eyes, and then maniacally meowing with the subtext: I’m seconds from plopping my fat ass on this flame if you don’t get your shit together. I dare you to abandon me for a day or two once more to get as high as Mount Everest and fuck everything at an open 24-hours bathhouse in Chelsea.

Phil’s penchant for pyromania emerged circa 2013, when I was at my most mentally ill and near-ish-death-ness. But I was growing tired of perspiring out regret, poppers and lube, anyway. And Phil was just offering me tough, traumatic love! Okay, maybe he was just miserable living with mentally fucked, miserable me, and into the idea of both of us dying in a local news-making manner. Maybe Phil was doing us both a favor. End us.

“Suicide kitty.” That’s what my ex-roommate, Messy Mark*, called him because of Phil’s impressive rabid flying squirrel-like antics. I inherited Phil from messy Mark. Pre-Phil, I hated cats and the only cat I tolerated was the dead one I had to dissect in Anatomy class in high school. But when the formaldehyde wore off and his thighs developed mold, my teacher discarded him and I received a D+ on my report card, which made my hating-on-cats restart. It was a short-lived although intimate relationship. I never even knew his name.

Phil was already named Phil when Mark brought him home to our janky South Williamsburg apartment in the summer of 2009. Mark had been sober for like, a month, and he told me, with his enchanting albeit decaying-inside eyes, that a cat would keep him sober. I told him I hate cats, they scratch everything, and I knew I’d end up having to take care of the cat, so please God, no. Taking care of Mark was already my pro-bono job. I did my best! Well, the best that I, a party animal (spirit animal: a cat in perma-heat) who proudly has never blacked out, could at the time. (Note: We were in our early twenties and fresh out of college, living it up in a pre-Starbucks/Wholefoods Williamsburg and convincingly adopting the PBR-chugging, Patti Smith-worshipping hipster ways. You know, when kombucha was still a thing.)

Mark, on the other hand, was the drink-to-blackout type. He was an all American twink-next-door type. Charming, cute, book smart. His book cover was colorful and playful, concealing the tattered pages and its painful Comic Sans font. He’d invite himself to my friends’ house parties, because he had no friends of his own, which should have been a WARNING: DON’T BE ROOMMATES sign, and I’d warn/beg my friends to not fall for this troubled trick, because he wouldn’t remember anything in the morning and then I’d have to clean up his mess, including the sometimes charcoal-latte-colored puke. But alas, Mark’s blue eyes and bubble butt was a fuckable force. He’d also sleep with guys I thought I was dating, but I’d forgive him. I was a battered tabby cat to his primped-and-polished persian. We, oops, hooked up a few times too. This wasn’t something I initiated… initially. I knew there’d be trouble post-orgasms. But when your never-not-wasted roomie wakes you up via aggressive seduction, well, I was too tired to object.

Anyway, despite my cat concerns, I came home one day to find Phil crazily rolling around on the Ikea carpet in catnip. My fury segued into an “Aw, it’s fine” when Mark looked up at me with a genuine, heart-tugging smile. I was touched! Perhaps that purring Swamp Thing-y thing on the rug would cure Mark, because 12-step meetings sure as shit weren’t enough. And I’d be free and maybe even happy. Ha!

I was a spineless, clueless enabler. I didn’t understand why Mark couldn’t hold his liquor like a normal early twenty-something millennial. And I didn’t want Mark to die, so I’d do whatever to help. I didn’t want him to ever punch me in the face again when I forced his inebriated ass to look into the mirror at his sadness. I didn’t want to have to drag him through glass after he collapsed into our Ikea cabinet post-bar, as Phil screeched and judged from atop of the fridge. I didn’t want to wake up to a sea of is-this-real-life texts like the time he was in Dunkin’ Donuts and had just pissed his pants after escaping from the ER—apparently he had passed out at the bar the night before and someone normal called 911. This someone also called Mark’s mom, which I realized because of a devastating voicemail, in which she wondered if her son was alive. Not fun. Heartbreaking.

Phil was damaged goods himself, and, as expected, it’d be me, the professional plant killer, responsible for getting him back on track. He was an army brat, and had two unstable homes before being dropped off at a ASPCA in Virginia, where he lived in a cage for a year. Apparently no one wanted a middle-aged, jittery, ordinary tabby cat. I guess the bloody bald spots from Phil’s habit of biting out his fur and furiously scratching himself like a meth addict weren’t so appealing. (Meanwhile, Mark cruelly took Phil off of his anxiety meds because he’d rather save money for happy hour.) Phil’s coat of fur looked like my shredded, smelly Harley Davidson (reminder: I lived in Williamsburg) thrift t-shirts. He was so death-door-y thin, like me at the time (because, drugs), his meow was/still is so grating and loud. It’s nearly as demonic as the iPhone default alarm. And his moniker at the shelter was “alien kitty” because of his macadamia nut head paired with green, extraterrestrial eyes. Anyway, Mark and his manipulative victim ways convinced his Virginia-based friend—his only other friend—to drive Phil to Brooklyn; a non-refundable gift.

While Mark did calm down and get sober for a bit post-cat adoption, he didn’t miraculously develop thoughtfulness or anything. He’d attend evening 12-step meetings after his 9-5 job and then go to sober people Chipotle hangouts. HE WAS SO HAPPY! And I’d never ever see him. I’d been replaced. And I think I was subconsciously jealous of his healing. As a freelance writer, I worked from home, so it was just me and Phil. I took care of him. Not like it’s difficult—food, litter, cuddles, oh my!—but this wasn’t my goddamn cat! Mark would lock his bedroom door at night, so I’d allow Phil’s manic ass to sleep with me and claw at my scalp.

And so, I fell in love with Phil; Mark fell in love with a recovering meth addict. Two months later, Mark casually told me he was moving in with this boyfriend and that I had to find another roommate within two weeks. NBD. But I could keep Phil, because his boyfriend was allegedly allergic to cats. I don’t know why, but I started to ugly cry. (Well, my ex-therapist told me I was, yawn, in love with Mark and I’m scared of intimacy and abandonment etc etc fuck off etc.) It wasn’t until Mark finally “got better” and didn’t need me anymore that I acknowledged and confronted my own issues.

Just kidding. I’d little-by-little distract the pain with sex, drugs and rock bottoms.

Another roommate moved in for a year or two, but then we were bought out of the rent stabilized decrepit apartment for 40k. So, Phil and I moved to a shit but rent stabilized studio apartment on the other side of the Williamsburg bridge in Lower East Side—I signed the lease during what I now understand to have been a manic high, believing that I clearly needed to live alone; to take care of just myself, Phil and my plants. I was so psychotically positive! (I blame my psychiatrist for adding another mood stabilizer.) Living alone would inspire me to get a fantastic full time job, and then I’d be able to afford the studio on my own once the 40k ran out!

Didn’t happen. What did happen was Phil putting up with my unraveling as a result of eternal loneliness with no future, except funerals, in sight. I’m very dark. Phil forgave me, probably, when I’d lock him in the bathroom during a Grindr quickie. He plopped on my chest when I was coming down; he dived off my chest when I convulsed and howled in fetal position because of anxiety/panic attacks. If anyone could relate to loneliness, abandonment, depression, it was Phil. We got each other. Phil’s still with me.

I haven’t seen my ex-BFF since he left me, but he’ll text me like, every five months, informing me of things like how he now lives in a forest or that his boyfriend he ditched me for died of a drug overdose. Mostly, he brings up memories. “Remember that time when ___?” I never remember. I don’t want to remember. My responses are mostly an emoji or two. I’ve intentionally disconnected. His most recent text to me wasn’t a ‘sup. It was a handful of sexually explicit photos, featuring his dick. Ew. If he was ever my real friend, he would’ve remembered that I’m an ass guy. “Are you high?” was my response. He wrote no. I didn’t even care if he was lying, his top talent. I blocked him. I mourned him years ago. I’m all about protection these days. I’ve got some friends, a long-term boyfriend, and a drug-free, inconsistent zest for life.

Today, I’m sometimes very happy. I’m sometimes going under those dark, depression waves. The bipolar isn’t going anywhere. Unless I’m traveling outside of America, I barely leave my house.

And I still have major anxiety. So does Phil, but we’re in this thing together. We’re a lot better, we’ve grown up. He gets me out of bed and gives me a purpose. Feeding him his healthy grain and gluten-free food reminds me to take my meds. We take care of each other! We need each other!

Meanwhile, this triggers my morbid mind. He’s 73 in cat years. Phil’s cremated remains will be in a jar on my Buddhist altar soon enough. It was ME who was supposed to be rotting in a coffin by now, not Phil! But at least it’s been years since I last truly worried about Phil killing me… killing us. (Just kidding—I remove the stove knobs when I’m not in the apartment because, anxiety.)

Just a month ago, I was convinced Phil was dying. It’s a gnarly image that involved scattered around my apartment puddles of puke, heavy breathing, and him hiding from me in the litter box. I didn’t want to remember him like this: lethargic and not wanting anything to do with me for two full days. This wasn’t like him. He’s a cuddle monster in the mornings. And here I was, imagining a life without him. My first pet. Would I replace him? Could I? He’s the only one who, through it all, never left me. He’s tried, but only a handful of times. (He attempted to jump out of the window after sitting on a flame, but it wasn’t open wide enough for his fat ass.)

He’s back to normal-ish for now. I’m trying to appreciate our time together. So many memories. I try to think of only the best memories, but sometimes I’ll look at Phil and I’ll remember Mark, but only for a moment, then I shut that shit down. I’ve let Mark go.

I couldn’t save Mark. Neither could Phil. But we saved each other.

If Phil could read this, he’d eject a hairball because of my cheesiness. He’d roll his alien kitty eyes. And if Phil could talk, he’d say “You’re welcome for saving your life, bitch.” And then go back to sleep.

View the original article at thefix.com

20 July 2018
Neil Strauss' Evolution: From Pick-Up Artist to Relationship Expert

“Your relationship success has nothing to do with your partner, it’s really all about you and working on yourself…Until you do that you’ll always fall in love with the same kind of person.”

Neil Strauss has an enviable list of accomplishments. A nine time best-selling author, he got his start as a music critic writing for The New York Times and Rolling Stone; he has toured with and written about heavy metal bands, and penned books with some of the greatest rock stars. He’s written about how to survive in a post-apocalyptic world from a survivalist’s point of few, harboring skills such as flying a plane, delivering a baby, and fashioning a knife out of a credit card.

Strauss’ The Game: Penetrating The Secret Society of Pick Up Artists, is one of the top two most shoplifted pieces of literature from Barnes and Noble. The other one? The Bible. Both are similar in appearance and in length: hardcover leather with gold embossed titles on the cover.

Even though it’s been over a decade since its debut, The Game, which many view as the holy grail on how to seduce and lure women into the bedroom, was recently released in its 11th hardcover edition. To Game fans, Strauss is somewhat of a Messiah. He delves into the elusive PUA (Pick Up Artist) scene and morphs from geek to the ultimate ladies’ man. He goes undercover, adopting the name “Style,” and by making adjustments and using certain puzzling techniques that verge on reverse psychology, he discovers that suddenly he can have any woman he wants. He explains lingo including terms such as peacocking: to wear something flashy and unusual in a crowded venue to get a romantic prospect’s attention; sarging: to go out to look for willing participants to try PUA moves on; kino: touching your object of desire sporadically during a conversation to establish a connection and build trust; and closing: sealing the deal and ending things with a kiss and/or a trip to the bedroom.

Eventually Strauss left the PUA community, but not empty-handed. He began teaching others how to wine and dine women by starting “StyleLife Academy,” which made him an unexpected celebrity and hero to many men. His admirers also included an unlikely group: the FBI. The Game was required reading for agents. Few details are known other than Strauss was personally invited to train them in an undisclosed location. He applied the same techniques he honed for picking up women to teach FBI agents how to open a conversation and gain the trust of suspects, with the ultimate goal of closing: luring confessions out of the bad guys.

One cannot play the game forever, so where does the hero go next? When it came time for the sequel, Strauss went in a radically different direction.

The Truth: An Uncomfortable Book About Relationships is the exact opposite of a dating guide; it’s about Strauss’ journey from to player to monogamous man. His painfully honest candor is refreshing and as the title states, it’s an uncomfortable book. Some of the most brilliant work comes from pushing the limits of our comfort zones, and Strauss shares all, revealing details of his adventures into the world of polyamory, orgies and open relationships. On the occasion of The Truth’s re-release in paperback several weeks ago—with a new subtitle: An Eye-Opening Odyssey Through Love Addiction, Sex Addiction, and Extraordinary Relationships—we had the opportunity to talk to Strauss about emotional health, healthy relationships, and who he hopes his book will appeal to.

“You write a book and you never know who the audience is, men who are struggling with intimacy and relationship issues in general, and women too.” Strauss tells The Fix.

The Truth details how life has changed for the author post Game. After years of playing the field, he’s met the right girl at the wrong time. When she discovers that he’s had a fling with one of her friends, he checks into treatment for sex addiction in hopes to better understand himself and to save their relationship. He quickly comes to realize that what he experienced during his childhood has a lot more to do with the way he’s wired than he had thought. He accepts that he will have to make peace with his past, a realization that resonates with many individuals, whether they’re in recovery or not.

“Whatever issue someone is experiencing, whether it’s sex addiction or something else, you have to get to the core of it. We all have core wounds that take place in our first 17 years. Those imperfections get passed on and whatever label you want to put on it doesn’t matter, you just have to fix it.”

Few authors are recognized beyond their words on a page, but whether or not he intended on it, Strauss has become a guru in the topics of life, seduction and love. It’s no longer about how to get the girl; with the massive success he’s had, there are now men and women enrolled in Stylelife Academy. He’s gone beyond instructing others how to be the ultimate PUA. It’s about guiding others to live their lives to the fullest.

“I think I’m fortunate. I love learning about people and new things. I found something that changes my life and solves my problems [and] I want to share that,” he says of the journey that has led him to where he is today: a settled down family man with a beautiful wife and son.

So what comes after The Truth? Stauss has no plans to stop sharing what he’s learned with others. He’s preparing to lead a workshop called The H.A.V.E.: The Human Anti-Virus Experience, a three day intensive workshop where he’ll meet and teach those who want to do some serious work on themselves.

“If everyone took a course between high school and college, the world would be a much more comfortable place. Emotional health needs to be taken as seriously as physical health. There needs to be something for people to take to de-program everything they were taught growing up and all of their false beliefs. I couldn’t find one out there that didn’t seem dark or culty so I created one.” He’ll share what’s he learned over the years, and bring in the very instructors who guided him on his path to self-realization.

It’s easy to get distracted when speaking with an author who has such an array of experiences, and has the kind of life that so many only dream of. After a conversation with Strauss, it’s clear why he was awarded “The greatest pick up artist who ever lived.” The charisma is there and he’s filled with sincerity. Of course there are so many questions I want to ask him, but before my time with him is up, he leads me back to The Truth, and leaves me with valuable advice:

“There are a lot of bad single-sided myths about relationships in our culture. Your relationship success has nothing to do with your partner, it’s really all about you and working on yourself. You can’t accept your partner as they are unless you work on yourself. Until you do that you’ll always fall in love with the same kind of person.”

When asked what the future holds, Strauss told us he’s far from finished: “I have so many books I want to write. I want to keep telling amazing and better stories.”

The Truth: An Uncomfortable Book About Relationships is now available in paperback. For more information on what Neil Strauss is up to, how you can attend The H.A.V.E. and learn other survival skills, go to www.neilstrauss.com.

View the original article at thefix.com

4 June 2018