The Brotherhood of Recovering Addicts

A year inside a pair of small-town boarding houses where a battered band of brothers are the only thing keeping each other alive.

Chester Biswick is a boulder of a man, standing not quite as tall as his nearly six-foot frame allows, his shoulders like the curve of a river stone pressed into the mud. Blue-jean eyes and hands like meat mallets. Decades ago, his hands pilfered plump moonshine-soaked cherries from the pickle jar at the neighbors’ house. Ten-year-old Chester drank because it made him feel tingly, special. Booze joined him in the treehouse, where he slept to escape the shouts between his parents. In another life, Chester’s hands mashed faces. There were the bar brawls. The knife fights. Later those same hands clutched whiskey bottles, shaking so badly it took a pint of the stuff to steady his grip. Drink, vomit, drink again. Sometimes all that would come up was stomach acid. In that life, he watched two marriages collapse. Got two DUIs. For a time, he slept under picnic benches.

“There was nothing there for me anymore. I was basically drinking to kill myself for the longest time, because I just didn’t want to live anymore,” he says.

Chester, who turned fifty this fall, has been clean for over three years. He’s the manager of a recovery home in Canonsburg, Pennsylvania. Another recovery home is across the street, and like Chester, everyone living in these houses is in active recovery from drug and alcohol addiction.

He is talkative after you get to know him, but when I first meet him in February 2014, Chester is shy. He smiles sheepishly when he describes his life in recovery, his mouth an unfolded paperclip that’s fragile along the contours of its former shape. In this life, Chester makes birdhouses and poems and drawings. He cooks cabbage rolls and beef stew for the guys. These guys are family, he says.

He doesn’t like to talk about how much booze he drank or how many pills he swallowed. That just glorifies his past.

“I was the crud on the bottom of your boot, that you wouldn’t even want to wash off. You’d throw the whole boot away,” he says. “And today, I like life.”

From the highway, it looks as if the single-family homes of Canonsburg were spread across its hills like thick, crunchy peanut butter. Home to about 9,000 people, Canonsburg is roughly twenty miles south of Pittsburgh, in countryside rich with arteries of coal and shale gas. It’s a town that lays claim to Bill Schmidt, America’s only javelin bronze medalist since 1972, and Sarris Candies, a phoenix of a factory that survived a 2012 fire that claimed 20,000 pounds of chocolate. Outside the borough building, Perry Como’s milky voice bellows from a statue of his likeness, welcoming visitors to town (at least those who go inside the building and ask to have the singing statue activated).

Blocks away, Pam Jones’s recovery homes are nestled along College Street. It’s a quiet, residential neighborhood bookended by a Dollar General and a cemetery, with a radioactive dump nearby. Her recovery homes are indistinguishable from the other buildings: vinyl siding, two stories, trees in the lawn. They are beloved by some, and a wellspring of concerns for others. Though the voices differ, the concerns are alike in every region of the nation: Living next to addicts will bring crime, make parking scarce and reduce home values. These places are unregulated and unsafe. Recovery homes shouldn’t be in our neighborhoods. Not near our children.

In 2013, roughly 8.2 percent of the U.S. population over age twelve reported substance abuse or dependence. That’s about 21.6 million people. Fatal overdoses now outpace motor vehicle fatalities as the leading cause of injury death among adults age twenty-five to sixty-four. Prescription drug abuse dwarfs previous numbers. Heroin alone grips an average of 40,000 children and adults in Pennsylvania, according to the state attorney general’s office, trailing only California and Illinois. Lawmakers have adopted the word “epidemic” to describe the problem.

Chester fiddles with a padlock on the shed behind one of the recovery homes. The sounds of the highway are faint but constant as the ocean. The winter sky is grey and bright. Near the shed, one of Chester’s birdhouses hangs from a tree. His garden lies dormant under the snow.

"If you're going to end up on College Street, if God wants you here, you'll get here," Pam Jones says. "And if you're meant to stay here, you'll do what it takes to stay here."
“If you’re going to end up on College Street, if God wants you here, you’ll get here,” Pam Jones says. “And if you’re meant to stay here, you’ll do what it takes to stay here.”

Inside, there’s stuff everywhere. A wooden sled he’s going to repaint, a curio to refinish, a drill press, dremels and screwdrivers. Lengths of wood lean against a wall. Jagged teeth of a two-man saw and an old horseshoe hang from the rafters. Everything in here is one of Chester’s projects, and most of this stuff he salvaged from the thrift store or hauled from the trash.

“My grandfather told me, ‘If it’s broken and it’s still broke when you’re done, don’t worry about it. It was broke. If you fix it you accomplish something,’ says Chester. “I was broke. I worked on it. I’m better. And I keep adding to it every day.”

Chester hands me a drawing of a tiny home, dwarfed against an open plain. A curl of smoke rises from its chimney. Three craggy hills are in the distance, the radiating sun nearly as large as the house. His pencil lines are neat, clean, careful.

* * *

Addiction treatment and recovery in America has an ugly past. In the 1800s, addicts could seek treatment at inebriate homes, colonies and asylums. Not everyone went there voluntarily. Some of these places were state-run facilities; others were religious institutions. Patients were treated with aversion therapy, as well as water-cure, electrical and moral therapies. They were blistered and bled, sterilized and lobotomized; fed diets of gold, mercury, salt and watermelon. One dependency was swapped for another — methamphetamine, cocaine and opium. There were home remedies, too. Magazines and catalogs were riddled with advertisements promising instant cures. An unhappy wife could secretly lace her sweetheart’s pork chops with White Star Secret Liquor Cure or The Boston Drug Cure for Drunkenness.

Fortunately, more nuanced approaches began creeping into to treatment practices (though chilling methods such as prefrontal lobotomy persisted until the 1950s). Addicts in the 1940s began learning how to live sober lives on farms and at retreats, which often employed the newly popularized 12-step program, Alcoholics Anonymous. Living among a community of peers was hailed as an increasingly important factor in recovery. By the 1960s, models of transitional, sober-living housing were blossoming.

Today the National Alliance for Recovery Residences (NARR), an advocacy organization, says there are thousands of recovery homes across the country. On YouTube you can watch celebrities scream at each other on the 2009 reality television show, “Celebrity Rehab Presents Sober House.” Tanned and earnest, Dr. Drew Pinsky counsels residents like Steven Adler of Guns N’ Roses, comedian Andy Dick and porn star Mary Carey. (Pinsky axed the show’s counterpart, “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew,” after cast members fatally overdosed.)

"I know any time that door opens or closes, no matter how easy or how soft you close it," Chester says. Important house messages sometimes get written on the front door's wipe board, so there's no excuse for anyone to miss it, he adds.
“I know any time that door opens or closes, no matter how easy or how soft you close it,” Chester says. Important house messages sometimes get written on the front door’s wipe board, so there’s no excuse for anyone to miss it, he adds.

To understand recovery homes, know this first: basically anyone who owns a shack with four walls can run a recovery home. Unlike treatment centers such as rehab clinics and halfway houses, recovery homes are unregulated by the federal government. State and local laws vary; fire safety, licensing requirements and zoning codes are inconsistent. They can be called a multitude of names: sober houses, sober-living homes, recovery homes, recovery residences, three-quarter houses. (NARR uses “recovery residence” as a catchall term.) Owners can opt to follow NARR’s standards. Or they can opt not to.

At their core, recovery homes are supposed to offer safe and sober living spaces for recovering addicts. And there are many that do just that. Some are run democratically by the residents. Others have paid medical staff or are owned by nonprofit companies. Like Pam Jones’s houses on College Street, some are owned by recovering addicts.

Across the nation, recovery homes have embroiled surrounding communities with remarkable similarities: Neighbors want these places somewhere else, legislators attempt to tighten the laws, recovery homeowners push back. Grisly media reports detail horrors at these places. There have been stories of unscrupulous landlords charging inflated rent or cashing in on residents who qualify for public housing; investigations revealing unsafe spaces with bed bugs, mice, mold and electrical violations. In the past few years, there have been fatal overdoses at recovery homes in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut and Wisconsin. A woman was fatally beaten, her body found inside a Boston recovery home where her ex-boyfriend, charged with her murder, was living. Here in Pennsylvania, there have been overdose deaths and other serious safety concerns, including a 2012 fire that left the residents of one recovery house homeless. A bill aimed at regulating homes that receive state funding is currently stalled in the Pennsylvania legislature; a state task force, which convened for the first time in September, is poised to draft safety recommendations and a certification process.

Pressure for increased oversight is mirrored among legislatures nationwide, while legal skirmishes over local ordinances — aimed at limiting things such as the number of residents or homes in a region — chug along. Because recovering addicts are protected under the Fair Housing and Americans with Disabilities acts, zoning ordinances are often at odds with federal law. An ongoing battle in Newport Beach, California, has cost the municipality about $3.6 million in lawsuits, according to press accounts. Its 2008 zoning ordinance, which closed more than twenty recovery homes, was ruled discriminatory by the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals. In April of this year, the municipality hired attorney Theodore B. Olson — known for Bush v. Gore and Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission — to petition the U.S. Supreme Court to review the ruling. The municipality will reportedly pay Olson $280,000.

When Chester moved in, everything he owned fit in two bags and a box. Today much of what he owns is secondhand, including cookware, which he keeps in a locked cabinet. "I have no problem sharing," he says. "Except when it comes to my pots and pans."
When Chester moved in, everything he owned fit in two bags and a box. Today much of what he owns is secondhand, including cookware, which he keeps in a locked cabinet. “I have no problem sharing,” he says. “Except when it comes to my pots and pans.”

“In general, we want people that are different in a ghetto,” says Leonard A. Jason, the director of DePaul University’s Center for Community Research. If you really want to give addicts a second chance, you have to give them opportunities to live anywhere, Jason says.

Jason, who has contributed to reports for NARR, is among a cadre of researchers studying these places. He began researching recovery homes in Illinois during the early 1990s. His interest pricked when he saw J. Paul Molloy on “60 Minutes” discussing Oxford Houses, a model that Molloy began in the 1970s. (Today there are more than one thousand Oxford Houses in the U.S.; a defining characteristic is that the residents themselves enforce and define the house rules.)

One of Jason’s reports notes, “Among those interviewees who knew of the existence of the self-run recovery home, the values of their houses had actually increased over a mean of three years.” Other studies found landlords reported fewer noise and pet complaints caused by Oxford House tenants than other renters. Neighbors reported gaining friendships and a heightened sense of security after getting to know the recovering addicts. More tenants living together, not fewer, showed prolonged sobriety and lower rates of crime.

These findings suggest there may be similarly positive outcomes at other recovery homes. But words like suggest and may be are important to keep in mind. Oxford Houses may share similarities, but there are many differences when it comes to the thousands of recovery homes operating across country.

“I’ve worked over twenty years and I’ve just scratched the surface of what we need to learn in this area,” says Jason, the tone of his voice even, measured and humble. “I think there is good evidence that many of these houses are good for people, but not all. There’s a lot of variety out there and that’s part of the issue — how do you find one that is good for your needs?”

* * *

On College Street, Pam Jones is the rent collector, rulemaker, mother, sister and confidante. Part ironclad uncontested matriarch, part Wendy Darling, she has hair the color of the crude that once sprang from the Canonsburg soil, and a voice like a coffee grinder. Around here everyone knows her idiosyncrasies well, parroting her phrases, “Hey babe” and “Is that a want or a need?” There have been weddings, baby showers and funerals here. It’s like she gains a foster child every time someone moves in, says a former resident. This community is what keeps her sober, too. Now clean for twenty-five years, it was here on College Street that she quit using drugs and alcohol. If it weren’t for these homes, she would be dead.

“This disease wants to kill us — period,” she says. “And it will and it does.”

In the young guys’ living room, sofas form an altar around the television. Pam pulls deeply on her electronic cigarette, legs dangling over the side of her armchair. It’s a Monday night, a few days after Valentine’s Day. Another weekly house meeting begins.

"I always say I would not expect anyone to live in my recovery houses if I wouldn't live there myself. You know, they’re not the Taj Mahal," Pam Jones says. "But it's a clean environment. It's a safe environment. And we're proud of it.”
“I always say I would not expect anyone to live in my recovery houses if I wouldn’t live there myself. You know, they’re not the Taj Mahal,” Pam Jones says. “But it’s a clean environment. It’s a safe environment. And we’re proud of it.”

One by one, Curtis, Brian, Kace, Glenn, A.J. and Derrick tell Pam what’s going on in their lives. (Last names have been omitted for privacy.) Pam asks questions. Did you follow-up on that job application? How’s your baby girl? Did you make that appointment yet? You gotta take care of those wisdom teeth.

During these house meetings, Pam is mining for details. Many of the men transitioned from a rehab facility to a halfway house before coming here. (That’s why recovery homes are sometimes called three-quarter houses, because you’re said to be three-quarters of the way home.) Anyone who contacts Pam can get their name added to the waitlist as long as they’re clean. She interviews everyone and doesn’t advertise or have a website. Residents are often referred by word-of-mouth from local treatment centers. Some have come through the judicial system after undergoing court-ordered drug treatment programs. Occasionally the courts mandate a stay in a recovery home setting, but that doesn’t mean she lets them in. Others are voluntarily in recovery. All are free to live here as long as they want, and free to go whenever they want, though Pam suggests they stay at least six months to a year. A lot of life happens in that time, she likes to say. Relapse isn’t an event, it’s a process. Break-ups, losing jobs, a death in the family. Even the stresses of living a normal life can trigger thoughts about using.

A half-hour in — after the logistics of how much toilet paper Pam needs to buy — it’s time for ‘negotiations.’ A.J. begins, arguing the case that women should be allowed to visit the house. Boyish features match his somewhat cheeky but polite demeanor, often addressing Pam with a “yes ma’am.”

"We love and respect each other as recovering addicts because we don't want anybody to go back to the life of active addiction," Pam says.
“We love and respect each other as recovering addicts because we don’t want anybody to go back to the life of active addiction,” Pam says.

“You know what I want, so why can’t we just work something out?” A.J. says, and the others laugh. “We’re grown men. I’m lonely, who’s all lonely?” A few hands go up. More laughing and jokes.

“These are just lessons for you in rejection, O.K.? The answer is no,” Pam says. “No, we can’t have them hang out. No, we can’t have them spend the night.”

The topic shifts. Now Derrick takes the lead. “What about fish?” he asks.

“We tried the fish thing and they died because everybody fed it and no one cleaned it,” Pam says.

“I’ll be the one to solely take care of the seventeen piranhas,” offers Derrick.

“No, we don’t want seventeen piranhas. What kind of fish?”

Tiny ones like electric carp, he says. There’s a fish tank in the house; it won’t be a mess.

“Alright. Fish,” Pam relents. “Let’s try fish.”

The others smell blood in the water.

“Can my dog come for a weekend?”

“What about, like, a turtle?”

“Nope, no turtles. I said a fish.”

“Well a turtle kind of is a fish.”

“It is not a fish. A turtle is a reptile, it is not a fish.”

“A tarantula is kind of like a fish.”

Most of the guys in this house are in their twenties, a dogpile of jokes, rapping and tattoos. They’re quick to compare their looks and skills and choices of television programs against the older men in the recovery home across the street.

As the meeting dissolves, they migrate to the kitchen where there’s cold pizza and ribs in the slow cooker. Pam returns to her armchair with a helping of meat.

“Pam wouldn’t survive without us,” someone says from the kitchen. She returns the volley. “You can talk about me like I’m not here, I don’t give a fuck.”

A.J., the leader of the weekly plea for allowing women at the house, also returns to the sofa. Now his tone has changed, as he drops his mask. A.J. is from Latrobe, a town about an hour away in Westmoreland County, which tallied more than ninety overdose fatalities in 2013.

“In Downtown Latrobe they opened one [recovery home] and people went to the city council and were like, ‘Look, we don’t want these drug addicts in our neighborhoods.’ They don’t understand,” he says.

Chores are often part of the deal to live in a recovery home. "We don't have to live like that anymore," a phrase that's often repeated around here, is written near the list of chores in the the hallway.
Chores are often part of the deal to live in a recovery home. “We don’t have to live like that anymore,” a phrase that’s often repeated around here, is written near the list of chores in the the hallway.

This place, he says, has been a godsend.

“I’ve been in active addiction for a long time. I’ve been to treatment numerous times, but I would leave treatment and I just go home back to the same environment, hanging around with the same people. This was a nice getaway, I guess you could say. I’m surrounded by people with sobriety and clean time. I guess I couldn’t ask for anything else.”

A.J. has a little boy who turned three in December. It’s hard not to see him every day, he says. “I figure this will pay off in the long run, getting my life together.”

Pam finishes her last bite of meat, though the night isn’t over yet. There’s still the house meeting across the street. Before leaving, she revisits the debate from earlier in the evening.

“This needs to be your sanctuary without women,” she says. “Like us girls say, the men will kiss your ass and the women will save it. And it’s the other way around for you guys. The guys are gonna save your ass. The women will kiss whatever.”

* * *

Pajama-clad men cycle in and out of the common room, their banter as constant as the television. It’s a typical afternoon at the old guys’ house. (No one is shirtless because Chester warned them to be fully dressed when a reporter is in the house.) Floorboards wheeze as they lumber up and down the stairs; some to do laundry, microwave food, take another cup of coffee. As of February, there are eight men in their thirties, forties and fifties; one is twenty-five. Cans of energy drinks are a choice item, despite the house rules explicitly banning their consumption. (A few years ago, Pam caught residents playing drinking games with the energy drinks, which landed the “friendly beverages,” as the young guys call them, on the banned list. Still, even rule-enforcing Chester drinks them, and Pam acknowledged that the energy drinks aren’t much different than her daily Starbucks.)

“Accountability” is a big word around here, and urine tests are administered at any time. “We don’t call it snitching. It’s for the welfare of everybody in the house,” Chester says.

Making your bed means reclaiming a sliver of your humanity, spirited away by drugs and alcohol. The linoleum on the kitchen floor, though yellowed, shines.

The house rules are detailed in a two-page document, flagged with underlined phrases and exclamation points. The men have to be employed or actively looking for work. They have to pay rent. They have to be involved in a recovery program, like twelve-step meetings. No alcohol-based mouthwash, no vitamins, no medications, no violence, no gambling.

Having rules help addicts become productive members of society, Pam says, because when you’re using you could care less about accountability. “When addicts have no consequences, we’re in trouble.”

Chester has been house manager since January 2012. He and Pam have sources around town who tip them off when guys are on the streets using drugs or alcohol. At home, he watches for the signs of relapse, like a guy on the couch during the times he should be at work. Leaving early, coming home late. Lies and cover-ups and hedging. Getting too close with the guys and becoming their friends can make his role as house manager more difficult, he says.

Because he’s lived here the longest, seniority has earned him the most coveted perk in the house: a private room. But he opts to share the bedroom at the top of the stairs with another guy, trading privacy for strategy.

“I know any time that door opens or closes, no matter how easy or how soft you close it,” Chester says.

“I can't afford to let myself slip. Because I know what I used to be. And I don't want to be that,” Chester says.
“I can’t afford to let myself slip. Because I know what I used to be. And I don’t want to be that,” Chester says.

Late in the afternoon, the coffee machine is still on. Chester switches it off, irked that he hadn’t spotted it earlier.

Jake comes into the kitchen. He’s been here a few months, his bushy beard earning him the nickname “Duck Dynasty” after the reality television show about a family of religious, bearded, duck-hunting entrepreneurs.

“Do you have quarters? A dollar in quarters?” Jake asks.

“You’re lucky. I just went and got five dollars the other day,” Chester says, scooping a pawful of quarters from his jeans.

“Alright, I’ll hit you back. Thanks buddy.”

“You’re welcome bro.”

The guys never have quarters for laundry, he says. Sometimes it’s the small stuff about running this place that gnaws at him.

When the fan is left on in the basement “man cave” — the only place in the house where the guys can smoke cigarettes — Chester switches it off. He repairs the door handle on the back porch when the guys push it open again and again. He regulates bottles of liquid soap that clutter the shower. Today there are sixteen bottles of body wash in the shower, many with only an inch of soap left. Only eight guys live here. “Put it this way: at least I know they’re clean,” Chester says, chuckling.

There are days when all he wants is quiet, without the bickering over the television remote or laundry. Maybe he’ll find a place of his own soon, he says. “I don’t want to be alone, I just want my own freedom. I guess that’s the only way I can put it. I want my own freedom. And the only person I got to worry about that day is me.”

* * *

Derrick is twenty-two and among one of the newer ones in the pack, having moved into the young guys’ house a few months ago. During a house meeting, he hands his phone to the others to show them his daughter, Ava Marie, posing in a frilly dress at her birthday party. It wasn’t a great day, he says to the group. Some of his family and friends were angry there wasn’t a keg and beers to celebrate Ava’s first birthday.

This is the second time he’s tried to leave behind his life of drugs and alcohol. He started using heroin as a teenager. In another photo, he’s holding newborn Ava. He looks like another man, his arms lean and gaunt, like pipe cleaners cradling a tiny pink bundle. He looks nothing like that today.

Derrick holds a photograph of his daughter, Ava Marie. At her first birthday party, some of his family and friends were angry there wasn’t a keg. It wasn't a great day, he says.
Derrick holds a photograph of his daughter, Ava Marie. At her first birthday party, some of his family and friends were angry there wasn’t a keg. It wasn’t a great day, he says.

He went into treatment for the first time when Ava’s mother was pregnant, he says one afternoon in March. “I was there for twenty-one days. Got out, didn’t go to any meetings, got high that day. I didn’t want to get clean.”

Once he started using again things got worse. His sister kicked him out for having heroin in her house; Ava had already been born by then. Eventually he moved in with his dad.

“He’s an alcoholic. He drinks a half-gallon of whiskey every day, religiously. We just didn’t get along. We fought each other all the time. I got to the point where I’d rather sleep in a tent in the woods than live with my dad. So that’s what I did for about a month,” he says. “I just had a lot of time to think. I realized what I was doing to myself, what I was doing to my family. I decided, that was it. I didn’t have to live that way anymore. Went back to [treatment], July 10, 2013. I’ve been clean since.”

Later that afternoon, I ask Derrick to fact-check my flowchart of the recovery process. Instead of correcting it, he creates his own using the same elements: detox → halfway house → recovery home → home. His flowchart is simple, chilling even, as each step has choices, detailed with forked lines. There’s a box labeled “jail,” a gravestone marked R.I.P, and tiny syringes as options along the flowchart.

Kace, his name inked on his neck — a decorative K flanked by an Ace card — is in his early twenties, and one of the senior members of the house, two years clean. He surveys Derrick’s drawing.

“In every spot, there’s an option of needle,” says Kace as the two laugh. They turn toward me, explaining it’s not really funny, but true.

“There is always that option,” Derrick says.

* * *

“That’s how we keep track of relapses,” Pam says. “Because they usually end up getting arrested. And then they show up in Mugshot Mania.”

Mugshot Mania is available for a buck and a quarter at gas stations and other locations around the region. It’s a full-color publication of the week’s arrests in the region. There’s a stack of them in the living room of the old guys’ house.

“It’s kind of like our Facebook,” says Jake, gregarious as usual, but only half joking.

Many of the guys living in Pam’s recovery homes are seen by outsiders only as addicts and criminals. And there’s some truth to that. Some have felonies or other offenses on their records: burglary, drunk driving, disorderly conduct. They’re the first to call themselves junkies and liars. To pay the rent, some wash dishes or work as laborers on construction sites. A few of the older guys are doing what they went to school for; one repairs heating and cooling units, another sells electronics. Not everyone has a car, and those who do run carpools when they can. Dark humor is infused with hugging. Going through recovery together, many expressed how these are some of the strongest — or even the first — friendships they’ve ever had. And despite their age differences, addiction is now an indelible part of their lives.

“I wouldn’t wish addiction on my worst enemy,” says Holly Martin, a psychologist and the chief operating officer at Greenbriar Treatment Center, which has facilities throughout western Pennsylvania. Martin’s work with addicts spans three decades, and she knows many of these men because they went through Greenbriar. People think the compulsion to use is a moral weakness, says Martin, but quitting is not as simple as deciding to stop using.

“That’s like saying ‘don’t breathe anymore,’” she says.

With a chemical addiction, your brain is sending signals to every cell in your body. You need the drug to survive. The cravings and urges are tangible. Stopping cold turkey from an addiction to alcohol or a prescription medication like Xanax can trigger very real physical responses: shakes, a spike in blood pressure, seizures, death. (Though there are arguments that the disease concept is a myth, the government-run National Institute on Drug Abuse classifies addiction as a brain disease.)

Living among others who know what they’ve been through is vital, she says. “Having that support network will be the difference between sobriety and relapse. Period.”

* * *

Spring arrives and Pennsylvania thaws.

“I even have a sunburn,” Chester says, chuckling.

There have been so many projects to do. Refinishing a table and chairs, cleaning gutters. He built a new workbench for the shed. His garden is ready for another season of tomatoes, peppers, cabbage, zucchinis and sweet potatoes.

No one has relapsed but a few guys are moving out, Chester says. It will be chaos for a while as new residents move in, but things will settle. As for finding a place of his own, he’s still undecided.

Drawing is a new part of Chester's life since he got sober. He often draws farm houses or log cabins surrounded by nothing but nature. "I don't know why," he says.
Drawing is a new part of Chester’s life since he got sober. He often draws farm houses or log cabins surrounded by nothing but nature. “I don’t know why,” he says.

Months earlier, I asked Chester if he monitors his own signs of relapse.

“I can’t afford to let myself slip. Because I know what I used to be. And I don’t want to be that,” Chester says, speaking slowly, earnestly.

“Some days this is what keeps me grounded: this place, being around people just like me. People that have struggles day in day out on a daily basis. But also having people that care about you — being who you are, knowing who you are — and not thinking they’re better than you.”

* * *

It’s a few days after Thanksgiving and Butch is mixing batter for brownies. Nothing fancy, they’re made from a box, but he takes great care pouring the syrupy goo into the pan. Baking is something he likes to do whenever he has a day off, he says.

“Stop back,” he says, sliding the tray into the oven. “You can have one.”

It’s been nearly a year since I first visited College Street. Butch is one of many new faces around here. The houses are no longer as evenly split between old and young guys. Some have moved on, finding their own apartments, while others have been kicked out for using.

Derrick will have been living here for one year come Christmas. His daughter Ava just got her ears pierced with tiny pearl earrings; he saw her over the Thanksgiving holiday. The food was alright (though he was worried about the undercooked turkey), but there was too much fighting between his siblings, he says. Derrick now has a teal early nineties Honda, and he and Randy, another guy in his twenties, share the role of house manager.

Chester is still managing the house across the street. March of 2015 will mark four years clean.

There have been ups and downs — the cops came over the summer because Randy was riding his dirt bike down College Street; Kace is still sober, rapping and said to be engaged; A.J. relapsed, but is back in recovery. But everything is overshadowed by what happened on Labor Day weekend.

* * *

Chester takes me back to that Saturday morning when, he says, something didn’t seem right from the start.

When Chester wakes up on that Saturday, the bathroom door is closed. The shower isn’t running. Maybe someone is using the toilet. Downstairs it’s quiet but still early, around quarter to seven. One of the early risers is drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.

He goes back to his bedroom to get ready for the day, reaching for his shoes. There’s that feeling again. Something is off. From his window Chester sees a vehicle pull in front of the house. On weekends it’s typical for some of the guys to go to a restaurant with family members. Today he sees a woman get out of the car, which is unusual. Now the woman is at the door asking about her son because she’s been calling and he’s not answering his phone. Right at that moment his stomach flips. Something ain’t right. The mother follows him inside, up the stairs. Chester knocks on her son’s bedroom door, opens it, but he’s not inside. Turns to the bathroom door. Still closed. Knocks. Silence. Now the mother is yelling her son’s name and Chester grabs a metal hanger and unhooks the latch, and she sees what he sees and screams, calling her son’s name while Chester is trying to help her from seeing what she has already seen.

There’s nothing the paramedics will be able to do for the body slumped against the wall.

An empty syringe lies on the floor.

“It was brutal,” Pam says. Always the straight talker, she doesn’t mince words. There had been overdoses before but never a death, she says.

“It is the reality of recovery, addiction and recovery houses. Sad but true. And we hope it never happens, but it does,” she says. “I’ve been to a lot of funerals. I’ve lost a lot of people I love.”

Later that day, near dusk, the scarlet stripe on Chester’s NASCAR jacket almost glows in receding light. The embers of his cigarette flare. Smoking is unusual for him.

It hit him hard, Pam says.

* * *

On a late November afternoon Chester is raking long, spindly needles from under the pines. It’s an unusually warm day, and the soil is spongy as we walk to the shed to see his latest projects. Inside, we hear a fluttering sound, like a moth trapped in paper bag. Chester moves toward a window that is partially obscured with debris. He peers behind the debris, reaching with gloved hands and speaking in a hushed voice, “Come on, come on.” Seconds later a flash of brown, no bigger than a salt shaker, disappears into the winter sky.

Back in the house it’s quiet at the kitchen table because many of the guys are at work. A yellow cake cools on the stovetop. I ask Chester what he was thinking when he realized a bird was trapped in the shed.

“Death, lately, has been a big thing on my mind,” he says. “And I hate to see anything happen to anybody or anything.”

“I’m running all the scenarios through my head. What I should’ve done, what I could’ve done. And the bottom line comes out to, there’s nothing more I could’ve done. He made his choice. He chose to do what he did. No matter if he was living here or living somewhere else, he made the choice,” Chester says.

“And the look on that poor lady’s face, I mean, every time I think about it, that’s the first thing I see. It’s just hard to explain. And that scream. It was just, it’s something that’s going to bug me for a while. And for a week after that, I couldn’t sleep worth crap because it stirred up memories from my past and the shit I used to do.”

Abruptly Chester begins listing home repair projects: laying new linoleum, replacing the toilet and painting the walls. The tone of his voice shifts, becoming slightly more mechanical. This is Chester’s coping mechanism at work.

“He just turned, like three days before, twenty-four years old. His therapist was like, ‘He was never late, always on time, never missed a session, talking about going back to school.’ Even his [parole officer] the day before piss-tested him. The day before that, I piss-tested him. He was clean,” he says.

“It caught everybody off guard. I mean, me and him talked the most because of his schedule. Most of the guys very seldomly seen him. I hung around with him and talked with him more, because I seen him more. I kind of had a little bit of an attachment to him, and knowing him, because we talked a lot.”

I ask Chester how he thinks people will react when they hear about the death.

“Personally I think the public’s going to judge it the way they normally always do, and think that it’s nothing but a bunch of addicts and alcoholics,” he says. “I see the attitudes from these people and how they look upon us. No matter what they hear and what you say to them, they’re going to form their own opinion. You know it’s gonna be, ‘Well, what do you expect? That goes on all the time. That’s how they are. That’s who they are.’ Not knowing that this is the first time this has happened since this place has been running.”

“It’s not like it’s something that goes on every day. And to try to convince people of that? I got a better chance of hitting the lottery and winning a million dollars.”

“When it comes to certain things, people have already formed their opinions of how we are and who we are,” he says. “It sounds selfish in a way, but I just can’t grasp some people’s opinion of us. To me, I think they’re no good. Because you’re judging me. You’re no better than me. What’s hidden in your closet? What goes on at your house? What do you do behind your closed doors?”

Outside, the weather is shifting. The wind is blowing harder.

“When I seen that bird, I knew it needed help,” says Chester. “And I had to help it. I didn’t want to see nothing bad happen to it…I knew there was an opportunity to save it, and to help it.”

He reflects again on the young man who died in the bathroom, just above where we sit.

“It’s something I wished that I’d never, ever have to see again. But it’s something I’ll never forget. It’s hard to explain, I mean, the pain in that lady’s face. I see it every day.”

* * *

Em DeMarco is a journalist based in Pittsburgh. Currently she is working on merging nonfiction storytelling with comics and illustration. Twitter @eademarco.

Part of this story was reported while Em DeMarco was an investigative reporting fellow with PublicSource, an in-depth news outlet that covers issues across Pennsylvania.

Meet the Merciless Champ of Congo’s Mystical Wrestling League

Even as he approaches old age and his sport falls into decline, this intestines-eating, sorcery-conjuring “Man of Great Power” still dominates the ring.

With a slow and assured swagger that defies his aging body, Edingwe Moto na Ngenge, the most decorated Congolese wrestler of all time, steps into the ring. At about six-foot-six and more than 220 pounds, with a prominent brow, deep-set eyes, a mohawk and a large dragon tattoo across the left side of his chest, he cuts an imposing figure. Edingwe, whose moniker, Moto na Ngenge, translates to Man of Great Power, struts back and forth across the ring with his shoulders thrown back, stamping his feet and contorting his face into grotesque expressions, toying with his opponent and whipping his loyal fans into a frenzy.

It’s January 2016 in Kinshasa, the pulsating capital city in the far west of the vast and volatile Democratic Republic of Congo. Just a year earlier, the radio-trottoir, or pavement radio, as the city’s incessant gossip mill is known, spread word that Edingwe was near death’s door, broke and unable to cover the hefty cost of his prolonged hospital stay, finally turning to God in a last-ditch effort to be saved.

Now, with thousands of spectators filling the lower-level stands of the Tata Raphaël stadium and local television crews set up around the wrestling ring erected in the middle of the soccer field, Edingwe’s got something to prove.

However, it’s his challenger, Mal à l’aise, which translates to Ill at Ease, who attacks first. He takes a dead snake from his trainer at the edge of the ring, wraps it around his neck for a moment, then holds it tight with one hand close to its head and the other at the end of its tail, thrusting it repeatedly and exaggeratedly in the direction of Edingwe. The great champion is momentarily stunned by this act of sorcery, and with his eyes wide in surprise he becomes rooted to the spot, rocking back and forth like a tall tree in the wind.

But Edingwe soon grows tired of this impetuous display, breaks the spell, and with a swift extension of his right arm and a raised, open palm, calls on the spirits of his ancestors. The magical powers they have so long bestowed on him send Mal à l’aise tumbling backward onto the mat, where he lies paralyzed. Edingwe kneels beside his hapless opponent, grasps at his midriff and appears to extract his intestines like long pieces of pink elastic. He holds them aloft and then lowers them into his gaping mouth; as he eats them, blood pours from the corners of his lips onto his chest. A government minister sitting near the ring faints. Mal à l’aise, also unconscious, is covered and carried away.

Edingwe is swiftly escorted from the arena by his entourage before his opponent’s angry supporters seek revenge for such a merciless performance. After just a few minutes, it’s all over.

* * *

The unique and wildly popular Congolese variety of wrestling, which bears some similarities to American professional wrestling, took off in the late 1960s and early ’70s. Around this time, a handsome young man named Kele Kele Lituka became Congo’s first professional wrestler and a household name, defeating European champion Claude Leron and celebrated American wrestler El Greco.

Lituka beat his Western opponents by drawing on wrestling techniques that in fact long preceded the influence of the American school. He incorporated elements of a traditional Congolese fighting style called libanda, which is said to have traveled to Brazil with slaves from the ancient Kingdom of Kongo centuries earlier and served as the genesis for the Brazilian martial art of capoeira. (While elements of the matches are clearly played up for dramatic effect, organizers here, like their American counterparts for a time, have long insisted that nothing is staged.)

Edingwe holds aloft what are ostensibly the intestines of his opponent at the Tata Raphael Stadium in Kinshasa in January 2016. (Photo courtesy Edingwe)

“Since the early days of urbanization, there have been public fights in Kinshasa,” says Katrien Pype, Ph.D., a professor of African cultural anthropology at the University of Birmingham in the United Kingdom and at KU Leuven University in Belgium. In the 1950s, when this sizable swath of Central Africa was still a Belgian colony, a style of fighting called mukumbusu emerged. Inspired by the movements of gorillas and incorporating both foreign and African fighting styles, mukumbusu was a “reaction to the other martial arts that were brought in by the colonialists,” Pype says.

In the late 1970s, a young, cocksure fighter from a poor family in Kinshasa’s ramshackle Matete neighborhood stepped into the ring for the first time. A notorious brawler at school who sometimes even came to blows with his teachers, Edingwe, whose real name is Edmond Ngwe Mapima, had already shown promise in the boxing ring. He would quickly leave an indelible mark on Congolese wrestling, introducing the sport to the aspect of magic and sorcery, known locally as fétiche, with its practitioners referred to as féticheurs.

Fétiche is the foundation on which the Congolese manifestation of contemporary wrestling has been built. Tapping into local superstitions and the widespread Congolese belief in traditional magic, mysticism and the spirit world, Edingwe’s mastery of fétiche gave him an insurmountable advantage over his opponents. As Caroline Six wrote in a 2015 article in the French press: “The success of a wrestler in Congo is often not founded on strength, technique or style, but on his capacity to make people believe in his powers of sorcery.” Edingwe is the perfect embodiment of this claim.

Mobutu Sese Seko, the flamboyant, corrupt and ruthless dictator who ruled Congo — which he renamed Zaire — for more than 30 years until his death in 1997, was a great wrestling aficionado. He used the sport as a focal point for what Pype calls his “authenticity politics,” whereby he shunned and in some cases banned cultural practices deemed to be Western and instead promoted a new, African vision of Congolese national belonging.

“During Mobutu’s time, wrestling was promoted as the national sport. There was a lot of financial support and massive state-organized and sponsored events and tournaments,” Pype says. For the first time, Congolese wrestling was also widely televised across the country. This helped Edingwe become the sport’s greatest icon, equal parts feared and revered. But those days were long ago.

* * *

When it rains hard in Matete, as it does most days during Congo’s wet season, the labyrinthine streets and alleyways — many of which are unpaved and untraversable by car — quickly become fast-flowing red-brown rivulets carrying trash and human waste between the buildings. At such times, this overcrowded and notoriously crime-ridden area is unusually quiet; small groups of young boys huddle outside kiosks that sell cigarettes, soft drinks and basic household essentials, seeking shelter beneath the jagged metal overhangs that jut out over the front stoops. Otherwise, the streets are deserted.

Behind a large red metal gate opposite one such kiosk, Edingwe sits silently with a few friends and family members on pink plastic chairs, while a few laborers in tattered overalls work noisily to cover exposed rafters on the roof with sheets of metal. A light breeze gusts through the empty window frame beside them. One day, Edingwe, who says he does not know his age but is likely somewhere in his late 50s, hopes this building will serve as both a new house for his family and a fitting testament to his long and illustrious wrestling career. In his deep, slow drawl, the great champion says, “My only regret is that my parents died poor while I was still too young. I wish they had still been alive to see this when it is complete.”

Left: Edingwe suddenly transforms once he is dressed in his wrestling attire, striking macho poses for the camera at his home in Matete, Kinshasa. Right: Edingwe demonstrates some of the grotesque facial expressions that he uses in the ring to strike fear into his opponents and whip his adoring fans into a frenzy. (All photos by Christopher Clark)

Edingwe has not had a fight since his famous disembowelment of Mal à l’aise more than a year ago. A few days after the fight, a wildly sensationalist Congolese news site reported that, thanks to a quick visit to both the clinic and a local temple, Mal à l’aise had miraculously survived. However, he complained that he was still experiencing some discomfort in his stomach. 

The pavement radio is buzzing with news that despite Edingwe’s now infamous comeback, he is still barely scraping by financially, paying his bills by doing occasional work as an informant for the police in Matete, where he uses his magical powers to pinpoint the location of alleged criminals.

Local journalist Francis Mbala says that wrestling has been hit hard by the political impasse that engulfed the Congolese capital when beleaguered president Joseph Kabila failed to step down at the end of his two-term presidential limit in December 2016. The impasse has thrust the city, and the country, into a new period of uncertainty, crippling the local economy. Sporadic political protests have been met by an increasingly violent state response, leaving scores of protesters dead. Meanwhile, rebel militias have resurfaced in the long-afflicted Kivu provinces in the east of the country, while a bloody guerilla war between the army and anti-government rebels has claimed at least 3,000 lives — with gross human rights abuses alleged on both sides — and forced more than a million people to flee their homes.

“With the current political and economic crisis, there is a severe lack of sponsors for wrestling,” Mbala says. Official wrestling institutions and federations “almost don’t exist in Kinshasa anymore,” he adds, and big wrestling events have inevitably become much less frequent.

But Pype says that the trials and tribulations of Congolese wrestling precede the current political impasse. “During Mobutu’s time, wrestling was the national sport,” she reiterates, “but unfortunately for the wrestlers, the current government hasn’t recognized what the sport and its practitioners could mean to them and to the creation of national cohesion and unity. Mobutu invested a lot more in the promotion of Congolese culture in general.”

Pype insists that wrestling remains an important part of daily life for the Kinois, as Kinshasa’s residents are known, especially for young men in working-class neighborhoods like Matete. For many of these men, wrestlers represent an ideal body image — and they are also emblematic of the possibility of transcending one’s impoverished circumstances.

Edingwe has a more straightforward take on why he hasn’t had a fight in so long: He says that no one is currently up to the challenge. He is not announcing his retirement just yet, but he is already pinning great hope on his eldest son, a 33-year-old who lives and fights in Belgium — and is known as Little Edingwe.

“The powers that I inherited from my grandfather, who was also a wrestler, will gradually be transferred to my son,” Edingwe says. “God has not given these powers to anyone else, so this is what I am counting on. When my son is strong enough, I will stop fighting.”

Other champions of Edingwe’s era agree that the next generation of greats is yet to announce itself in Kinshasa. Mwimba Makiese, who goes by the nickname Texas, shares the sense that the increasing lack of financial incentives has played a role, pushing young working-class men into Kinshasa’s violent street-fighting scene — where they can at least achieve a level of localized fame and notoriety — rather than the official wrestling circuit.

Like Edingwe, Makiese, who claims to have won an impressive 646 out 650 matches in his career, is looking to retire soon, potentially adding to the vacuum. Makiese has long been the leading proponent in Congo of the so-called “classical” American style of wrestling. He has often publicly denounced fétiche wrestling, which he claims has fueled a growing negative narrative that dismisses wrestlers as “brigands.” Makiese is currently training two young wrestlers in the hope that they will fill his considerable shoes and continue to build on his legacy of “clean, technical wrestling,” as he calls it.

Widely known both for his success in the ring and for being the first albino wrestler in Congo, Makiese is also a renowned philanthropist, having created a foundation for Kinshasa’s routinely persecuted and ostracized albino population. Money that Makiese earned from wrestling helped build the foundation, but in recent years he has had to find other means of sustaining it. To that end, he now runs a small shop with his wife.

“Before, I could live solely from wrestling. I built my house with money from wrestling. I educated my kids with money from wrestling. Now, things have changed,” Makiese says. “But I’m like a chameleon — I’ll always find a way to adapt,” he adds.

Back in Matete, Edingwe seems less willing to adapt. Wrestling, after all, is his calling. He believes it was preordained. He believes that only he can save Congolese wrestling from the slump it is currently experiencing.

As if to show his readiness to shoulder this considerable burden, Edingwe goes to get his wrestling attire — high socks, lace-up boots and tight black spandex shorts — from the small main house behind the unfinished outbuilding. When he returns, the short walk seems to have put considerable strain on his body. He struggles to get up the single step back into the outbuilding and has to use the wall for support. He breathes heavily as he slowly and laboriously lowers himself back into his chair, where a young male relative helps him lace up his boots. It’s hard to imagine that just over a year ago, Edingwe was proudly strutting back and forth across the ring like a peacock, in front of his adoring fans, as he prepared to disembowel Mal à l’aise.

A young relative of Edingwe helps the champion wrestler, who appears to be in ill health, lace up his boots before he poses for pictures at his home in Matete, Kinshasa.

But as soon as he is dressed, Edingwe transforms. His back straightens, his shoulders rise; legs slightly akimbo, he throws a few slow-motion air punches left and then right across his body while contorting his face into grimaces, the veins in his neck bulging. 

Two of Edingwe’s daughters can’t help giggling at this spectacle. In a mock-aggressive tone, he commands them to come and stand beside him, where he loops an arm over each of their shoulders. The girls grow suddenly shy beside Edingwe’s enormous frame and will not meet his eyes. Imperceptible to them, a slight smile crosses their father’s lips.

For the briefest of moments, he is defeated.

Edingwe smiles down on two of his daughters at home in Matete, Kinshasa.

“Coming Out” as Face Blind

What it’s like to live with a disorder that means sometimes I can’t even recognize my own family members—and why I’m not keeping it a secret any longer.

When there was a familiar knock on our front door around eight at night on a Friday, I knew it was my dad. But then my mom, in her oversized cat sweater and baggy jeans, removed the door chain from its lock and opened the door, revealing a tall, slender bald man with no facial hair.

Who’s that?” I asked, in my blunt six-year-old way.

“It’s Daddy?” My mom’s voice sounded uncertain for a minute, but then she laughed. “He shaved his head!”

I had never seen my dad without his full, wavy dark brown locks before. They were unlike my mom’s pin-straight light brown long bob with face framing bangs. I looked him over. My dad was still wearing a long-sleeved red plaid shirt, blue jeans with a belt, and heavy black boots. He had a pair of sunglasses sticking out of his pocket.

“Pumpkin, I shaved my hair.” That was my dad’s voice and he always called me pumpkin, so I started laughing, equal parts nervous and relieved. “Are you excited to spend the weekend together?” It took me a few moments to warm up to the idea that this was my dad, but then I launched into a list of things I wanted to do with him for the next two days, and watching both my parents smile at me reassured me that everything would be okay. My parents didn’t notice that my panic was unusual at the time, because it’s common for young kids to learn about permanence when someone drastically changes their hair. But although the panic subsided in the moment, I knew the feeling was probably related to how unsettled I felt when I was looking for my mom at the grocery store or when a neighborhood kid waved at me from the playground.

When I was around seven or eight, we learned that I have mild prosopagnosia, also known as “face blindness.” Prosopagnosia appears to be different from other neurological memory problems because it doesn’t cause any other issues with memory and isn’t always caused by brain damage — as in my case, it can be developmental and genetic. I’ve had difficulty recognizing almost everyone in my life from time to time, whether it’s someone famous, like Harrison Ford or Taylor Swift, or someone I know intimately, like my best friend or my own dad.

My face blindness comes with a set of challenges, including the surge of panic I feel when I have to search for someone I know in a large crowd. There’s a deep social stigma attached to not recognizing someone that you’re supposed to know, so I’m often too afraid to admit that I struggle with this, which leaves me vulnerable every time I’m not positive whether or not I recognize someone. 

Brad Duchaine, an associate professor in the department of psychological and brain sciences at Dartmouth College who is on staff at the Prosopagnosia Research Centers, says that face blindness can cause social difficulty, particularly because people are often offended when you don’t recognize them. He adds, “It also causes workplace difficulties. If you fail to recognize your boss in the elevator, it’s not going to be good for your career.” When I worked in a mid-sized office with about 150 coworkers, daily interactions like mornings, meetings, and passing people when I stood up from my desk in our open office were hell. When I was preparing my ahi tuna salad at lunchtime in the kitchen, trying not to stare at the redhead man next to me, a flash of panic washed over me when he looked my way. Did I know him? He wasn’t in the small social media and publicity department with me; I’d already memorized the clothing, hair, body language, posture, and voices of everyone on our team. When in doubt, I never explicitly introduce myself or say, “Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” Instead, I opened with, “That looks delicious,” when he removed his croissant from the microwave, searching for signs that he recognized me on his face. Other people’s eyes lit up and their expressions became more trusting when they recognized me, even more so when we were intimately familiar, and I look for those cues during interactions where I can’t recognize someone.

I silently begged that I hadn’t said the wrong thing, that he wasn’t a complete stranger who would find my comment off-putting. I never knew how conversational to be with people if I couldn’t recognize them. Asking someone about their weekend felt reserved for coworkers I had interacted with more than a handful of times, but I often wasn’t aware when I’d crossed that threshold.

Thanks, I got it from South End Buttery down the street. If you haven’t been yet, you should check it out,” he said. Sounds like we haven’t talked before, but he knows I’m fairly new here, I thought, trying to push away my fear. He wouldn’t realize I didn’t recognize him if I didn’t make it obvious.

I know how hard it can be to be open about your differences, both inside and outside the workplace. So I’ve kept my face blindness a secret with the help of some adaptive strategies I keep up my sleeve for moments of awkward interaction, like carefully picking my opening lines, and memorizing hairstyles. Technology has saved me on a regular basis since social media became popular in the mid-2000s, and even more so with smartphones. Before I meet up with someone, especially if I’m likely not to recognize them because they don’t have a unique identifier (like a red beard, a wheelchair, pink hair, or a mohawk), I can study photos of them saved to my phone or posted to their Facebook. I can look for the kind of clothes they might be wearing, how their hair is currently styled, if they tend to smile without teeth.

Duchaine says that most prosopagnosics have alternate systems for recognition. Many study Facebook and photos, while some are even hoping facial recognition apps like the one developed for Google Glass will become widespread. A common tactic (which I also use) is making sure to arrive at a meeting spot before anyone else so we won’t be the one picking out a singular face. People also tend to specialize in particular features. “One guy I worked with focused on people’s jeans,” says Duchaine. “In the town he grew up in, everyone wore the same jeans every day.”

I often rely on hair as my main recognition cue, which is why I’ve mistaken other tall, bald men wearing sunglasses for my own father (never enough to actually say, “Hey, Dad!” to them, thankfully, but I’ve walked up to quite a few bald strangers), and why I didn’t recognize him when he first went bald.

Hair, clothing, and other cues are also central to how I identify myself. I don’t always instantly recognize myself in a passing mirror or a photo, particularly if I’m wearing gym clothing or I’m wearing my hair up, since those are so far removed from my daily look. During my senior year of high school, when I cut eight inches off my hair to donate to Locks of Love, and chopped the rest into a pixie cut, seeing myself in the mirror or a selfie actually made me do a double-take. I hadn’t realized that my signature face-framing hair and blunt bangs were how I recognized myself, and I couldn’t see my reflection as me without them. And more than that, my hair is central to my identity. My mom, who died when I was a kid, wore her hair the same way I do — and without that hairstyle, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see what other people are always saying: “You look just like your mom.” I can’t remember my mom’s face, because I don’t remember anyone’s, but I don’t want to lose the little details I do remember about her, like her refusal to wear makeup, her jean jacket, her oversized green Melrose firefighters’ T-shirt, or her blunt brown bangs hanging above her light blue eyes.

I disliked the change so much that I eventually bought a wig and extensions, and resolved to never change my hair again.

* * *

When I was an undergrad in college, I met the only other person who has ever admitted to me that they have face blindness. We were talking about horror movies when my friend, who spends more time during our regular movie marathons making mile-a-minute jokes than analyzing the plot, said, “I can’t watch movies with a lot of characters because I can’t tell anyone apart. The villain will come on screen and I’ll be like, ‘Who’s that?’ and everyone else will be like, ‘That’s the killer, Jon!’” He and I laughed for almost 15 minutes until we had tears streaming down our cheeks.

A few years later, I came across Holding Up the Universe, by Jennifer Niven, and Bone Gap, by Laura Ruby, both novels with prosopagnosic main characters. After reading Holding Up the Universe, I told my girlfriend — who has never heard the inner monologues of panic whenever we’re out at a mall and I lose track of her — how close to reality the protagonist’s daily life is, with the exception that his face blindness is more severe than mine.

Bone Gap was a book club pick at my workplace, and when a coworker brought up how interesting the condition was and that she’d never heard of it, I was itching to say, “Actually, I have it. I wouldn’t recognize any of you outside this office.” I was dying to tell someone that the reason I avoid office jobs with a large staff is how stressful it is trying to figure out if I’ve introduced myself to someone (unless it’s the one guy with a long black pony tail or the woman who wears printed hijabs). But as my coworkers talked about how hard it must be for someone to live with face blindness, I clammed up and kept my mouth shut, not wanting to cross the line from professional into too personal and risk alienating myself.

I sat alone at lunch for half of eighth grade after the school circulated that I was bisexual, and what I love most about my adult life is that it seems I’ve finally escaped that. Every time I’ve revealed something that makes me different — my queerness, the physical disability that I use a lavender cane for — people use it as grounds to harass and ostracize me, or turn me into a sideshow with deeply personal questions aimed at their own consumption and not my comfort. How do I have sex with my partner? What were some ways I was left out as a kid with a disability? Could I play with other kids on the playground? I know people would ask these kinds of questions about my face blindness; they would poke and prod it until they were satisfied. So I’ve always kept it to myself.

I hit my breaking point a couple of weeks ago when my cousin visited from Texas. We’re closely related, since her mom was my mom’s sister and her dad was my dad’s brother, and we look alike. But when she asked me to get dinner with her friends and her at Hooters, I panicked. I got to the restaurant right at seven, wondering: Was she inside yet? Would I see her if I walked around the restaurant, or would I be caught stopping at each individual table, studying its occupants as they awkwardly chowed down on chicken wings? I called her three times to no avail before finally asking my girlfriend if she could take a quick walk around inside, where she quickly spotted Nicole.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” I said to my cousin with a slight hard edge to my voice, looking around the noisy, packed restaurant. There was no way I would have spotted her in this crowd. I thought that I had plans for every contingency, like calling someone on the phone to discern their location — but I had failed. What if my girlfriend wasn’t there to check for Nicole for me? Would I have gotten in my car and driven home, hungry and missing out on a night of her company? Would I, as an adult, have gone to the wait staff and asked them to announce Nicole’s name over the loudspeaker like she was my five-year-old child, embarrassing myself in the process? “I’m not mad at you, but you should have at least told me you were here.”

“I’m so sorry, my phone is in my bag.” Nicole pulled it out to demonstrate and waved in the direction of her other friends at the table. “We were talking and I didn’t hear it ringing. It’s loud in here. You could have just come in and looked for me. I’ve been here since seven.” This wasn’t a big deal to her. She couldn’t see how frantic I felt at the thought of scanning faces to try and determine if I knew someone. That was how the world looked in my eyes, like a sea of blank faces, each ready to condemn me if I couldn’t distinguish them from what looked like an identical face next to theirs.

“You should have just texted me at least once to say, ‘I’m here.’” I was frustrated; not at Nicole, although I wished she’d had the forethought to realize it was past seven and check to see if I’d called her.

As we were moving to a bigger table to accommodate our late arrival, Nicole continued apologizing for not checking her phone. She shouldn’t apologize without knowing what the real problem was, I thought.

“I have face blindness,” I admitted to her, and this was the first she’d heard of it. My heart raced in my chest. I was still afraid she would ask me detailed personal questions or simply not believe me. I was also born without a sense of smell, and throughout my life, I’ve been met with immediate disbelief when I tell people; they think it’s impossible that I can taste and enjoy food but I can’t smell anything at all, whether it’s savory or disarming.

As I explained what face blindness is to my cousin, my heart stopped pumping so fast. She was asking polite follow-up questions because she wanted to understand, not to mock me or put me on trial for experiencing life differently. “I don’t think I would have found you in here unless you texted me to say, ‘I’m in the back of the restaurant, booth near the window.’” I recounted all the times I’d asked her where she was sitting if we were meeting in public, and she instantly remembered telling me exactly what table number she was sitting at so I could approach wait staff and be directed to her.

“I had no idea,” Nicole said. “I swear I’ll check my phone next time so you won’t have to worry.” She’ll never know what it feels like to wander through the tables and booths at a restaurant, searching for a familiar face and making eye contact with parties who want to remain undisturbed, but she’s willing to accept that I know that feeling.   

The next day, she wore a bright lime green skirt and printed shirt with swans on it when we met at the Boston seaport. “My phone is going to die,” she texted me thoughtfully, as she described her outfit in detail. “I’ll be at the docks around 6:30.”

Sure enough, as soon as I noticed a flash of lime green among the crowd, I screamed her name and she turned.

I had admitted my biggest weakness, and the world didn’t fall apart. My cousin accommodated me. She wore something noticeable and made sure to meet me somewhere visible. She didn’t prod me for a diagnosis or medical details, and it was obvious she believed me, even though our abilities differ.

Her lime green tennis skirt told me something I should have known years ago: It’s okay to “come out” as face blind. So what if I thought Daenerys from “Game of Thrones” and Legolas from “The Lord of the Rings” were the same character? That just gives me dozens of inside jokes with the people who know I have a facial recognition deficit, but love me anyway.

That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning

After years getting paid to bare my breasts at more clubs than I can count, when my funds hit an all-time low I pioneered a cleaner brand of sex work.

Topless Housecleaning + Lapdance
Gentlemen, do you need a good, clean tease after a hard day’s work? I’ll clean your house and give you a (1) lapdance
$100/hr – have your own cleaning supplies – no blocked numbers.

When I arrive at the house of the first viable person to respond to my Craigslist ad, I knock on the door and take a step back. He opens it right away. Jim or John, suddenly I can’t remember. He’s young to have such a nice mini-mansion with a swimming pool and younger than I normally like to deal with. I like his work jeans and dirty white t-shirt, though. They feel kind of homey.

I step in, a little flirty, but all-business to begin with. I get him to show me the whole house, which serves the double purpose of planning ahead for cleaning and making sure there’s no one else hiding, ready to pop out for a gang rape later. Just when the tour is complete my phone rings. It’s my security detail — Possum, the hillbilly witchdoctor I’ve befriended, following instructions to wait for me to clear the house and call to be sure everything’s okay.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s all good in here. Call me in like an hour.”

Ayep,” Possum replies in his drawl.

I turn to JimJohn and start to pull my shirt off, then stop. “Business before pleasure, babe,” I say, making the little money sign with my fingers.

“Oh, of course.” He pulls a hundred out of his pocket and presses it into my hand. I shove it down one of my stockings as I take my pants off, because I have always believed that the safest place for my money is right against my skin.

* * *

I’d had eighty dollars left to my name when I drove into Greenville, South Carolina. Half a tank of gas and two blueberry smoothies later, it dwindled to sixteen dollars folded together in the bottom of my pocket. For some people, this might have been a problem, but not for me. I have the magical ability to walk into a strip club just about anywhere there is one and make a few hundred bucks just because I’m willing to get naked and smile at people.

Sex work is my trust fund. When I’ve been broke down on the side of the road with no money, when I’ve been a homeless teenager, when I’ve wanted to buy a house, a car, an education — sex work has always been there for me. I’ve done almost all the sex work: everything from street hustling to dancing in bejeweled gowns to foot fetish parties and erotic hypnosis. Whenever I discover a new form of sex work — the weirder or more interesting the better — I try to experience it.

I’m staying, with my dog, Spot, in my van down by the river next to Possum, who lives in a van that’s much bigger and nicer than mine. Possum drew me a map showing how to get to the two strip clubs he knows of: a big one, and a little one. Big strip clubs sometimes have things like rules and schedules and lots of competition and high house fees, which I don’t like. I decided to try the small one first.

The small one turned out to be a brothel with very little business, where I met some very beautiful, very southern women, including a 300-pound dancer named Hamhock who I wish I could introduce to every teenager worrying about their weight ever.

I was too fat for the big one, or the door guy was having a bad day.

I started to feel a little panic. That’s when the idea of topless housecleaning came to me — purely formed, rising sweetly out of my desperation — so I put up a Craigslist ad and here I am at Jim or John or whatever his name is’ house.

* * *

I do the kitchen first, like my friend Tania who actually grew up in a mansion and knows how to clean explained to me last night on the phone. I keep up a steady stream of flirting while I put his dishes in the dishwasher and move everything on the counter to one end so I can clean it. While I’m stacking his mail neatly I check out his name. Jim. The counter is dirty, covered in stains and puddles of dried-up food and glue and who knows what else. Scrubbing while bending over a counter in six-inch heels, back arched so that your ass sticks up pretty, is hard work. Especially while flirting the whole time with a man you hope is staring at your ass and not your sweaty face.

He asks about me, how I came to be a topless housecleaner. I don’t tell him that he’s my first, or that I’m broke, or that I live in a van. If you watch television you know what happens to broke homeless women: They give $20 blow jobs, not $100 counter scrubbings. Instead I make up a prissy story about finishing my Master’s degree and taking a year to drive around the country in an R.V. dancing. Of course I tried dancing here, I explain, but the clubs are just so dirty, and I’m way too classy to expose myself to such an environment. The crazy thing I’ve discovered is that the snobbier you seem, the more they will pay you.

Jim is amazingly empathetic about the nastiness of the local clubs. A classy woman like me obviously doesn’t belong in places like those. He follows me from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom to living room, staring while I wipe, mop, scrub and vacuum, all while trying to look like I’m not sweaty from doing this work in humid 90-degree weather. His story is interesting. All his time goes to his race-car business, which is like a dream, but lots of hard work. He bought this house two years ago, but hasn’t had the time or taste to furnish it yet, though he does find the time to indulge in the tradition of illicit hooch brewing down in the basement. Steely grey eyes and his young tough look contrast with his docile nature as he tamely follows me around his house. I’m beginning to think all men in the South must be gentlemen.

When I’m done cleaning I settle him on his couch, set my iPod to Depeche Mode, and tell him that he gets one free lap dance with his housecleaning and after that they are twenty dollars, just like in the club. He opens his wallet and peels off another hundred, right away, and tells me to just dance until that runs out.

“No touching,” I remind him as the song starts and I move in front of him. Soon I’m crawling all over him, undulating, brushing my ass across his hard penis through his jeans. He is begging me to let him touch me, and I’m reminding him that I’m not that kind of girl, although I make sure to sound a little confused.

“Come on,” he says, getting his wallet out. “What about for another hundred?”

I pretend to think hard, then: “Okay.” I take his hands and guide them over my body. “You can touch here — my ass, my thighs, my stomach, but no titties or pussy.”

“Two hundred?” he pulls two crisp $100 bills out of his wallet.

It’s not really a question for me. I’ve given this much contact for thirty dollars a song. I pretend to think long and hard, though. If I let on that I have no principles, I can’t pretend to sell them.

“Okay,” I finally say, pushing the bills down my stockings, “but keep your hands off the kitty! That is not for sale!”

He has gentle, well-practiced hands that he swirls around my nipples and brushes softly over my ass. I arch my back and gasp in pretend ecstasy. Soon he wants more again — a hand job, a hundred dollars.

I insist that I’m not that kind of dancer while I consider this through to its logical conclusion. A couple hundred more for a hand job, a couple hundred more for a blow job, a lot more for sex. It could be a grand, easily. But do I want to have sex with this guy? The thing is, I’m a lesbian. The other thing is, sometimes I think I could be bisexual, and every year or two I have a man sex experiment. I can get into men, and right now on this guy’s lap, I’m turned on.

My phone rings again. It’s Possum. “It’s been an hour,” he says, “are you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” I giggle, “I’m having a great time. I’ll be just another fifteen minutes or so.”

Awright.” He hangs up.

“Will you touch it?” Jim asks.

Do I look like that kind of girl? I’m a very classy stripper, I remind him.

“Oh, of course, of course. I’m sorry,” he says. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“No…” I cock my head. “Actually… I’ve always kind of wondered what it would be like to do something like that for money.”

“Well, here’s your chance to find out.”

“Hmm…I dunno. I couldn’t. Well…how much?”

“A hundred?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

“Two hundred?” He’s got his wallet out, two crisp hundreds in his hand.

“Okay.” I grab them and shove them into my stocking. In my mind I’m counting and calculating miles. This makes 600, or is it 800? That’s, like, 5,000 miles of gas money! Or 2,000 miles and a month or two of groceries and stuff while I explore desert canyons and sky islands. What more could a girl need?

I slide down between his legs and he unzips his jeans eagerly. It is small, with a nice curve and for a second I love it and want to fuck him. Smiling, I bring my face close, admiring it like I’m about to lick it. He gasps and wiggles a little, and I take his cock in my hand. It’s already throbbing, and I just run my hand up it lightly, swirl some of the pre-cum back down it, run my fingers over the whole thing. He moans and half thrusts his hips. I love this. When I finally grab his cock, two-handed, and give it a couple strong, twisting strokes, he explodes right away. Perfect.

“Oh my god,” he says.

I giggle. “No, goddess.”

“Oh my goddess.” He smiles.

“Stay right there, I’m going to get you a washcloth.” I run to the bathroom.

While he cleans up, I pull my jeans and tank top back on over my fishnets and thong. I’m ecstatic and high from the rush of going from six dollars to 800 dollars in an hour with my hustling skills, but I know I won’t have really pulled it off until I’m in the van, driving away. I make myself look totally calm while I throw my iPod and cleaning stuff in the bag I came with, give him a goodbye hug, and tell him he should really call me again to clean the rest of the house.

I don’t start laughing until I’m in the van and Possum is driving us away. Then I fold over in my seat, laughing and clapping my hands with excitement.

“Possum,” I exclaim, “I love having a vagina!

Leaning back, I push my hips up to pull my jeans down and start fishing the hundreds out of my fishnets.

Possum looks over at me with my legs up on the bed, pulling eight $100 bills out of my thigh highs. “Holy shit,” he says, “I do believe I wish I had a vagina too.”

Checking “topless housecleaning” off my to-try list of sex-work gigs makes me enough money to get back on the road. The next day Spot and I get in the van and drive across the country until I find a beautiful desert-sky island in northern Arizona. I stay for a couple weeks, playing in a creek and tracking coyote, before I get low on money again and start over.

* * *

Tara Burns is the author of the Whore Diaries series. She lives in a little cabin in a big boreal forest and she is working on a memoir. Follow her @THEecowhore

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Michael Stahl is a freelance writer, journalist and editor living in Astoria, New York. He serves as a Narratively features editor as well. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelRStahl.

Casey Roonan is a cartoonist and cat person from Connecticut. Follow Casey on Instagram: @caseyroonan

I’m Married. I’m a Woman. I’m Addicted to Porn.

Countless couples have tackled the taboo subject of racy videos and illicit orgasms. What happens when it’s the woman who can’t stop watching?

This story features explicit situations that may not be suitable for all audiences.

It’s past two a.m. and my husband’s breathing has become long and even. An opportunity presents itself. I slip my right hand down my pajama pants and move slowly, careful not to bump my elbow into his side rib, or bring my hips into it. Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. He’ll think he doesn’t satisfy me, and men do not like feeling inadequate, especially when it comes to matters of the bedroom. Or maybe he’ll feel sorry for me. And who wants to fuck someone they pity?

Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. That he’s bored with it. He’s disgusted. He’s had enough.

I lift my wrist away from my body. I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. The body desires the convulsion the mind denies. There is no letting go here though. This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.

I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband. In some cases, as expected, it was because I wanted more sex than they could give me. I’ve been called “insatiable” and “demanding” one too many times. But this has not always been the story. Yes, I have an incredibly high sex drive, but even in relationships where I have great sex multiple times a week my nighttime stealth for self-pleasure has persisted.

My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males. We fucked all the time, but even still, I wanted more, something only I could give me. One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him. That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.

I made a promise to my husband and to myself, long before we were even wed, to be austerely honest. He knows I’ve been a compulsive masturbator since I was twelve years old. He knows about my extensive fluency in the hardcore categories of various porn sites. He knows about the bad habit I used to have of hooking up with not-so-nice men because they were available and I was bored — and that I rarely used protection with any of them. And that I believed, for a really long time, that my addiction made me a broken person, a disgusting person, a person unworthy of love. I told him these things from the start because I met him at a time in my life where I was ready and open for change. Because I liked him so much that I wanted to love him. Because I knew that the only way to love him, and be loved by him, was to be myself.

* * *

“What’s your favorite porn scene?”

The man who will become my husband in less than a year asks me this question as he lies naked and vulnerable beside me. We’ve just had sex and although I am naked too, it isn’t until this moment that I feel just as vulnerable as him. While it might seem absurd to some, I know immediately this is a moment of great significance for us. It is an opportunity to finally do things differently.

The possibilities run through my head.

I can describe something vanilla: This one where a busty blonde gets banged by her personal trainer. Or perhaps something a little more racy: These two hot teens swap their math teacher’s cum after he made them stay late in the classroom. Chances are he’ll get hard again and we’ll end up abandoning the conversation for a second round. These are harmless answers. Expected answers.

They’re also lies.

The possibility of revealing the actual truth not only makes me nervous, but also physically sick. I feel a constriction in the back of my throat, a flutter in my belly, a tremble in my extremities. After all, we’ve only been dating a couple of months and he doesn’t love me yet. If I tell him, will he ever?

“Why do you ask?” I reach for the sheet, damp with sweat, a tangle of 300-thread-count cotton across our limbs, and yank it up to cover my breasts.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Curiosity?” He turns over on his side and props his head up on his left hand. His green eyes are wide with wonder.

“Seems like a weird question.” I tuck the sheet into my armpits and scoot my body a little to the left so we’re no longer touching. The tone of my voice has become defensive and he can tell.

“It’s just that I usually pick the porn,” he explains. “Do you like what I choose?”

I see what he’s doing. He’s trying to be considerate since we just had sex while staring at the laptop screen after searching terms of his choosing: Latina, real tits, blow job, threesome.

Maybe he feels guilty for getting off to them instead of me, even though I’m the one who suggested we watch porn in the first place. Even though I’m always the one who suggests we watch porn while we have sex.

“Yeah, sure.” I look up at the ceiling. “They’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I wish he’d stop prying, but I realize something else is happening here. Not only is he trying to be considerate; he’s also trying to get to know me. The past couple of months has allowed us to cover most of the basics — what ended each of our most recent relationships, what our parents are like, what we hope to do with our lives in the next few years — but there’s still a longing for something deeper, and I can’t think of anything deeper than knowing a person’s favorite porn scene.

It can speak volumes. For one scene to stand out amongst the rest, when so many others are available, there has to be something below the surface. What maintains its appeal? What keeps a person returning in the deep, dark recesses of a lonely night? Perhaps the answers to these questions are a great source of shame. I never thought of revealing such answers to anybody, and especially not somebody like him, somebody I could really like. It seems far too risky, preposterous even.

It also seems necessary. Too many of my past relationships were doomed by my inability to tell the whole truth, to fully be myself. Now I have the opportunity to go there, and to say to a person, “This is who I am. Do you accept me?”

“Well, there’s this one gang bang,” I start, looking over at his face to see a reaction of surprise and interest register at once.

“Go on.”

I take a deep breath and proceed to tell him, first slowly, then progressively faster about the scene. Like a busted dam, I can hardly hold back the rush of descriptors fumbling from my mouth: “Two women in a warehouse. One dangling from a harness. The other just below her. Both are waiting to take on fifty horny men…” and on and on.

I watch his face the whole time, not pausing when his smile becomes a frown and his eyes squint as if it hurts to look at me.

“Afterward, the women exit the warehouse through a back door while the men applaud.”

For a long moment after I’ve finished talking, there is silence between us, but there is also a sense of relief on my part. I have revealed something so dark, so upsetting, so impacted in shame, and he hasn’t immediately disappeared. He is still here beside me, propped up on his left hand, naked and vulnerable, and so am I. He sees me and I see him seeing me and we are in new territory.

But then he says, “I kind of wish I hadn’t asked.” It’s all I need to hear to send me into tears. Not just tiny, embarrassed sobs, but humiliated wails. I have myself a tantrum. He is confused now as he pulls me close to him, laughing nervously at my abrupt shift in disposition. I try to pull the sheet completely over my head, but he pulls it back down and covers my face with apologetic kisses. He can’t possibly understand why I’m crying. He can’t possibly know what I’ve just revealed to him. “What’s going on? Baby, what’s wrong?”

And so I tell him.

* * *

Addiction to porn and masturbation is often grouped under general sex addiction because they all have to do with escape via titillation, pursuit and orgasm, but I’ve always felt more pathetic about my predilections. Going out and fucking — even someone you don’t really like — is wild, dangerous, but essentially social and shared. Though I had periods of promiscuity throughout my twenties, my biggest issue has always been with what I do alone.

There’s something so sad and humiliating in imagining a person locked away in a dark room, hot laptop balanced on chest, turning the volume down low, scrolling, scrolling, choosing, watching, escaping, coming.

And then realizing that person is me.

But my proclivity for solo pleasure has strong, stubborn roots. I lost my virginity to a water faucet when I was twelve years old. I have Adam Corolla and Dr. Drew to thank for this life-shaking experience; it was their late-night radio show “Loveline” on L.A.’s KROQ that served as my primary means of sex ed during my pre-teen years. This technique is one of the many things I learned, but I had a whole other kind of education going on, which had long filled my head with other ideas — sex is something that happens between a man and woman who love each other; masturbation is a sin. You know, your typical run-of-the-mill Catholic guilt stuff.

Just as oppressive as the Catholic guilt was my femininity. Girls weren’t talking about masturbation and sex. I had no company with whom to share my new activities and interests. And so this silence morphed into shame. I became a pervert, a loser, a sinner.

I tried to stop myself from taking long baths, from late-night undercover activities, from being alone too long, but the more I obsessed about stopping, the more I could not. I joined shame, secrecy and pleasure in a daily orgy, whether I was tired, bored, angry or sad. Whether I was single or coupled, it didn’t matter. Getting off required all of these components and I needed new, more extreme methods to stay engaged — more hours sucked away watching progressively harder porn like the warehouse video, complemented with dabbles in strip clubs, peep shows and shady massage parlors. It became impossible to get off during sex without fantasy, my body over-stimulated to numbness. I was irritable unless I was fucking or masturbating or planning to do either of these things. Life revolved around orgasm to the detriment of any kind of real progress in my professional or social existence.

I was out of control.

* * *

Little did I know that describing my favorite porn scene would be the first of many future admissions that would help peel back, layer by layer, a long and exhausting history of self loathing. My future husband and I quickly learned that watching porn during sex wasn’t a harmless kink for us; it was a method I’d long used to remain disconnected from my partners. It took much discipline and patience for us to expel it from our relationship altogether, though every now and then we slip up.

Talking about my habits led me to examine them, which ultimately led to my desire for change. Holding a secret for too long is like being unable to take a full breath. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. I needed to share — often and fully — what had for too long been silenced in order to reclaim who I was underneath my addiction. I needed to breathe again.

I found relief in Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings, seeing a therapist I trusted, attending personal development courses like the Hoffman Process and writing about my journey. I’ve managed to move away from porn for the most part, but when it comes to this addiction — to something I don’t have to seek out or purchase — control is like a wayward horse and my ass is always slipping off the saddle.

I constantly struggle with whether or not I should give up porn completely, but until I find a way to have some moderation with it, I avoid it as best I can. I wish I could just watch it occasionally, as some sort of supplement to my active sex life, but the whole ritual of watching porn is tangled up in too many other negative emotions. Watching porn takes me back to being that little girl alone in her bedroom, feeling ashamed and helpless to stop it. I can’t just watch one clip without needing to watch another after that, and another, until hours have passed and I’m back to binging every night.

If my husband leaves me alone all day and idleness leads me to watching porn, it’s the first thing I confess upon his return. Sometimes I don’t even have to say it. He can tell by my downturned eyes and my noticeable exhaustion. He shakes his head and takes me in his arms as I make another promise to try to leave it alone. When I visited a peep show on a recent work trip out of town, he seemed more amused than upset about the whole thing.

Unfortunately, I have yet to be as generous. If I find he’s been watching porn without me, when I’ve struggled to abstain for a stretch of time, I react with what might seem like unjustified rage. This frustration is only rooted in envy.

* * *

Masturbating beside my husband while he sleeps is the last secret I’ve kept from him. Although I’m beginning to fear that it’s actually just the latest secret. My resistance in telling him only proves how fragile recovery is. This week it’s masturbation. But maybe next week it’s back to porn binging. Or obsessive scrolling through Craigslist personals. Or lying about my whereabouts. And so forth. Abstaining from these habits, when so readily available, without abstaining from sexual pleasure completely, or the shame I’ve long bound to it, is a challenge I face daily.

That’s why I need to tell my husband.

Not because I need his permission, his forgiveness or to offer him some act of contrition. But because I need him to see me. To witness. The act of telling the truth, especially about something that makes us ache, is often the only absolution we need.

* * *

Erica Garza is a writer from Los Angeles. Her essays have appeared in Salon, Substance, LA Observed, The Manifest Station and HelloGiggles. She is also a staff writer at Luna Luna Mag. Read more at ericagarza.com and follow her on Twitter @ericadgarza.

Iris Yan is a Brazilian-born Chinese cartoonist who completed a one-year certificate at The Center for Cartoon Studies in Vermont.