and fear of the unknown became my new, constant companions.
I eventually arrived at his motel and went up to his room and knocked on the door. The rain was down to a drizzle as he opened the door. We just looked at each other for a moment and then we hugged each other. I cried and he wept. We didn’t really talk much that first night—we were like strangers and very careful with what we said to each other.
The next day I met with Ben’s treatment team. He had a main physician, Dr. Richard Irons, plus a couple of different therapists who specialized in different areas of treatment. I’d been told to wear long pants and shirts with long sleeves that did not reveal much skin. They wanted Ben to be in a zero stimulation environment.
We sat down in Dr. Irons’ office along with his primary therapist, Sally. Ben was sitting beside me—a big gap between us, drinking a cup of coffee and staring down at the floor. Dr. Irons and Sally sat directly in front of me.
Before going to Menninger I had already decided that if he had not raped anyone or touched a child in an inappropriate way, I would at least stay with him until he completed any suggested in-patient treatment. Now, here I sat listening to an introductory course on sex addiction and how it relates to men in general and Ben specifically.
Ben buried his face in his hands. Every once and a while, I looked over at him and his face was gray with anguish at what was being said. The truth about how he had been living his life was finally out in the light of day.
At Sally and Dr. Iron’s urging, I asked Ben a couple of questions.
“Ben,” I said slowly, “have you ever raped anyone?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“Have you ever molested anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever inappropriately touched a child?” Then, I
asked, “Our children?”
The gravity of that question hit my husband hard. He looked over at me, horrified, that I would even think to ask that and said, “No, absolutely not.”
After a few moments , I looked at Dr. Irons.
“OK, Dr. Irons, I will stay and hear what he has to say.”
“Thank you, Maurita,” Dr. Irons said.
Because of Ben’s fear of my reaction and extreme shame in telling me about his double life, he could barely look me in the eye. It was Dr. Irons who summarized the bulk of Ben’s sexual behavior and told it to me in a professional yet “matter of fact” way. Because of Dr. Iron’s demeanor, I was strangely calm as we began the session. Still, there was no softening the meaning behind the words.
“Ben has had, over the course of your relationship and marriage, over a hundred extramarital sexual encounters,” explained Dr. Irons. “Some men in their addiction have to take on higher levels of risk to receive the desired feelings of reward. They build up a tolerance, if you will. Ben was always after the next high, the next thrill. The thrill of taboo sex, like prostitutes and strippers, was a tremendous high for him. Both of you will need to undergo HIV tests every three months to permanently rule out infection.”
I was horrified. I immediately thought I had AIDS. It would eventually take me almost ten months to get tested, I was so afraid. I thought people would say, “Why is Ben’s wife coming in for blood work? He must have cheated on her.” I was mortified. My mouth was too dry to verbalize it right then, but I think my face went a shade lighter as Dr. Irons continued to speak.
I thought, What about the kids? Do we have to get the kids tested, too?
Dr. Irons continued to divulge some of the scattered and sordid details of Ben’s sexual compulsions. Ben’s conscious exploits manifested during his time in Grenada at medical school. There seemed to be a forever steady infusion of tourists going to the islands who enjoyed several drinks along with anonymous vacation sex.
He said the sex was never personal. Ben did not even know these young women’s names. Oh, great. Is that supposed to make me feel better? I thought.
Quick, faceless, nameless sexual release was the drug of choice for Ben, but he used other drugs like alcohol, marijuana, and ecstasy to fuel his sexual acting out.
I listened as best I could, but my thoughts were scattered and fragmented. Who did I really marry and where did this behavior come from?
Dr. Irons ended our discussion with more grim news. “Statistically your marriage has a 98 percent chance of failure due to the length of time and scope of Ben’s addictive behavior. There is also a 95 percent chance of Ben having a sexual relapse in the first five years of his recovery.”
I slumped in my chair at this final blow. I could no longer hear the words of Dr. Irons. I was numb, shocked, and totally overwhelmed by the information and picture that was being painted before me.
“Did you ever think I would find out about any of this?” I asked Ben.
“No.”
“Did you ever think you’d get caught?”
“No,” he said. “I thought I was in complete control of it all. I thought I was too good at hiding it. Getting caught didn’t even occur to me.”
I looked at him, not knowing what to say. What a moron, I thought to myself.
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