After reading that Oprah has apologized for rebuking James Frey, I want to take another look at "A Million Little Pieces," Frey's controversial memoir about drug addiction that includes many fabrications. I find the fact that he made up so many details in a bestseller about his recovery incredibly sad, because he offers such an accurate and compelling portrait of a certain type of recovering addict that has been in every treatment center I've ever been in. And I've been in a quite a few.
I started using heroin when I was 17. When I was 23, I made my first attempt at in-patient treatment and over the next four years I tried five more approaches at different types of inpatient facilities, including the secular and religious; hospital and farm; 12-step and Therapeutic Community. Each facility had a different approach (sometimes wildly different), but there seemed to be two constants across all programs:
- Clients can never engage in physical violence, or threats of physical violence.
- Clients cannot have sexual or romantic relationships with other clients.
These are the cardinal rules. The one about violence is probably more important because physical aggression can infect the whole environment with fear and anger, making introspection impossible. The other rule prevents individuals from getting lost in the heady experience of a new relationship or just junking out on sex.
Now here is the interesting thing about these rules, or any rules: The disingenuous among us can find ways to use the rules themselves to gain an advantage. Once, during a stay in a religious facility in Syracuse, I met a young man who claimed to receive prophecies from God. The facility was a charismatic Christian operation, and prophecy and other gifts of the spirit were part of the inpatient milieu. This particular prophet was about 18, from a wealthy family, and handsome. He wore his hair feathered back like John Bon Jovi and only received transmissions from God during the long, hot catechism classes that followed lunch. His messages were almost always harmless aphorisms. The first time it happened, I thought he was having an epileptic fit. We were all sitting at our desks and he began to shake, making his chair rattle. Soon he began speaking in an otherworldly voice. You knew it was God speaking through him, because he used words like "verily" and "thou."
I'd glance over at Miguel, a drug addict from the Bronx, and roll my eyes. The proctor, a slight man with a soulful expression, would wait patiently for these prophecies to end, his hands folded on the lectern. What else could he do? In this facility, Jesus was A-1 and to prophesy was not only condoned, but encouraged.
Religious institutions may offer unique situations to subvert the rules, but the no violence rule offers a similar opportunity everywhere. Going into inpatient treatment can be intimidating, especially your first time around. You're suddenly thrust into the middle of a new hierarchy, where previously you may have never even understood a hierarchy existed. In an inpatient facility with strict rules against violence, you can't just beat one another down to determine the Alpha. That has to be done with stories. Instead of uttering prophecy, a person might exaggerate his credentials. This might involve the kinds and amounts of drugs used, the types of crimes committed, or the length of time spent in jail. Without the option of violence, there isn't a good way to sort out the liars. Typically this behavior comes from young men of wealthy families, during their first stay in treatment. Most of the time, it's just ignored, because nobody is allowed to beat them up. The greater risk is that clients posing as thugs will never come to understand themselves with any depth.
This seems to be exactly what happened to James Frey.
Ignoring the two cardinal rules of treatment, Frey describes his experience as a lot of tough posturing and a relationship. As I read "A Million Little Pieces," I kept thinking that Frey was viewing the world through the lens of an unreliable narrator. He seemed to have really captured the frightened little rich kid, desperate to prove his own worth. In treatment usually what happens is that the bona fide tough guys (you just know), start to explore their own fears and inadequacies. This is often enough to get the most hardened poser to come around and start being honest with himself and everyone else.
I kept wondering when Frey, the recovering addict and author, would throw back the cape, renounce all the bluster and swagger, and show us who he really was. But I got to the end of the book, and it never happened. Maybe Frey couldn't throw back that cape, because he had never had that experience in treatment. Maybe he never came to realize his own limitations.
Until Oprah hammered him on national television.
You can't go through treatment six times without developing some empathy for people who fuck up spectacularly, especially other addicts. One afternoon in Syracuse, the Bon Jovi prophet started to offer pointed messages critical of the entire group. The proctor listened calmly, then asked him to remain after class for a private conversation. I have no idea what was said, but from that day forward the prophecy stopped. One assumes the proctor disabused the boy of the notion that he could speak for God.
What else could be done?
Tim Elhajj is a writer in the Pacific Northwest. His essays and excerpts of his memoir have appeared in The New York Times, The Yalobusha Review, Brevity, and other publications. His website is telhajj.com.
