Rising Above the Frey
A Response to James Frey's A Million Little Pieces
By Dr. Brené Brown
Published in the Houston Chronicle on 2/1/2006

Like millions of Americans, I tuned in last week to watch Oprah confront James Frey about the validity of his memoir, A Million Little Pieces. The show was as riveting as it was uncomfortable – you couldn’t take your eyes off it, but at the same time it was painful to watch Frey stammer and shift in his seat as he scrambled to address allegations of lying and misleading readers.

Even though Frey was in the hot seat, the show really seemed to be more of an indictment of truthiness – the new term used to describe our society’s preference for concepts or facts we wish to be true, rather than facts known to be true.

Frey’s story is, indeed, about truthiness, but it’s also about something deeper – something more central to who we are as people. Everyone wanted Frey’s account of addiction and recovery to be true…the publishers, the readers, even Oprah. But, here’s the question: Why? How does the truth become less important than what we wish to be true?

Here’s my answer: We believe that the truth is boring. What drives our acceptance of truthiness is our deep need for things to be extraordinary. We need Frey’s fantastical story to be real. We long for what is remarkable.

As a shame researcher, I’ve spent the past six years interviewing people about shame and how it affects their lives. Over and over I hear people talk about the “smallness of their ordinary lives.” People struggle with the shame of living a life that’s never reflected back as important on TV or in the movies. Most of us live unremarkable lives that aren’t retold in page-turning memoirs or seen in the pages of the magazines that worship celebrity culture.

Frey’s story was bigger and truer than live. We love that. But, James Frey was not the face of addiction when his book was remarkable and true. And, he’s not the face of addiction now that his book is less remarkable and untrue.

Do people struggling with addiction hit bottoms as low as Frey’s fictional bottom? Yes, sometimes. But, there are thousands upon thousands of people who struggle with addiction and live in recovery in the most unremarkable way.

Most of us never get on a plane covered in urine and feces with a hole in our cheek. Our stories are much less exciting. When we look at our family histories and our goals, we decide that sobriety is a better option. Or, we come to understand that substance abuse is the way we’ve self-medicated a problem that needs medical attention. Maybe, we realize that genetics prevents us from enjoying an occasional glass of wine. And sometimes, our friends and family gather around us and tell us that they love us and they’re worried about us. All and all, pretty ordinary stuff.

People who struggle with addiction aren’t super tough warriors who are immune to the pain and challenges of the world. Most of us don’t sport tattoos of defiance. We aren’t amazing pillars of strength who lead fearless and perfectly examined lives either. When Frey was a hero, he didn’t represent us. And now, that people are saying things like, “What did you expect – he’s an addict,” he still doesn’t represent us.

We aren’t smarmy, slippery, lying, cheating, untrustworthy and manipulative. It’s not that easy. Most of us love and live with people who struggle with addiction everyday. If you include cigarettes and food, I’d venture to say that all of us are, in some way, struggling or connected to someone who is struggling. We’d never describe our partners, parents, children, in-laws and friends that way, so why is it OK to explain away Frey’s behavior by simply saying, “We’ve been duped by an addict?”

Frey’s story was simply a story, nothing more or less. No matter how amazing or remarkable, you can never substitute the diversity, complexity and richness of ordinary lives with a single story.

Even if the public’s opinion and understanding of addiction rises and falls with Frey’s popularity and reputation, most of us will just keep pushing through our lives, one day at a time. We won’t change and you won’t notice us. We’re still your neighbors, the president of the PTA, your rabbi, your doctor and your Sunday school teacher. Like most people, we just keep waking up every morning and setting out to be our best selves. Isn’t that extraordinary enough?