55. Blakely
FIFTY-FIVE
Blakely
Turning Pointe is an exclusive, resort-type rehabilitation center, hidden away in the hills of California, specifically centered around celebrities who need privacy while they heal.
My dad, of course, “had connections” and was able to get me in for a thirty-day treatment.
I agreed without a fight. I’m so tired of being tired. Exhausted from pretending like I’m okay when it’s clear that I’m just a bunch of shattered pieces held together with warped tape.
Sierra, however, is not on board, scoffing at the notion of me disappearing for an entire month.
“Do you know what that will do to your career?” she snaps over the phone.
I sigh. “Sierra, I don’t care . I need to take care of me .”
“I never would have leaked to the press if I would have known the result was you having some come-to-Jesus moment.”
My heart stalls in my chest. “What did you just say?”
She breathes harshly over the line and my stomach drops to the floor. I had assumed the anonymous source was Kayla. Through everything that’s happened over the past few days, I’ve never once questioned Sierra’s loyalty. Always been under the assumption that she had my best interests at heart, she just didn’t know the best way to approach them.
Clearly, I’ve been a blind idiot.
“You’re fired.”
“What?” she gasps.
“You heard me. This…” I rest my forehead on the counter, letting the cool marble chill my overheated skin. “I’m done letting you make choices for me. Poisoning my mind to think I need to be something other than what I am.”
“You pay me to do that.”
“No, Sierra. I pay you to manage my schedule. To keep things organized. To be my right-hand woman. Not to make me feel like nothing is ever good enough. Like my flaws are worth ignoring, like it’s worth sacrificing fucking everything to make it to the top.” Fury burns through me, my words sharp as I hiss them down the line.
“That used to be your dream, too.”
“Yeah, well…dreams change.”
“So that’s it? You’re just done with me?”
“That’s it.” I smile as I breathe out the words. “I’m just done.”
I hang up the phone, twisting to face my father as he leans against the wall, spinning car keys around his finger. “You ready, honey?”
Sucking in a deep breath, I nod, fear chomping down on my insides at the unknown. “Yeah, I’ll meet you out there, I just…I have something I need to do real quick.”
He nods, walking away, and I turn, staring down at my phone like it’s about to reach out and strangle me to death.
Who knows, maybe it will.
I place the phone in its stand and press record, my chest whirling with anxiety.
For the first few seconds, I’m silent, staring at my unfiltered, makeup-free face, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Bile surges into my esophagus and I close my eyes.
One. Two. Three.
“Hi, everyone.” I smile into the camera, even as dread snakes down my spine and wraps around my hips. “You’re not used to seeing me like this.” I gesture to my face. “Honestly, I’m not used to seeing me like this.” I glance down at my fists clenched in my lap and back up to the screen, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “I’ve been lying to you. You see, I’ve spent years showing you all my perfects, not letting you see what happens behind the screen. And you deserve better than that.” A tear drips down my cheek. “ I deserve better than that.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, I continue. “So I guess this is my apology. I’m sorry for making you think I’m something I’m not. Spoiler alert: the internet isn’t reality. What you see any of us do is edited, set up. It’s bullshit .”
My fingernails cut into my palms, my head growing dizzy. “The truth is, I’m a wreck. And maybe someday soon, I’ll find the courage to share more of that with you. But first, I need to take care of me.” My voice cracks. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your support, I truly cherish every single second I’ve spent getting to know you, and I’m sorry that I let the genuine beauty of people connecting over the internet turn into something so…processed and fake.” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “So, for now, this is goodbye. Hopefully, when you see me again, I’ll be a better version of myself.”
With shaky hands, I snatch up my phone, uploading the video before I lose the nerve. Before I break from the thought of people peering inside and not liking what they see.
Cognitive behavioral therapy.
I’ve been at Turning Pointe for twenty days, and my life now revolves around psychotherapy. My psychiatrist, Dr. Janice Dean, sits me down every day and we work through the behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that accompany my urges. My issues with food and exercise. My panic. My need for control.
When I first arrived, I was poked and prodded, tested for thyroid issues—which apparently can create similar symptoms to panic attacks—and asked to fill out a questionnaire. A very invasive questionnaire that made me feel like ants were digging holes under my skin and crawling around through my veins.
Turns out, I have OCD. Who knew? Obsessive, irrational thoughts that spiral into compulsive behavior. In my case, excessive exercise and extreme control over the routines in my life, which lends itself to orthorexia, a type of eating disorder that I didn’t even know existed.
But tackling my disorders are the least of the hard work.
It’s the re-creation of my panic attacks that make me feel like curling up in a ball and begging for death. But still, I show up every day, and we work through it.
A safe space where we purposely re-create my triggers, causing panic to happen in a repetitive manner, so Dr. Dean can walk me through the symptoms. Force me to face the root of the cause. And every day we take away more of the fear, so I can learn how to cope when they hit.
It’s intense. Grueling. Masochistic. And it involves a level of self-reflection that I spent years trying to avoid.
But I’m here. And I’m doing the work.
I want to be better.
When I’m not in therapy, I’m meeting with a dietician. One who works with me on building a healthy relationship with food, so I stop associating my happiness with what goes into my body. I keep a daily affirmation journal too, and that combined with the behavioral therapy to retrain how I think of myself is… a lot.
Every morning, I take an antidepressant. It’s not a miracle cure, but it helps curb the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. I still have my prescription for anxiety medicine, but with the antidepressant and my new coping mechanisms, I don’t need them as much.
Evenings are filled with group sessions, all of us in treatment coming together to share our experiences. It’s easy to see the ones who are desperate for help and the ones who can’t admit they have a problem. And as I take them in, guilt slugs me in the chest because I know that’s how I was with Jackson.
I’ve burned a lot of bridges.
Kept up ones that veered me in the wrong directions.
By the time my thirty days are up in rehab, and I walk out of the front doors, I’m ready to grab the bricks and lay a new foundation, one by one.
I’m not out of the woods; I’m not even sure there is such a thing. If there is, then I have a long way to go and will most likely be in therapy for the rest of my life. But I find peace in that.
For the first time, I don’t feel the need to be seen .
Because I see myself.
I expect my father to be waiting outside to pick me up, but he isn’t there. In his place is Lennox.
My stomach jumps, my breath sucking in through my parted mouth.
Time to start rebuilding bridges.