Chapter 11
I’ve been dreading this day for the last week.
Not because today marks my twenty-fourth birthday.
And not because this marks the third anniversary of Samuel’s death, but because my family are all making the trip out to see me.
I felt compelled to see them this time after declining all the previous visitation requests from my care team.
I don’t want to face them. I’m barely able to face myself.
The first two weeks here were by far the worst.
The benzodiazepine did little to reduce the torrent of withdrawal symptoms while I dried out: The uncontrollable shaking. The violent retching. The cold sweats that ruined every item of clothing that was packed for me.
During weeks three and four, the physical symptoms significantly improved, making way for an onslaught of nightmares to appear.
The emotional baggage from the daily individual and group therapy sessions, EMDR, twelve-step program work, and journaling were so heavy, so filled with all my unprocessed and unresolved trauma, that I often woke up screaming in the middle of the night.
One of my non-negotiables upon entering the treatment facility was that I got my own room.
And thankfully, I wasn’t forced to share, unlike the majority of the people here.
It has allowed me to keep to myself outside of any groups that I was required to join.
The constant stares from other patients reenforced that it was the right decision, despite protests from the intake team.
The only other person I’ve engaged with here, a British actor in for opioid addiction, was discharged ten days ago. I’ve pretty much kept to myself since.
Keeping up with my workout routine has been the easiest part of this whole stay, because it’s one of the few places, other than my room, that most of the others don’t visit.
They all prefer the pool or the common area.
Books from the store, the only other source of escape when my neuro-spicy mind is willing to engage, helps speed up the slow and steady erosion of time while I’m trapped in here.
Being kept away from all digital devices has been both a blessing and a curse. I’m shielded from the outside world, but paranoid about what everyone thinks of me.
How bad was the blowout after the VMAs?
Do I have a career to return to?
On a scale of one to Kanye, how crazy does everyone think I am?
I’d fucked up in so many ways that it took me three days to compile my list of names for the moral inventory in step four of the program.
That list, cataloging everyone from Lucy to my parents to Aiden Matthews, now stares back at me from the small wooden desk in my room.
Envelopes and paper, provided to write letters so I can make amends, sit alongside.
A soft knock on my door draws my attention away.
“They’re here, if you’re ready?” The door opens, and Lee’s warm smile greets me.
She was the third therapist I finally landed on and stuck with after quickly rejecting the first two.
Her long white hair, parted down the center, flows over her brown cardigan.
Her glasses, held by a chain around her neck, rest on top.
I’m not ready.
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to face the world again.
My chest tightens at the thought of what’s awaiting me in the communal room.
“Come on, Alexander.” She steps toward me and motions me up from the chair. “It’ll all be okay.”
How does she know?
Has she spoken to them already?
I reach for my notebook and follow her to the door.
Worry creeps over me like a dark storm cloud.
When I enter the group therapy room, the shock on my parents’ faces matches mine.
I rub my eyes at the sight of them both.
They look like they’ve aged ten years in five weeks.
My mom looks like a clothes rack, her pink blouse and white trousers practically hanging off her.
My dad’s hair is now completely grey. There’s no sign of the dark-brown flicks that usually complement his brown jumper and loafers.
My brother, Harrison, nods my way, refusing to get up from the couch. He’s in his usual outfit of a baggy black hoodie and grey sweatpants, with his headphones still over his ears. My parents do get up to make their way toward me. My mom pulls me in and squeezes me tightly.
“Oh Al, look at you.” She grips my cheeks with her hands, her eyes carefully studying every inch of my face. “You need to get some sunlight. You look like a ghost.”
“Hi son. Happy birthday.” Dad’s hand grips my shoulder firmly.
My heart aches at the coldness of his tone, but I know it masks his true hurt.
“Hi Dad.” My gaze drops to my feet.
The disappointment and shame are already weighing me down before we even begin.
This is going to be a long hour.
Thankfully, Lee positions herself in an armchair opposite the empty one left for me.
The safety that her presence brings helps settle my stomach as my parents scoot Harrison over so they can sit down.
My mom’s brows furrow, and he reluctantly reaches up to remove his headphones and straightens his spine.
“Right. Where shall we begin?” Lee leans forward, sliding her glasses onto her face.
A deathly silence falls across the room.
Everyone’s eyes, including mine, dart over to look at Lee.
My dad’s leg bounces. My mom plays with her wedding band. Harrison pulls at the drawstrings of his hoodie while I gnaw away at my nails.
“Ah, I see. This is the first time you’ve done something like this.”
My parents nod in agreement as Harrison lets out a sigh. I opt to remain silent, motionless. Family therapy wasn’t offered my first time around in rehab.
“I believe today marks your twenty-fourth birthday,” Lee says, turning to me before looking back at everyone else. “How do you all celebrate it?”
I manage to fight off a chuckle. The lack of presents, or of anything else celebratory in the room, is a clear indication.
It was understandable when I was younger and they lived paycheck to paycheck, but now that money isn’t an issue, they no longer have that excuse.
“I brought a cake with me, but they wouldn’t let me bring it in.” My mom mouths Sorry at me. “Something about cross addiction and sugar?” She shakes her head disapprovingly.
“Okay, let me see what I can do.” Lee reaches for her pad on the table and makes a note.
When she looks back up at me, my eyes widen. Please move on.
“Alex, did you have something you wanted to share?”
I fiddle with the notebook in my lap as I open it up. The words Lee had asked me to say to my family, about everything that has happened—recently and in the past—are written down inside.
My mouth goes dry at the thought of sharing it.
I’ve been plagued by a thousand questions about what happened this last month. But one question trumps them all.
“Is it as bad out there as I think it is?” My eyes focus on my mom.
She looks away, out the window behind Lee, refusing to answer. She reaches for a tissue from the box on the table to dab at her eyes.
Fuck.
A knot forms in my stomach and I run my fingers through my hair.
My worst fears are all but confirmed by her lack of response.
“Let’s focus on what’s inside this room, rather than worrying about what’s outside of it,” Lee says, trying to pull us back on track. “Alexander, I believe you’ve prepared something you want to say?” Her gaze drifts down to my notebook.
But it’s too late.
I’m already in a full-blown downward spiral, and I’m rapidly sinking further with each successive thought.
The label has definitely dropped me.
All my sponsorship deals will have been canceled.
And my fans are no doubt leaving in droves, burning everything of mine they own.
A surge of panic floods my body.
“I can’t.”
I tear the pages from the notebook, chuck them on the table, and storm to the door. My parents rise, but Lee urges them to stay put as I exit. My legs give out halfway down the hall, and I collapse by the wall onto the floor.
I burrow my head into my hands. Tears flow uncontrollably from my eyes.
“It’s okay, Alexander. It’s okay.” Lee bends down beside me to rub my back.
“It’s not… It’s all over… My life is over.”
My words are barely audible between the sobbing and sniffling.
What’s the point in writing all those letters, of making amends, if my whole life has been destroyed?
After a few minutes, Lee removes her hand and grips my arm.
“Come on. Let’s get you up.”
“I can’t go back in there.” I wipe my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my sweater.
The thought of seeing them again right now, or seeing anyone I know, is enough to send me back into the abyss.
“I know. Let’s get you back to your room.” Lee nods at a passing staff member to help get me up. “Don’t worry about your family, I’ll deal with them.”
I’ve been stewing for a few hours, pacing up and down in my room. The door to my room has been left open, a condition to being left alone today. The facility members are worried that I might do something stupid.
The slice of chocolate birthday cake that Lee dropped off once my family left remains uneaten on the table.
Her reassurance, that my family will be okay, did little to absolve the guilt I’ve been feeling ever since walking out on them.
There was only slight relief when she told me that they would be back tomorrow at the same time if I was able and willing to stay and talk.
The road to redemption starts with a single step, she’d shared just before she left for the night.
The words are written down and circled at the top of a fresh page in my notebook.
Without knowing exactly what out there in the real world I need to redeem myself from, I don’t know what first step to take. Which can only mean one thing.
My stomach sickens at the thought.
I have to make a call to Paul.
The one person in the world I want to speak to less than my family.