Chapter 13
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but if anything, the absence of a response to my letter from Christopher has made my heart grow colder, angrier, and more bitter over the last couple of weeks.
The inevitable daily disappointment became resignation on Saturday, when he didn’t show up with Connie and Paul.
Every morning since, when a staff member brings my correspondence to me and there’s no letter from Christopher, I get another kick in the teeth.
I wish I’d never written that goddarn letter now.
Fuck Christopher Foster.
I reach out to increase the speed on the treadmill to ten miles an hour. Mile four is now complete, one more mile to go.
The lack of correspondence from anyone in the first seven weeks has been replaced by a daily deluge of fan letters and packages, which grew exponentially after news of my location broke out.
To be honest, I’m surprised it took that long.
Though I have a sneaking suspicion that Paul may have leaked it to one of my fan clubs.
There was one letter though that brought me some piece of mind.
Aiden Matthews.
To do what I did on set when we were filming, and then to call him a pedophile when he presented the award to me at the VMAs, was unforgiveable.
Apparently, his camp was quick to denounce my accusations, issuing a statement almost immediately.
They said whatever was troubling me, Aiden would keep me in his thoughts and prayers.
I wasn’t sure if he’d acknowledge my apology, but he had responded with compassion and understanding when I explained what happened to me as a child and why I kept confusing him with David.
It seems he’s even honored my request to keep what I shared to himself until I can make a public statement when I’m discharged.
The only other good news these past couple of weeks was the four Grammy nominations I received on Friday:
Record of the Year
Song of the Year
Best Pop Solo Performance and
Best Pop Vocal Album
Paul and Connie shared the news when they visited over the weekend.
It’s interesting how you feel when you get something you’ve dreamed of ever since you were a child.
I had imagined that, after finally being nominated after ten years of hoping and twenty years of dreaming, I’d be jumping with joy, screaming the news from the rooftops.
Instead, I felt like a bottle of Coke that’s had all its fizz removed.
Maybe it’s the meds they’ve got me on. Maybe it’s because the news came from Paul. Maybe it’s because, when he told me, all I could focus on was the empty chair where Christopher wasn’t sitting.
It was weird yet eerily familiar seeing Connie and Paul for the first time in almost two months.
We slid back into the same familiar roles we’ve always played, like nothing had changed.
Paul told me not to worry about Christopher not accepting my invitation to come see me and that I should focus on the positives instead.
That these are my first-ever Grammy nominations.
That I’ll be released from rehab this week.
That I’ll be able to wrap the remainder of the movie too.
Easy for him to say.
Sure, my career might be back on track. Connie did a good job of spinning the narrative about a burnout-induced psychosis that garnered sympathy from the public. And yes, things may be better now between my family and I following our family therapy sessions. But Christopher still won’t talk to me.
Which doesn’t bode well given we’re due to be together for a week come Sunday.
I reach the five-mile mark and the treadmill slows to a stop.
Thirty-six minutes. A new personal record.
I grab the hand towel as heavy exhales leave my nostrils, and wipe my beard, which drips sweat all down my running top and shorts. If I can’t release my anger, I might as well do what I’ve always done and harness it.
Lee leans back slightly in her chair and retrieves her notepad, letting out an audible sigh. Her dark-grey trousers offset the black armchairs we’re sitting in. They’re positioned to face each other at forty-five degree angles, making her line of questioning feel less invasive.
“What matters here, Alexander, is not what I think, but what you think. And more importantly, what you feel.” Lee points to her heart, refusing to tell me what I should do about Christopher or how I should handle this whole shituation.
But that’s the whole problem. I don’t know what to think.
I’m unable to trust or decipher the thousands of conflicting thoughts simultaneously entering my mind. And as for trusting my feelings, that didn’t go very well up onstage at the VMAs.
Usually, the silence is never awkward with Lee, like it could be with the first two therapists, but today it feels different.
There’s a palpable energy between us. The maternal nurturing figure I’ve grown accustomed to has seemingly stayed home today.
It’s been replaced with a sturdy, more forthright Lee.
“But I’m due to see him on Sunday, and I don’t know how to handle it. You’ve got to help me.” I rub my hands together between the legs of my grey sweatpants.
Lee notes something down in her notepad before returning her attention to me.
“What I’m more interested in, Alexander, is why you need others to make decisions for you, rather than you making them for yourself. Why you constantly need reassurance.”
Her gaze traces my facial expressions, forcing me to look away.
Resentment starts to fester inside my lungs.
Each breath becomes shorter, sharper.
When I don’t respond and the silence becomes unbearable, Lee continues.
“Part of my job here is to support and help you. But I wouldn’t be a good therapist if I didn’t call you in.
To look at what’s causing you to always ask others for help.
I’d just be enabling and colluding with a pattern of behavior that, at times, seems to be problematic for you.
” Lee’s tone softens, the curvature of her lips rises when I look back at her.
“I just feel like I’m a broken man,” I say.
A lump forms in my throat, followed by a quick flash of light in my mind.
“Can I borrow your pen for a second?” I reach out my hand, not wanting to let the moment pass. I never know when inspiration will strike, or how quickly it will fade if I don’t grab it.
“Sure.”
Lee passes over the pen with a confused look and I write down the words I’m A Broken Man on the palm of my hand before handing the pen back to her.
“What was that about?”
“An idea for a song title.” My gaze drifts out the window to the late afternoon sun, falling behind the bare-branched trees outside.
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Lee notes, writing something down in her notepad once more. And I wonder if she’s encouraged that the writer’s block I complained about seems to be passing, or if it’s something else.
“Talking of ideas, let’s discuss what you’re going to do once you get out of here.” Neither one of us has yet to acknowledge that this is our last session together. Maybe I’m not the only one in this room with an anxious-avoidant attachment style.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a foundation for survivors of childhood sexual abuse.” The heaviness of my words causes me to exhale sharply.
“Okay.” Lee hesitantly motions at me to continue.
“I don’t want what happened at the VMAs, what happened with David Rishton, to continue to define me. I want to reshape it. Reclaim my narrative.” Heat rises in my chest.
“That’s one way to continue to heal from what happened to you,” Lee says. “To help you move from victim, to survivor, to thriver.” Lee glances at the water glass beside me as I rub my neck. I reach for it and take a sip.
“Could I make a suggestion?” Reticence lines her tone.
“Yes.”
Trepidation coats my mouth as I put the glass down and reach into my pocket for my bronze two-month sobriety chip, flicking it between my fingers.
“Setting up and starting a foundation about an issue like this can be stressful and oftentimes, quite retraumatizing.” Lee’s voice is slow and measured.
“It might actually be more helpful to your recovery to partner with an existing foundation as an ambassador. That way you can still honor your desire to redefine what happened to you, but in a way where you can decide how much or little you want to be involved.”
Lee rests her palms on her notepad, a smile rising on her face when she notices the smirk appear on mine.
“What?” she laughs.
“Two minutes ago, you wouldn’t help me, and now you’re offering me advice.”
“Trust me, the irony isn’t lost on me.” Her high-pitched chuckle allows me to laugh too.
I’m sure she’s right. When I get out of here tomorrow, my life will resume. Many of the stresses I left at the gates when I arrived will be there waiting for me when I leave. The last thing I need is to be adding anything to it unnecessarily.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I just want to take it easy when I get out.” I bring the conversation back around to what Lee had suggested earlier.
“And is that viable for you?” Her gaze drifts to the clock above me. “I saw the news about your Grammy nominations over the weekend. I assume that means you’ll have a busy couple of months ahead of you.”
The schedule Paul and Connie ran through on Saturday still sits in my room.
This week, I head back to Albuquerque to shoot the movie.
Next week, I do the Brewed activation events across the country.
But after that, I told Paul no more work for the rest of the year. I crossed out all the promo the label proposed to campaign for the Grammy awards.
“I’m only doing things I was previously contracted to do before I came here. I intend to take a long break at the end of the month.”
My mind drifts to days spent at the beach with my surfboard.