Chapter 13 #2
“I’m aware that this is our last session together before you leave,” Lee says, adjusting her legs.
Her aquamarine eyes sparkle with a warm softness.
“But, I want you to know that although this is the end of your in-patient treatment here, we also have an out-patient program. You can always tap into the support we offer here at any time, even remotely.”
“Does that include continuing individual therapy sessions with you?”
The bronze chip moves more quickly between my fingers.
What will I do once the stabilizers of this place are removed?
Will I crash and burn again like last time?
“Here.” Lee stands up and passes me a business card with her details on it. “Why don’t you keep hold of this. If you need me, I’m only a call or an email away.”
Lee makes her way to the door as I study the card, not quite ready to leave my seat or the room.
“Thank you. For everything.” Tears form in the corners of my eyes as I get up.
Lee stretches out her hand to me when I get to the door.
“Remember Alexander, one day at a time.”
A pang in my heart tells me how much I’m going to miss this.
How I was wrong about therapy after all these years.
It wasn’t that therapy didn’t work, it was the therapists I’d seen.
I’m even going to miss the way she always calls me by my full name, never abbreviating it.
I’d originally hated it, but I grew to like how she doesn’t call me Al or Alex, like those closest to me do.
I ignore her hand, breaking the formality and giving her a tight squeeze.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Later, I realize that I’ve also come to appreciate the rustic charm of my room.
It’s a lot more basic than the rooms I’ve found myself in over recent years, but there’s something charming about the simplicity of this place.
The wooden bed frames, the small wooden desk and chair separating the twin beds, the same color of brown-grey carpet that adorned the bedroom I shared with Harrison growing up, where we played for hours with our toy cars.
Even the retro lampshade, lighting the table while I open my leather-bound journal, has a certain je ne sais quoi.
I slowly turn the pages of my journal, noticing all the things I’ve gone over these last two months.
There’s the family constellation to help me understand the intergenerational trauma I’ve been carrying.
The letter to my younger self. The protective, nurturing, and wise figures I identified before beginning EMDR therapy.
The Rock, who brought a smile to my face when I chose him as my protective figure and not Rob.
Rob will kill me if he ever finds out I’ve cheated on him with another bodyguard.
There’s so much in here that I’ve learned about myself, that I can pull from when I get back to creating again.
I start to close the journal when I notice the faint markings on my palm.
Ah, that song title. I’m A Broken Man.
I grab the pen from the holder and open a new page, writing the title at the top.
Lyrics instantly start flowing through me and I move over to the bed, leaning back into the pillow.
I’M A brOKEN MAN
I guess they call it art,
The way I fell apart,
But I’ve been here before with the knife I keep on twisting.
Finally bleeding out,
The curtain call is now,
And I can’t face the demons that keep on screaming.
My mind is racing, skin is itching,
My nails are gone, my eyelids twitching,
Settle down, settle down, simmer down, simmer down.
My lungs collapsing, barely breathing,
I’m stuck in quicksand, slowly sinking,
Deeper down, deeper down, deeper down.
I’ve fallen from the stars,
Looking at the pieces of my fractured parts.
Unable to run,
Hands are tied.
Forced to face the one thing left behind,
Realized that I’ve been trying to hide,
I’m a broken man.
The words pour out of me. A full song forms in less than twenty minutes, the same amount of time it takes for the last of the fall sun to disappear beyond the horizon. The lamp is now the only source of light in the room.
I had feared that if I got better here, if I no longer had my traumatic past to avoid and grapple with, I’d lose all my creativity. My worst fears seemingly came true when I couldn’t pull from anything. I’d sat for countless nights in this room, staring at the blank pages in front of me.
But maybe all I needed was space away from my creative spark so I could reconnect with it again. The lyrics staring back at me are more deep, more heartfelt, than almost anything I’ve written before.
Maybe things will get better after all.
Maybe there is a brighter future once I leave.
Wednesday
“Thank you again for everything.” I stretch out my arms, forcing Lee to hug me again in the carpark. Rob takes my suitcases, loading them into the SUV behind me.
“You look after yourself now, won’t you?” Lee slips her hands back into the pockets of her grey cardigan, pulling it tightly across her.
Rob flings my black hoodie at me to stop me from shivering in my white T-shirt and grey shorts. The morning dew on the plant leaves is slowly disappearing as the sun breaks through the clouds.
I slip the hoodie on and turn back to Lee.
“I’ll be in touch this week to book a session,” I say.
Lee gives me a thumbs-up and then waves goodbye.
“It’s good to have you back, boss,” Rob says, opening the car door to let me in.
“It’s good to see you too.” I shake his arm with my hand as I step in.
God, I’ve missed him. His ever-reliable presence in my life.
This surely is the longest we’ve been apart in ten years.
“What’s this?” I buckle my seatbelt as Rob gets in next to me and shuts the door.
“It’s your new phone. New number too.”
I lift it up. The phone doesn’t recognize my face, but it unlocks on the first try when I enter 1017.
Rob reaches for the heating dial and cranks it to the max as the driver pulls the car out toward the exit. I grab the door handle as the gates approach. Please don’t let there be hordes of paparazzi trying to get a shot of me leaving the treatment facility.
I sink back into the chair once we’ve driven out and made our way halfway down the empty desert road. It’s void of any people, vehicles, or most importantly, paparazzi.
“Are we not heading to the airport?” I notice we’re not going the same way as when we arrived here. We’re heading west rather than south. I move the phone around, trying to pick up a signal.
“The team thought it was better to drive to Albuquerque rather than have you fly there. That way we can avoid you getting papped at the airport,” Rob says, losing himself in his phone.
“How long is the drive gonna be?” I catch the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“About six hours, sir.” He turns his attention back to the road.
Ugh.
Six hours. Stuck in this car. With the desert staring back at me from every direction. And a new phone, with no apps other than the preinstalled ones, and no reception to download anything from the app store.
Great.
I ignore the mail icon, going straight to the text icon, and notice two messages. One is from Paul and the other is from an unknown number.
Who would have my new number?
Unknown number
Hi Skater Boy
Got your letter, we should speak.
Betty