Chapter 17 Alexander
Tuesday
Everything is too loud, too bright, too overwhelming.
I dial down the brightness and sound on my laptop.
I’m being forced to engage via Zoom with Amelia, aka my sober coach, aka Captain-no-fun, back in the US.
I’ve known her since the last time I relapsed and left rehab.
Today, Paul insisted that it was speak with Amelia or rehab—no third option of a day off, much to my frustration—but now I’m thinking rehab would have been a better option.
I might take Amelia more seriously if it weren’t for her electric blue hair and the garish multicolored dress that screams Notice me.
She’s been lecturing me for the last fifteen minutes, telling me I’m crying out for attention, when everything about her is doing the same.
Like she is the famous person, not me. She is trying, in her condescending, holier-than-thou way, to get me to acknowledge the seriousness of what happened.
Sure, Rob found me in a semi-state of unconsciousness.
Sure, my phone was smashed on the floor with two empty bottles of vodka on either side of me.
And yeah, there was vomit all over the bathroom.
But tell me, what pop star or rock star hasn’t gone too hard on the liquor one night, only to regret it the next day?
The last thing I need right now is more judgment from other people.
“What caused you to relapse?” Amelia asks, finally coming up for air. I try and fail to get a read on her emotional state.
My inability to read her expression is not because of my stinging eyes or the poor Wi-Fi connection backstage in my dressing room, but from the copious amounts of Botox preventing her eyebrows moving an inch. I know this because she loves talking about all her appointments.
I go to answer, but my throat is dry and painful. The aftertaste of bile lingers despite three swigs of mouthwash. I reach for ginger tea with Manuka honey in it, hoping it will soothe my throat and buy me a second to think of an answer.
The truth? Christopher’s words cut me open. Not like a scalpel, but like a butcher’s knife, and then I quickly spiraled through the four levels of desperation.
Lying.
Pleading.
Drinking.
Defeated.
Or the other truth? That the boxes I’ve filed away in the back of my mind keep coming back to haunt me. Samuel. The crash. Roy. And further back, my teacher.
Placing the cup down, I opt for the easier third answer: work. I don’t want to give Amelia an excuse to push for more sessions.
“Everything was just getting to me. All the demands, the lack of time off, the pressure to always be on, the inability to do what I want.”
Amelia nods while the reflection of my face solemnly stares back at me on the screen.
Yes, I may be lying, but it’s a plausible lie, and it is a contributing factor.
The last ten months have been relentless.
My agent added an additional twenty-seven shows to the original proposal, due to overwhelming demand.
Then management kept slipping in promo here and there and everywhere—including the bits today that Connie convinced us to keep to counter the online rumors that I’d been found unconscious.
No wonder I’m exhausted.
No wonder Michael Jackson relied on propofol to get some rest.
I wonder if he started to feel less and less like a human and more like a product. A cow no longer just being milked, but bled dry. My team is determined to get every last bit out of me before they sling me out to pasture. Or worse, to the slaughterhouse.
“Have you been able to voice that to anyone?” comes Amelia’s voice. It’s the first sign of compassion, if you could call it that, she’s shown since jumping on the call.
I can feel Rob’s eyes on me from where he’s sitting on the other couch in the dressing room.
I’m unable to look at him without feeling guilt for what I put him through.
Usually I’d be left alone for something like this, but ever since Rob found me, he hasn’t left my side.
And Paul has mandated I be watched around the clock.
“Nobody listens. I’m always told to just get on with things.
That I should be grateful for everything, but I can’t talk about—” Amelia’s eyes widen as the anger rises in my chest, but I catch myself before going any further.
The two forbidden S-words, Samuel and Sexuality, nearly fall out of my mouth.
I reach for the cup to take another sip, swallowing the words down with it.
“I can’t talk about the downside of what it’s like to be a pop star.” I put the cup back down and reach for the laptop. I rest it on my legs as I lean back into the couch.
Again, not a total lie.
“With all that pressure on you, it’s no wonder you ended up relapsing. Maybe you should consider heading back to a treatment facility?” Amelia’s face moves closer to her screen. Her brown eyes flicker with judgment, sparking more anger in the pit of my stomach.
“I don’t need a treatment facility. I need a break.” I shove the laptop back up on the table. “A break from touring, a break from pretending to be someone I’m not, and a break from this.” I slam the laptop closed.
When will everyone realize that my drinking is not the problem? It’s what’s causing me to drink that’s the problem. My face begins to burn as I push myself up off the couch and head to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. I splash some out onto my palm and rub it over my face.
The rehab facility two years ago didn’t understand what it was like to be me.
The pressure I was under. How, before I even wake up, I have seventy-eight people to pay for every day on tour.
A hundred thousand dollars to pay out for wages, travel, and accommodation.
And unlike in a band, where the show can still go on if one member is ill, if I don’t show up everything gets cancelled. And I’m the one left footing the bill.
But they didn’t get it; they didn’t get me.
You need to move toward the discomfort. Embrace it. Like I hadn’t been through enough already—the discomfort without any progress. Why would I seek out more? Why would I voluntarily put myself through that again?
“Do you mind if I turn off the lights, try and get some rest before the show?” I ask, opening the fridge again. I pull out an eye mask and head to the light switch, still unable to look at Rob.
“Okay, boss,” Rob says, with a heavy sigh.
A lump forms in my throat at his response.
I hit the switch, swallowing down my guilt and shame, and head back to the couch. I lean back into the cushions and pull the mask over my eyes. The coolness helps bring down the heat radiating from my forehead and cheeks.
I just want this all to be over.
One of my dancers repeatedly taps on my cheek and brings me to, as another dancer thrusts a bottle of water in front of me, urging me to drink it. I push myself upright with my left hand, head spinning, eyes struggling to focus.
Dancers.
Stage.
Screams.
The air is squeezed out of my lungs as dread washes over me.
“Where are we at in the set?” I ask, before sipping the water.
“You dropped to the floor halfway through Tonight, I’m Gonna Fly,” another dancer adds. All five of them are creating a protective circle around me at the end of the catwalk, away from the crowd still chanting my name.
Four songs left to go. Great.
I take another sip of water, and do three deep inhales before grabbing the hand of one of the dancers, who helps me to my feet.
A cheer erupts from the crowd. My feet are wobbly as I take the microphone back from one of the dancers and try and head back into the starting position for Tonight, I’m Gonna Fly, but I already know I can’t carry on.
I hold my hand up in the air, to stop the dancers and band from starting, remove my in-ear monitors so I can hear myself, and turn and slowly walk back up the catwalk to the stage. Rob and another security guard track me on the sides the whole way up, alongside the spotlight.
“Kill the spotlight,” I say into the microphone. The light is burning on my shoulders and back, not helping.
It swoops to my right and then goes out. The darkness is a relief. The faint light from the LED wall at the back of the stage continues to play out the video montage that accompanies Tonight, I’m Gonna Fly, which is just about bearable for my eyes.
I turn and face the crowd, a rising discomfort in my body forcing me to tense up, and I will my muscles to relax. This is so embarrassing. First I was exposed on stage, and now I’ve fainted.
“Sorry about that little fall over there, everyone,” I begin.
The crowd is still chanting my name. One little girl waves vigorously at me from the front row.
I give her a little wave back, which has her squealing and hugging her mom.
“I’m just a little overwhelmed by all the love in this room tonight. ”
The screams erupt, almost blowing the roof off the arena, and it brings a smile to my face, which only causes the crowd to get louder.
“There’s been some rumors flying round online today that I was found unresponsive in my room this morning.
And I’m sure that what you saw just now won’t do anything to squash those rumors.
” My leg is beginning to twitch, so I walk to Freddy’s drum kit, grab a bottle of water and take a couple of gulps.
The crowd falls eerily silent as I put down the water bottle and grab the towel next to it, wiping my brow. I deliberate what to say next.
Do I tell them the truth?
Reveal what’s behind the curtain like in the Wizard of Oz?
My fans aren’t stupid. In fact, many of them have picked up on the relentlessness of my schedule. Ever since the Free Britney movement, it seems like they are checking in on me more. Like they realize that I, too, am a human, not just a robot wheeled out as and when needed.
But I’m not sure I’m ready to reveal everything right now.
I turn back to face the crowd, throwing down the towel.