Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Eric
? Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd ?
The first time I went to rehab, I did it in L.A.
I wanted the press. I wanted people to know I was struggling and getting help.
That even though I was a rock star in a successful band and living a life most people only dreamed about, addiction and depression don’t discriminate.
They can affect anyone, anywhere, any time, and I wanted to shine a spotlight on it.
This time, I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wasn’t ready to talk about my relapse or what had caused it. I wasn’t ready to talk about her. About my failure to protect her. I wanted to disappear, so that’s what I did.
I shivered as I stepped out of the Uber and into the cold Minnesota air.
My sober coach recommended Hazelden Betty Ford in Center City, an hour north of Minneapolis, and it sounded like the perfect place to disappear.
To make things easier for me, he’d set everything up ahead of time—booked my flight, secured me a room, and lined up all my appointments. All I had to do was show up.
The first few days were the hardest. I’d thought the withdrawal was awful during my first stint, but it was the therapy that was brutal this time.
I wasn’t ready to talk about it, and every time I did, it felt like I’d ripped the stitches out of my chest where my heart used to be and bled out on the floor, just to slowly sew myself up and do it all over again the next day.
It took a long time for me to get over the fact that I’d missed Amy’s funeral.
I’d begged the doctors to release me, even going so far as to tear the IVs out of my hand and threaten to walk out on my own, but all that did was fuck up my veins and result in two security guards being stationed outside my room for the duration of my stay.
When my therapist finally asked if I thought the relapse and subsequent accident was a subconscious attempt at taking my own life, I couldn’t answer.
Not out loud, anyway, because, yes, I did think it was an attempt.
I think I wanted to die that day. I thought if someone as good as Amy could be taken away, then someone like me surely didn’t deserve to be here.
Especially after I left her when she relapsed.
“I keep thinking about the day I ended it with her,” I finally admitted during one of my sessions.
“The day I called off the engagement. I should've handled it differently.
I should've...done something to help her instead of leaving her.” I paused, my voice breaking.
“If I had just stuck around—maybe...” I trailed off, and my therapist waited for me to find the words before she spoke.
“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of guilt over your decision, Eric,” she said. “Can you tell me more about what’s going through your mind?”
I rubbed a hand down my face. “When I found out Amy started using again after everything, after all the progress we’d made, I just..
.I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to choose sobriety.
I had to choose myself. I had to stop being around it.
And I begged her to choose me, too. But now.
..now that she’s gone, I keep thinking maybe I made the wrong choice.
Maybe if I’d stayed, maybe if I hadn’t walked away, she’d still be here. Maybe I could've saved her.”
“That’s a really heavy burden to carry. The guilt of thinking you could’ve saved her, or that your decision was somehow responsible for what happened. What I hear is that you're asking yourself, What if I’d done more?”
“Yeah. What if I’d stayed, even if it hurt? Maybe it would’ve made a difference. I don’t know. She...she was struggling. I could see it. And I just...walked away. I abandoned her.”
“You made a very difficult decision, choosing sobriety for yourself, and that choice is a reflection of your own commitment to your recovery. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t still care about Amy or that you didn’t love her.
I know you’re no stranger to this, but it's important to acknowledge the reality of addiction—it’s a disease.
It's not something you can control, even when you love someone deeply. You were sober for yourself, for your own well-being. That choice doesn’t mean you stopped caring for Amy.
It means you had to make a choice about what was sustainable for you, and that was an incredibly hard thing to do. ”
“But it still feels like I abandoned her. She didn’t have anyone in her corner but me, and I left.” I swallowed as the tears fell freely from my eyes and down my face. I didn’t move to wipe them away.
“It’s normal to feel that way. But here’s what I want you to consider: if you’d stayed with her, would that have meant you were truly helping her, or would it have meant compromising your own recovery, or your own health?
The fact that you’re still sober today is evidence of the strength that choice required. ”
I didn’t know what to say to that, because even the way she was phrasing the question now made me feel guilty. Yes, I’m still here and working on staying sober. But Amy…
“I want you to try something for me, Eric,” she said, drawing my attention back to her. “Try to imagine a friend, someone you care about, in the same situation. What would you say to them if they came to you feeling this way?”
I took a deep breath, considering her question, already knowing that my answer was so at odds with what I’ve been telling myself. “I’d tell them it wasn’t their fault. That they did what they needed to do. That they couldn’t control another person’s choices.”
“And would you believe that, if it was someone else?”
“Yeah, I’d believe it. It makes sense.”
“Then can you believe it for yourself, too?” she asked.
“It just feels so...final. Now that she’s gone, I can’t take it back. I can’t knock on her door tomorrow and take her to rehab. I can’t tell her I’m sorry. I can’t…” I paused, needing a second to breathe. “I can’t save her. And I don’t know how to forgive myself.”
“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means acknowledging that you did what you could with the knowledge and the resources you had at the time.
It means accepting that you’re human, and that you made a difficult decision.
What you're feeling right now is part of your grief—grieving the loss of Amy, but also the weight of that decision. And that’s okay.
It will take time, but you will find a way to carry the grief without letting it consume you. ”
I nodded. “I want to believe that. I just...don’t know how.”
“One day at a time, Eric. Healing from guilt is a process, just like recovery. It won’t happen overnight, but you’re on the right path. And we’ll keep working through it together. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
****
The guys visited me two weeks in, and I was so goddamn thankful to see them, I broke down into tears when they walked into my room.
“I’m sorry,” I said, over and over again. “I’m so sorry. I fucked everything up. I ruined the tour. I—”
“Stop,” Max said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t fuck anything up. The tour wasn’t ruined. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is rallying behind you, man. All of us, the fans, the media—everyone.”
“As soon as I’m out of here, we can get back at it. I just need a little more time.”
“We will get back at it whenever you are ready,” Josh said. “None of us are in a hurry. We just want you to be okay. That is our only concern.”
Everyone voiced their agreement, and I choked up again, thankful for the love and support of these strangers that had become my family. They didn’t owe me anything. Even after all this time, I was still the “new guy.” The one who would lift right out of they wanted me to.
No, they didn’t owe me anything. But I owed them everything.
And I made a vow right there in that room—I would never let them down again.