Chapter 27 Love Lost, Love Found
Love Lost, Love Found
WE SETTLED INTO A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD IN A suburb outside of Nashville and started getting our lives back on track.
Quiet neighborhood or not, I’m not going to pretend that we just went back to normal. We absolutely did not.
There were many fights and arguments—and they even went to the point of me putting my hands on him. I’m not proud of that—not at all.
We were in the kitchen arguing, and he looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t regret it.
” To my face. And it made me feel homicidal.
The only thing I could think of was to throw the dish in my hand at him.
The rage was pouring out of me, and I closed-fist punched him on his back, screaming like a wild banshee.
It’s ugly, but it’s honest. It would take years for me to put the affair aside. It would take years to actually feel like this man loved me—that I wasn’t disposable.
I was never big into therapy—especially after the shrinks my parents forced me to see and my Girl, Interrupted stay in the mental hospital.
I learned at a young age how to manipulate therapists, and I truly never valued any of their advice.
That couple’s counselor duo. Jackasses. Obviously, there were skeletons in their closets too. I could just feel it on them.
But after everything that had happened—the affair, the abuse, the trauma, addiction, all of it—I went on a quest for knowledge.
I wanted to be a better person than I’d ever been.
I didn’t want to be the girl I was in Vegas.
I needed to shed my skin and change. But I had no idea where to start.
Therapy was the only tool that I knew might give me some sort of life-coping skills.
I needed them more than ever. We were raising Bailee full time, trying to rebuild our marriage, and make a family together. I wanted to be better for her.
So I started going to counseling. I started to really look back at my life.
My husband and I dug deep into the generational toxic traits we’d grown up with.
And we talked so many times about how we don’t want to just do what we were taught.
Now, we were in this together. It finally felt so good to have my best friend back and be on this journey to be better humans.
When I think back on it, we just made a vow to change.
And we did. No matter how hard it got. No matter what the other person said in therapy, we were finally both fully committed to working on ourselves together and separately.
I learned so much in counseling that saved my life. I learned that you have to feel to heal. I learned that when you stop running from your demons is when they stop chasing you. I learned to cry when I needed to cry—that one is still hard for me, but boy when I cry, I sob. It’s so cleansing.
I also learned that my anger was really sadness turned outward. I learned how to decipher and untangle the two as they come up. I learned that I didn’t need to make everyone around me miserable as a punishment for how I felt.
But most importantly, I learned my feelings were valid. In therapy and in my marriage, I was finally being seen and heard. Funny thing is when you do feel seen and heard after never having that feeling your whole life, you become softer, quieter, and less triggered.
J began focusing on his music heavily, and we rented a house down the street that he turned into a studio he could go to anytime.
Songwriting was a cathartic way for him to work through his pain, and he threw himself into it.
Little did we know that that house would become the birthplace of many of his future hits.
I was still seeing clients and trying to figure out what direction in life I wanted to go.
All I’ve ever known my entire life was how to hustle in the streets, so trying to get out of the adult industry and become a “square”—as I like to call all the normies—just wasn’t something I could ever see happening.
J and I started reconnecting as best friends and trying to date each other.
We never went through that stage—we’d just hopped on tour with each other and gotten married a month after meeting.
We didn’t actually know each other. We were strangers who’d made the conscious decision to do life together but didn’t know how the other person lived.
It was chaos and healing all at once. And then Buddy fell ill—and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch my husband go through. One day, Buddy was okay, and the next we were getting a phone call that he could not get out of bed.
I’ll never forget where we were when that call came.
We were on the freeway, driving home after a date day, when Buddy called and said something was wrong.
We turned around and high-tailed it to his house.
When we got there, we walked into a guest room and there he was, poor, sweet Buddy.
He was covered in sweat and tears, frustrated because he couldn’t sit up by himself or stand.
As J and I scrambled around the house to get him clothes and load him up to get him to a hospital, my heart sank. This was my husband’s hero. Buddy had always been a constant figure in J’s life.
Donna, J’s mom, and Buddy had J later on in life.
He was the baby of the siblings and his family lovingly calls him “Baby Jason.” His mom struggled with addiction and mental-health issues, and Buddy had his own set of difficulties.
But he remained a stable source of male energy J’s entire life.
Buddy was a special man. I loved him from the start, and I like to think he loved me too.
J has always told me his dad stuck up for me numerous times during our arguments, and despite my past, always told J I was a good woman for him.
One thing about the Budster: He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, it always meant something.
We finally got him to the hospital and they rushed him back because his vitals were so terrible.
Hours went by, and they ran every test. Finally, the doctors came back with a diagnosis.
Leukemia. I watched my husband’s whole world crumble right there in that hospital room.
He didn’t cry, but his eyes told me everything.
From that moment on, J didn’t leave his father’s side.
* * *
FOR MONTHS, WE WERE IN and out of hospitals and nursing homes.
It was a slow, torturous decline. If his dad was in the hospital, J was right there.
He would bring a pen and pad and write songs.
“Crosses and Crossroads” was written in a hospital waiting room as the one man he idolized was slowly leaving him.
J and I became so much closer during these months.
I just wanted to take his pain away and let him know it was okay to hurt.
J has never been good at showing emotion, and he buries things deep down inside.
It’s why he’s such a phenomenal writer and musician—everything he writes about contains the emotions he couldn’t let himself feel.
I’ll never forget when they moved Buddy to hospice.
J and his brothers would rotate time with him around the clock.
And toward the end, it became so unbearable for J that he would wait in the courtyard outside his dad’s window.
One day my husband will tell this story when he writes a book, so I’ve left out a lot. In the end, it’s his story to tell.
Buddy left me with the biggest blessing before he passed.
I visited him at the hospice facility. That day, he’d been in and out of consciousness and hadn’t spoken a word to anyone.
But when I walked in, he opened his eyes and lit up.
He started chatting away. Of course, it was near the end, so nothing made any sense.
But he was so happy, and I could feel his spirit trying to tell me something.
I leaned down and I put my hand in his, and when my hand touched his, I was overcome by this beautiful, peaceful feeling.
It brought tears to my eyes. And as he held my hand, I saw space and a pink galaxy filled with stars.
It was like he was telling me, Tell my son I’m okay. This is where I’m going.
I told him I loved him as I pulled myself together enough to run to the parking lot with J behind me. I lost it—out there in the parking lot, I sobbed my eyes out. I told J the feeling and the vision, and he sobbed with me.
It was the last time I saw Buddy, and in March, my husband lost his best friend.
To this day, my sweet husband can’t talk about losing his dad without crying.
I don’t think he will ever be able to come to terms with the loss of his father.
I’m just thankful that I was able to be by his side.
We love and miss you, Buddy, but I always know you’re never too far from us.
I see you smiling proudly at every milestone you watch your son achieve.
And like the amazing soul you brought into this world, he never lets your memory fade.