The ambiguity of what I want to do is overwhelming.Run, stay, live ...I’m just afraid of everything.
Not in the jump-scare, monster-in-the-closet kind of way.In the what-if-I-fuck-this-up-the-minute-I-leave?kind of way.In the what-if-I-still-hate-who-I-am?way.
What happens when the world stops giving you permission to fall apart?
When you’ve spent so long coasting on borrowed grace, you never figured out how to stand on your own?
You look around one day and realize no one’s holding the net anymore—not the way they used to when you were growing up.
Back then, people made excuses for you.They softened your landings, bent rules without asking questions.Because your father was famous.Because you were some fucking musical prodigy.Because—who knows—maybe it made them feel important to say they knew you, helped you, protected you.And when that all stops, when the room goes quiet and no one rushes in to fix it, that’s when it hits you: you never actually learned how to stay upright.
Ididn’t learn how to deal with things.I learned how to smile, how to be charming and slide away from accountability, how to let everyone else absorb the damage while I kept playing the part.
At first, I got hooked on being forgiven.
On people willing to lower the bar, telling me I just needed time.That I was young.That I was grieving.Back then, I believed them.I let that be enough.
I leaned on the simple things—money, name, pity.And when that didn’t numb it all the way, I found other things.
Drinks.Pills.Distractions.
Anything to keep from feeling too much or being alone with my mind.
It wasn’t just the fame.It was the safety net.All those soft landings made me think I’d never really fall.And when I finally did ...I didn’t know how to stop it until I landed here twenty-eight days ago.
“Mmm.”She taps her pen against the clipboard.It’s gentle, but it cuts anyway.“You’ve done good work.”
I don’t say anything.I don’t nod.I don’t smile.I just let her words hang there like they’re’s suspended between us, waiting for me to believe them.
I don’t.
I’ve spent every session dodging compliments, bracing for the sting hidden beneath.They say, “You’re doing so well,” and I want to answer, “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to disappear.”They say, “Be proud of yourself,” and I think, “You don’t understand.The moment I let myself feel proud is when everything will fall apart again.So, no, I won’t feel any of that shit.”
Because what if I believe I’m okay and then fuck it all up tomorrow?
I tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie.My fingers curl around the fabric—just a habit, something to keep them occupied.I stare past her, past the clipboard, at the weird art by the door.It’s supposed to be abstract.Supposed to mean something.Looks more like regret pretending to be art.
“Even though you worked hard,” she says, voice steady as ever, “I hope you know there’s more work ahead.This was the easy part.”
Is she for fucking real?I almost laugh.Actually, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop it from coming out bitter and loud.
Easy?
Easy was forgetting.Easy was staying high.Easy was numbing every thought with whatever I could get my hands on.
This.This twenty-eight-day treatment was fucking brutal.
Getting clean wasn’t some beautiful montage.It was sleepless nights, shakes, and screaming into pillows.It was pacing my room like an animal, counting seconds until the next hour passed without giving in.It was wanting to crawl out of my skin because I couldn’t stand the sound of my thoughts.It was looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back—and hating him anyway.
It was every goddamn second of choosing to stay alive because apparently, I’m not good at dying either.
And now I’m supposed to walk out there and just ...do it?
Live?
She keeps talking, but her words fade into static humming behind my ribs.I know she means well.I think she cares enough, but right now, I can only think about the door I’ll walk out of.The hallway.The world beyond this building, where no one knows I’ve clawed my way back from the edge.I don’t even know if anyone cares about me anymore.
Out there, no one cares if I’m holding my shit together or not.I could disappear, overdose again.Even set fire to whatever scraps of my name are still left, and the world would barely blink.A few headlines, maybe a mention in a magazine, then they’d move on to the next tragedy.
