I learned that when the band fell apart—how quickly people forget the songs that once felt like heartbreak hymns.One week, you’re someone’s anthem, the next, you’re buried under a stack of newer, shinier voices.Just another name in a liner note they don’t bother reading.Not anymore.
I thought going solo would fix it.Maybe if I stripped it all down—just me and the music—I would feel alive again.That they’d care for me again.I’d earn my place this time.But I didn’t write my way out.I burned out instead.Ended up in the back of an ambulance with a pulse that didn’t want to stay.And even then, part of me hoped it would be enough—that people would care again, that the silence would lift.But it didn’t.
Not really.The truth is, they don’t miss me.They miss who I was when I made them feel something.They loved the illusion.Sadly, now I’m the only one who ever believed it was real.
Isn’t that pathetic?
But I’m here.
And I’m still breathing.
Even if I don’t know what comes next.
Which is why I just nod to Dr.Keller, as if I’m taking it all in instead of freaking the fuck out.
“But here’s what I want you to remember, Roderick, and this is important—especially for someone like you.”She leans forward, elbows on knees.“You can always come back.Not here, necessarily.But to the work.To your sponsor.To your tools.And if you mess up, it’s not the end.It’s data.That’s what we call it.”
I blink.“Data?”
“Information about what tripped you up.So, you can respond differently next time.”She smiles faintly.“That’s what we’re aiming for.Progress, not perfection.”
It sounds like a line they have on a cue card to read when people are leaving.Though, when she says it, it doesn’t feel that cheap.
She goes quiet for a moment, then adds, “You know, emotional maturity doesn’t arrive just because you’re in your thirties.”
I snort.“Yeah, no kidding.”
“I mean it,” she says, serious now.“Your brain, Roderick, especially the parts tied to impulse control, trust, emotional regulation—those don’t just click on because you blew out some candles.You grew up in a world that handed you everything before you even asked.Sometimes before you knew you wanted it.”
“Yeah,” I murmur.“And I thought that meant I was lucky.”
“You weren’t.You were deprived of the small, vital agonies of developing identity.Making choices.Taking responsibility.You were protected from the struggle, but not from the consequences.That doesn’t absolve you from the mistakes you made.It should serve as a tool, a foundation from which you start your growth.”
The words hit hard at the center of my chest in a way that doesn’t feel gentle.Not cruel, either—just truth in a way that makes my skin itch.I was deprived.Protected from the struggle, but not from the consequences.No one’s ever said it like that.
Not my parents, not the managers who let me self-destruct as long as I showed up for press.Not the journalists who called it a “spiral,” like I was just another cautionary tale waiting to happen.Not even the people who claimed to love me.
I always thought that the absence of limits meant I’d won something.But now I’m realizing that all that freedom wasn’t real freedom.It hollowed me out before I even had the chance to become someone.
I don’t say anything; just let the silence stretch.If there’s something I’ve learned, it’s that some truths don’t require a reaction.They need room to hurt.
“You’re only now learning what it means to ask for help.To notice your needs before they spiral.That’s not weakness, Roderick.That’s maturity.And it’s still developing.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and nod again.My throat is tight.
“Don’t let that inner voice shame you for being a beginner at something you never had a chance to practice.”
That stops me cold.Feels like she took a flashlight and found something I buried so deep I forgot it was there.
“You think you should already know how to do all of this,” she continues, “but how could you?You were six and famous.Eighteen and too alone.Twenty and drunk.Twenty-five and barely present in your own life.Now?Now you’re not late.You’re just ...arriving.”
I want to tell her thank you, but the words catch.I don’t think there’s more to say, so I stand.Tug the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands.
She watches me with that maddening patience I’ve grown to both hate and need.
“Thank you for ...”I shrug.“Let’s try not to meet again.”
She smiles, almost but not quite amused.“Take care of yourself, alright?”
