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 acontributing 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, andhead 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.
