I clear my throat.
“You mentioned last time we sat down that it was easy not to lose control on the road,” I say, shifting a bit. “So, I’m curious as to what caused your battle with alcohol?”
He groans and throws his head back, resting it against the wall behind him.
“It’s too early for this shit, Sunshine.” It comes out in a teasing tone, but I can still hear the truth of his words. He looks down at his hands and spins one of his rings around his finger. I wait him out, giving him the time and space to answer when he’s ready to.
“It’s easy on the road,” he says, sighing and looking back up at me. “Because there are a million other ways to distract yourself. Like I said when you first got here, you’re traveling the world with your best friends, and even if you’re not together all the time, you’re pulled in all kinds of different directions to do things—shows, meeting fans, sitting down for interviews, writing new music, venturing out and exploring whatever city you’re in—you’re constantly in this headspace of go, go, go. But what no one tells you about being on the road so much, is that when you get home, the silence isloud.” He pauses and resumes twisting his ring. “And in that silence is where I lost control.”
TRACK 3
Demons
TWENTY-SIX
Eric
? Novocaine – Waves Apart ?
It’d been four weeks since the last night of the tour with Waves Apart—the last echo of the screaming crowd, the final chord that sent us into the long, unfamiliar quiet of an offstage life. I thought I’d have been grateful for the break, but the truth was, it felt like I’d forgotten how to breathe without the noise.
The first few days after I got back, it was easy enough. I slept for hours, catching up on all the rest my body missed while on the road. I also tried to keep in touch with the guys, but it fell flat after a few weeks. We were all in our own heads. Everyone needed space to breathe and reset. Spend time with family and get back to some sort of “normal.” I thought maybe that's what I needed, too—time to recalibrate after being in motion for so long.
But then, slowly, time started to eat at me. I’d wake up later and later, check my phone for texts or missed calls andfind nothing. Scroll social media and see nothing but an endless feed of photos from the other bands on tour.
Seeing everyone else living their lives and moving forward was hard because I felt stuck. The road had been full of movement—full of purpose—but at home? At home it was just…waiting.
Waiting for something to happen.
For something to fill the silence.
At first, I fought it. I told myself to be patient. “Take it one day at a time,” I kept saying, as if that would make it easier.
After the second week, I found myself standing in front of the liquor bottles on the kitchen counter, my hand hovering over them like some kind of ghost. I didn’t have any real intention of drinking; I’d honestly never been a big drinker. I just needed something to quiet the thoughts that seemed to be multiplying by the second.
On tour, yeah, we all had our moments—shots before shows, the occasional late-night tequila in the greenroom after, a beer to two on the bus—but it was always more about unwinding after a long day, not about drowning anything. Now, it felt different.
I opened a bottle of tequila, poured a drink, and drank it in one go. A fire bloomed in my chest, and for a few moments, it was like the world slowed down. The hum in my head quieted. The silence didn’t feel as suffocating.
So, I poured another.
Then another.
And another.
By the time I realized what I was doing, the bottle was half gone, and I wasn’t even enjoying the buzz. It was more like a numbing of everything—the loneliness, the restlessness,the constant chatter in my head that I could never quite turn down.
The next few weeks were a blur. I drank more than I ever had, maybe not every day, but most. A shot before breakfast to get the day started, a drink after lunch to quiet my thoughts, a bourbon or two before bed to make sure I could sleep through the night without waking up to the unrelenting hum of my own mind.
The guys started reaching out more often, but the conversations were still brief, more polite than anything else. I wondered if they were all in the same place as me—lost, disoriented, unsure of what to do now that the tour was over. I saw the messages in the group chat talking about getting together to catch up or jam or whatever, but no one ever followed through.
And it wasn’t just the guys from the band. It seemed like everyone I knew was too busy. Friends would send texts asking if I wanted to hang out or catch up, but when I’d respond with a “yeah, let me know when,” that’s where the conversations would end.
Some nights, when the alcohol had done its job and my mind was clouded just enough, I would convince myself that it was fine. I’d tell myself it was just a phase—that I was just adjusting. Then the next morning, the weight of it all would come rushing back. The hangovers got worse. The pit in my stomach grew deeper. I’d sit in the kitchen, nursing my first coffee of the day, staring at the same familiar walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on me.
As the days passed, I noticed that the number of drinks it took to calm myself down and become a functional human being had increased. I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to silence the noise in my head without alcohol.
So, I poured another drink. And another.
