Page 54 of Imperfect Cadence
Brenda deserved better. You deserved better.
I dont deserve you but I still love you. I miss you
-Gray
Colton
4 Years Ago
Therapy sucks.
It’s like sucking on hairy nutsack.
Despite the fact I hated it with a passion, I still attended every session religiously, clinging to the hope that one day I wouldn’t be quite so fucked up inside. So far, no dice.
I used to scoff at those perky LA types who would wax lyrical about how therapy was the holy grail, insisting every person needed to try it if they wanted to be an evolved human, blah blah blah. Spare me, Cindy. We’ll pretend that your therapy sessions—found via Yelp, no doubt—where you gossip about some petty drama you invented with your husband because you’re bored with your life, constitute a groundbreaking journey toward self-actualization. It certainly isn’t just you wanting to have a circle jerk about how you’re always right and everyone else is at fault.
Was I being a judgy bitch? Absolutely. But, hey, that seemed to be my default setting these days. I had morphed into a bitter shell of my former self three years ago, and although I was attempting to claw my way out of the hole, what the “therapy is awesome” brigade failed to grasp was that the journey toward “fixing” yourself wasn’t always straightforward, nor was it swift, or even attainable for some.
As the final chords of the track being played faded away, a lump formed in the back of my throat. I had a sinking suspicion that this latest batch of homework I’d been assigned had been nothing short of a colossal waste of six months of my life.
Eighteen months ago, thanks to Willy’s relentless nudging, I begrudgingly stepped into Dr. Ilene Vangari’s office with a flicker of hope that perhaps this time would be different. You heard me right; I’ve been “doing the work” for a year and a half now and while my progress has been noticeable, I was still a long way from the person I aspired to be.
Prior to that, I’d been seeing my previous psychiatrist for almost two years, during which my panic attacks and nightmares spiraled out of control. Instead of delving into the root causes of my issues, any new symptoms were met with a fresh prescription. Feeling too anxious to step on stage? Here, take a pill. Struggling to sleep while on tour? There’s a sleeping pill for that. Suffering from night terrors induced by said sleeping pills? Well, let’s just up the dosage.
I morphed into a vacant husk of my already depleted self. I could barely recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. I had grown to fucking hate every aspect of my life in the spotlight, and every single day, I fantasized about walking away for good. My passion for music seemed insufficient to justify the torment any longer, especially when my label had steered me into direction I didn't give a shit about—generic pop. I might as well ask ChatGPT to write my lyrics, given how little creative talent these two line songs required.
Except, each time I dared broach the subject, Carl practically had an aneurysm. I was promptly driven back to the psychiatrist’s office for yet another round of diagnoses. Apparently, according to Carl, I couldn’t possibly decipher my own feelings; it was all just the ramblings of a mentally ill person.
The worst part of it all? I stood aside and let it happen. I had essentially thrown in the towel. I wasn’t naive; I could see through Carl’s thinly veiled attempts to manipulate me in order to keep his cash cow mooing, so to speak. He wielded complete control over my life, ever since he’d left his role as a producer at Quest to become my own personal manager. He had been the one to first suggest I see the pill-pushing psych when I began to resist the direction the label wanted my music to take.
Because there had come a point when I just didn’t fucking care anymore. I no longer found any enjoyment from performing, but what else was I supposed to do? I detested Carl telling me what to do all the time, but I also had zero motivation to make any decisions for myself, big or small. I was just too damn tired. I loathed the dependency on numerous pills just to make it through the day, especially considering I knew I didn’t truly need any of them. It was the solace I found in the numbness and apathy they provided that kept me coming back to them—I’d try anything that offered a respite from the constant ache of the cavernous void within my chest.
It wasn’t until one fateful Mocktail & Margarita Monday that Willy staged an intervention, shedding light on just how fucked up the whole situation had become. In true Willy fashion, he had plonked a full-strength margarita in front of me instead of my usual mocktail and urged me to drink up.
“Are you already drunk, Willy? Cause I doubt you’ve suddenly forgotten that I don’t drink,” I quipped.
Willy scoffed and narrowed his eyes at me over the edge of his oversized, salt-rimmed glass. With his gold eye masks and pink fuzzy robe, he looked utterly ridiculous.
Mocktail & Margarita Mondays were our weekly ritual, a time to shed our performative facades and veg out on the sofa, bitching and moaning about the various crap we were dealing with. After all, the strongest friendships are built upon mutual whining.
“Oh right, silly me,” he retorted. “I just assumed that since your only reason for abstaining from alcohol was to avoid becoming a junkie like your parents, you might have changed your tune.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
“Oh, you know,” Willy replied casually, “since you’re already hooked on every kind of mood stabilizer there is, I figured alcohol probably isn’t a big deal anymore.”
“Fuck you, Willy,” I retorted, though the anger had already left my body and my words lacked any real bite. Even now, I didn’t care enough to fight him on this. “I just take what I get told to take. By someone who went to med school, may I remind you.”
Leaning in, Willy clasped my hand in his perfectly manicured one. “That’s the problem, sweetie,” he said gently. “When we first met, you wouldn’t even take a Tylenol. Now, your list of prescriptions is longer than my nan’s. How long have you been seeing this quack? Every time I see you, you look thinner and thinner. You’re like a walking zombie.”
“It’s just easier this way, Will,” I murmured. “Everyone is happier when I do what I’m told and swallow whatever they give me. It’s the first time in forever I don’t spend every fucking day thinking about him. What’s so wrong with that?” Unbidden tears welled in my eyes, betraying the emotions I’d drowned out with poison.
“Addicts who self-medicate are still addicts,” Willy reasoned, his voice full of concern. “It doesn’t matter if you get your drug of choice from a doctor or a dealer. You know I’m all for using medication to treat mental illnesses, but we both know at the most, you’re dealing with anxiety and depression. That’s something you had confirmed by multiple doctors before you started seeing this one that Carl found for you. And it’s no coincidence that this happened right when you started finding your voice and standing up to him.
“Now you’re being treated for borderline personality disorder and paranoid personality disorder. You say everyone is happier like this, but you’re not happy. You’re slowly extinguishing every brilliant light inside yourself, and I refuse to stand back and watch my best friend wither away just so you can avoid confronting your issues head-on, all while some greedy bastards make more money from you. It’s not happening. Consider this an intervention if you must.”
“What exactly do you propose I do, since you seem to have all the answers?” I retorted, suddenly much more invested in the direction of our conversation, considering I knew this would end in Willy asking me to disassemble the brick wall I’d constructed around my memories of him.
