Page 96 of Revel
Oma found out what I did in Colorado, and the rehab, and said to me, “How could you have let this happen?”
I never answered her. In fact, I hung up on her and had to think about my response.
I was young when I became a star. Sixteen. I had no idea how to process the fame let alone deal with it. I was never able to handle the power and money that came. In many ways, I’ve fallen victim, destroyed by the very people who catered to my every want and need. I’m shackled to my image. The public wants me perfect, while the press mercilessly exaggerates my faults. I don’t have the chance to be human and experience the world outside the artificial shell they’ve molded me in.
And here I am, in rehab serving out my twelve steps, and for the first time, I’m not that larger-than-life persona and completely over-the-top rock star on the lip of the stage.
In rehab, I’m an alcoholic.
In rehab, I’m fucked up.
The good news? Everyone else in here is too.
After the first few weeks of anger, feeling sorry for myself and living in a downright livid state of my irrational mood changes and tantrums, I shake through my pathetic “poor me” thoughts because I don’t have time for them. I’m surprised they didn’t drug me then wheel my ignorant obnoxious self into the ocean. I wouldn’t have blamed them.
The fact of the matter remains, I did this to myself. My drinking ran deeper than even I wanted to admit. It had nothing to do with my parents dying, my grandfather, or even Grant not wanting anything to do with his younger brothers. It didn’t have to do with Jenna dying, or my fame, or Hensley. . . it was all on me. While they tell me alcoholism is a disease, I made the decision to drink. I picked up those bottles and drowned myself in them. I didn’t see anyone forcing me to drink or waterboarding me with vodka, though I probably would have enjoyed it.
After I accepted it was on me, that’s when it all started to make sense and I allowed myself to do it for me.
Do I think of Red? Constantly. Too much. In fact, she’s all I think about and I lied. I didn’t do this for me. I did it because I never wanted to hear her say the words “It’s over” again in my life. She deserves better.
A month into the program, I begin carving out lyrics, because it’s what I do to forget. Only this time, it doesn’t make me forget.
I remember, and it’s awful. I try to bury it somewhere, but it finds me, haunting me in a constant state of flashbacks.
Deep down, and you’re probably more aware of this than I am at this point, but I’m just a lost man with a broken fucking heart, who misses cold toes, endless random questions, freckles, tangled red locks. And I really fucking miss drinking.
Here’s the thing, though, even after everything I fucked up, I can’t forget her. Never will. You can try, but you don’t forget your heart even when the devil inside you destroys it.
Now I’m alone, my obsession with her only gets worse, demanding to be fed and in turn, every thought is about her. As much as it hurt to walk away, I want her to be happy and if that’s without me, then so be it. You and I both know it’s for the better.
Rehab should really be called self-induced isolation. Sure, they make you attend the classes, and the therapy sessions, but I think the real healing begins after the numbness, anger, rage, fury, whatever you’re feeling, once that shit wears off and you’re alone, that’s when you finally understand.
That I’m a selfish asshole.
That I’ve wasted my fame.
That I took my music, family, friends, lovers. . . I took them for granted at the mercy of my addiction.
And Red. . . she was never really mine, and in theory, she was never really hers and I didn’t make it any better.
I think reality really hits me when I finally sit down with Liz toward the end of rehab.
“We’ve talked about this before, but is your answer still the same?”
“Same as what?” I glance up at her over the cup of steaming black coffee I’m drinking and still, sadly, wishing it had something stronger mixed with it.
“That you’re here because of her.”
I lied to Red. I didn’t come here for me. But there’s a twist. I didn’t do it for her. I did itbecauseof her. “You mean because of Red?” I ask bluntly. Liz nods and I shake my head. “I can’t say that all of this is me. . . because it isn't. It’s for the band, me, her, you. . . everyone. I want to get better for myself, but I also want to be better for them.”
She nods, chewing on her bottom lip. Like it or not, but Liz is the closest representation to a mother I have, and she’s only ten years older than me. Step number eight to becoming a recovering alcoholic is to make a list of all the people I’ve wronged and be willing to make amends to all of them. I couldn’t tell you who was on the top of that list, but Liz is right up there with Red. Especially after all that shit she said to me before I came here.
“Do you love her?”
“Red?”
Liz nods.
