The surge of happiness I felt when I realized who he was surprised me, but the anger that took over wasn’t. Even after all this time, I haven’t forgiven him. I probably never will.
I scoff and cross my arms over my chest, leaning back in my chair. It takes me a moment to remember I’m in my therapy session, and the doctor across from me has been waiting on me to say something, anything.
His eyebrow ticks up and he leans forward. “What’s on your mind?”
I scoff. “Why do you care? Think you’ll get an autograph out of the deal? Sorry, can’t supplement your income while you sell my signature online.”
“Mr. Morgan, I have been doing this for over twenty years and have met people more famous than you. At no point have I tried to solicit their signature to…” he waves his hand in the air, “supplement my income, as you say.”
That stings. Being famous, being a good singer, is all Ihave. I know there are people with more notoriety than me, but it hurt for him to throw that in my face.
Instead of showing my offense, I shoot from my chair and head for the door. “This is bullshit.”
My hand is on the knob when the doctor says, “Your ninety days won’t begin until you start working your steps.”
I whirl around. “What? I’ve been here for almost four weeks. I have ten left.”
“This is not a standard rehabilitation facility,” he says, speaking slowly as if I’m an asshole that can’t understand him. “Our job is to keep you from coming back. The way we ensure that is to make sure you work the program. You have to give yourself to a higher power and?—”
I scoff. “Please none of that Jesus shit. I’m an atheist.”
Doctor Steinfeld smiles gently at me. “As am I. I can tailor your steps to a program that has nothing to do with religion. How does that sound?”
“I don’t care. Being here is bullshit.”
“Mr. Morgan, all you’ve done is eat and sleep. You haven’t opened up in group meetings, and this is our third session, and you haven’t said a word. Your manager has informed us that you may attempt to leave on your own recognizance, and you have every right to do so. But in the event that you do, he said he will place you under a conservatorship and have you admitted.”
I’m sure it’s a bluff. Zed wouldn’t do that. Would he?
My brain is operating how it should, all thoughts and feelings clear for the first time in decades. Fear seizes me, digging its claws in. No matter how much I tell myself it couldn’t happen, a small voice says, “but what if it could?”
I’ve lived enough of my life on someone else’s terms—I can’t do it again, even in the hypothetical.
In a gentler tone this time, the doctor says, “Sit down,Mr. Morgan. I will help you through this. It won’t be as bad as you think. But your addiction has a source, and we need to get to the bottom of it so you can move forward.”
A cold laugh leaves my throat. “Move forward? Doc, I fucking spewed my fucking guts on the stage and theentire fucking worldsaw it! I’m a fucking pariah! There is no moving forward.”
“What gives you that idea?” Doctor Steinfeld clicks a pen and takes some notes but angles his body to give me his undivided attention.
“Oh, let me think,” I say sarcastically, pacing the room. “I beat the shit out of some fans, more than once. I never showed up to meet and greets. I didn’t like to sign autographs. Oh, did I mention I threw up on stage because I was wasted out of my fucking mind?”
He nods and sits back. “You did. We all make mistakes, Mr. Morgan.”
“Call me Wesley. Mr. Morgan makes me think of rum, and I’m in here to stay away from the stuff.”
Doctor Steinfeld nods in approval. “That’s a good start. That’s the first step, admitting you have a problem, and you want help.”
I scoff. “Whatever.”
“Mr. Mor—Wesley, we all make mistakes. You are a rare talent. If you get help and actually stick with your sobriety, your fans will be there waiting for you.”
I’m not so sure about that. I’ve been on a downward spiral for years. The more sober I get, the more I think on the mistakes I made and how I might not be able to come back from them.
Being sober fucking sucks. No more fog of ambivalence surrounding me. Everything is too clear, too coherent. I see it all, and I fucking hate it.
I hate myself.
Doctor Steinfeld and I talk for another thirty minutes about what started me on this path to destruction—my mother’s disregard for my well being—but I don’t see any kind of breakthrough. All I feel is hopeless and fucking down, a mirror being put in my face that I want to smash to fucking bits.
