Page 50 of Stolen Hearts
He goes in for a hug, but Alexander pushes him off, sending him hurtling backward and almost into the crowd.
“Get your hands off me, you pedophile!” His face scrunches up.
The network quickly cuts the transmission before I can see anymore.
“Jesus! What is that guy on? Was he like that in New York?”
Andrew tips the ice cream carton toward me, but I’m already reaching for my phone again, going to MTV’s website to watch the live stream. But that’s been cut too.
Fuck!
This has gone from Britney Spears to Kanye West versus Taylor Swift all in a matter of minutes. You could maybe write the performance off as having a bad day.
But this.
I don’t know how he’s going to come back from this.
11.Alexander
Thursday - October 17
I’ve been dreading this day for the last week. Not because today marks my twenty-fourth birthday. And not because this marks the third anniversary of Samuel’s death, but because my family are all making the trip out to see me. I felt compelled to see them this time after declining all the previous visitation requests from my care team.
I don’t want to face them. I’m barely able to face myself.
The first two weeks here were by far the worst.
The benzodiazepine did little to reduce the torrent of withdrawal symptoms while I dried out: The uncontrollable shaking. The violent retching. The cold sweats that ruined every item of clothing that was packed for me.
During weeks three and four, the physical symptoms significantly improved, making way for an onslaught of nightmares to appear. The emotional baggage from the daily individual and group therapy sessions, EMDR, twelve-step program work, and journaling were so heavy, so filled with all my unprocessed and unresolved trauma, that I often woke up screaming in the middle of the night.
One of my non-negotiables upon entering the treatmentfacility was that I got my own room. And thankfully, I wasn’t forced to share, unlike the majority of the people here. It has allowed me to keep to myself outside of any groups that I was required to join. The constant stares from other patients reenforced that it was the right decision, despite protests from the intake team. The only other person I’ve engaged with here, a British actor in for opioid addiction, was discharged ten days ago. I’ve pretty much kept to myself since.
Keeping up with my workout routine has been the easiest part of this whole stay, because it’s one of the few places, other than my room, that most of the others don’t visit. They all prefer the pool or the common area. Books from the store, the only other source of escape when my neuro-spicy mind is willing to engage, helps speed up the slow and steady erosion of time while I’m trapped in here.
Being kept away from all digital devices has been both a blessing and a curse. I’m shielded from the outside world, but paranoid about what everyone thinks of me.
How bad was the blowout after the VMAs?
Do I have a career to return to?
On a scale of one to Kanye, how crazy does everyone think I am?
I’d fucked up in so many ways that it took me three days to compile my list of names for the moral inventory in step four of the program. That list, cataloging everyone from Lucy to my parents to Aiden Matthews, now stares back at me from the small wooden desk in my room. Envelopes and paper, provided to write letters so I can make amends, sit alongside.
A soft knock on my door draws my attention away.
“They’re here, if you’re ready?” The door opens, and Lee’s warm smile greets me. She was the third therapist I finally landed on and stuck with after quickly rejecting the first two. Her long white hair, parted down the center, flows over her brown cardigan. Her glasses, held by a chain around her neck, rest on top.
I’m not ready.
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to face the world again.
My chest tightens at the thought of what’s awaiting me in the communal room.
“Come on, Alexander.” She steps toward me and motions me up from the chair. “It’ll all be okay.”
How does she know?
