Page 19 of Unholy Confessions
We lie there in comfortable silence for a while, her fingers drawing lazy circles on my chest. I can feel her starting to relax, her breathing getting deeper and more even. This is usually my favorite part – the aftermath, when she's soft and pliant in my arms, when the world outside this room doesn't exist.
But tonight, I can already feel my mind starting to rev up again. The quiet that comes after sex never lasts as long as it used to, and lately it's been getting shorter and shorter.
"RJ?" Montgomery's voice is sleepy, muffled against my chest.
"Yeah, baby?"
"I love you."
The words hit me like they always do – with a mixture of happiness and complete terror. She says it so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And maybe for her it is. Montgomery has always been better at emotions than me, better at accepting love and giving it freely.
"I love you too," I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, the only person who's ever seen all my broken pieces and didn't let it push her away.
She hums contentedly and presses a soft kiss to my chest before settling back down. Within minutes, her breathing evens out completely and I know she's asleep. It's always been like this – Montgomery can fall asleep anywhere, anytime. She says it's because she feels safe with me, and the trust in that statement never fails to humble me.
But sleep doesn't come for me. It never does anymore.
I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling and trying to quiet my racing thoughts. My mind jumps from the show tomorrow night to the new song I've been trying to write to the interview we have scheduled next week to the way Montgomery looked when she came apart beneath me to whether I remembered to call my mom back to the lyrics that are just out of reach to the fact that I can't fucking sleep again.
This is exactly how it was when I was sixteen, before I got diagnosed. The endless nights staring at the ceiling, my brain refusing to shut off no matter how exhausted my body was. Back then, the fighting helped. Now I have other outlets, but they're not working like they used to.
The Adderall helps during the day, mostly. It lets me focus on the music, on performing, on being the version of myself that everyone expects to see. But at night, when everything goes quiet, my mind takes off like a rocket and there's nothing I can do to slow it down.
I carefully extract myself from Montgomery's arms, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly but doesn't open her eyes, just burrows deeper into the pillows with a soft sigh. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and grab my acoustic guitar from the corner of the room.
The living area of our hotel suite is dark and quiet. I settle onto the couch with my guitar and the notebook where I've been scribbling lyrics, hoping that maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight the words will come.
But they don't.
I sit there for an hour, playing random chord progressions and waiting for inspiration to strike. Usually, when I can't sleep, the music flows out of me like water. It's my brain's way of processing everything I can't say out loud, at least that's what I like to think. But tonight, there's nothing. Just empty space where the songs should be.
The frustration builds in my chest, that familiar anger that comes when my body and mind refuse to cooperate. I've been taking my Adderall exactly like I'm supposed to – one pill in the morning, every day. I've always been cautioned about what happens if I use it in ways I'm not supposed to. I've never thought about it before. But it's not working like it should. The focus that it used to give me is shorter, less reliable. The racing thoughts are coming back.
I flip my phone over and check the time. It's three in the morning, which means I should take my medication in about five hours. But what if I took it now? What if I took an extra one? Just this once. It's not like it would hurt anything. It's my prescription, my medication. And if it helps me write, if it helps me be productive instead of sitting here feeling like my skin is crawling with restless energy, then what's the harm? I hate feeling like I'm a waste of space, and that's exactly how I feel right now.
I go to the bathroom and shake out two pills instead of one. The extra pill sits in my palm for a moment while I stare at it. This isn't a big deal. People adjust their medication all the time. And it's not like I'm taking something I'm not supposed to take – it's literally prescribed to me.
I swallow both pills and go back to the couch.
Within an hour, everything changes.
The fog that's been clouding my thoughts for weeks suddenly lifts, and I can see clearly for the first time in months. The guitar feels like an extension of my body, and the words start flowing out of me so fast I can barely keep up.
The first song is about being on the road, about the loneliness that comes with fame and the way it feels to be surrounded by thousands of people who love you but don't really know you. The melody is haunting, and I know without a doubt that it's some of the best work I've ever done.
The second song is faster, angrier. It's about the pressure of success, about the way everyone expects you to be grateful for everything you have even when it feels like it's crushing you. The guitars are going to be brutal on this one, and I can already hear EJ's voice soaring over the chorus.
The third song is about Montgomery. About loving someone so much it scares you, about being afraid that your broken pieces will cut them if they get too close. It's raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tight, but it's hopeful too. It's about falling in love with your best friend, and being scared that if it ends, you'll lose not only the love, but the friendship too.
I'm so deep in the creative zone that I don't hear Montgomery get up. I don't notice her padding out to the living room until she speaks.
"RJ? What time is it?"
I look up from my notebook, blinking in surprise. The room is brighter now – not full daylight, but the gray light of early morning. "I... what?"
"It's almost eight," she says, settling onto the couch next to me. Her hair is messy from sleep and she's wearing one of my t-shirts that hangs to her thighs. She looks beautiful and concerned. "Have you been up all night?"
"I couldn't sleep," I tell her, which is true. But I keep the rest of it from her. The fact that I took an extra pill. It's significant, but I can't tell her. If I put it into words, then I have to admit what I've done. "So I figured I'd work on some songs."
