Page 47 of Unholy Confessions
"Stop lying to me!" she screams. "I lived with an addict for eighteen years, RJ. Under the same damn roof. I know what this looks like. I know what the lying sounds like. I know what the desperation in your eyes means when you look at those pills."
My chest is tight, and I feel like I can't breathe. The walls of the laundry room seem to be closing in. If I'm not careful I'm going to have a full-blown panic attack right here. "You don't know anything about what I've been through."
"Then tell me!" She's sobbing now, and it's breaking my heart, but I can't stop myself. "Tell me what's so bad that you have to lie to me. Tell me what's so terrible that you have to hide pills in your pockets like a teenager stealing from medicine cabinets. I've always supported you, but I can't unless you tell me what the hell is going on."
"The pressure, okay?" I explode. "The constant fucking pressure of everyone expecting me to be perfect, to have all the answers, to be a part of this band. Do you know what it's like having thousands of people screaming your name and knowing that if you fuck up, if you have one bad show, it could all disappear?"
"So you thought pills were the answer? RJ you aren't the only person in that band. They're screaming EJ's name too. You're taking the pressure on yourself. It's an easy scapegoat to be okay with what you're doing."
I ignore the rest, but argue. "They help me get through it. They help me function."
"They help you hide," she counters. "Just like my dad. Just like every other addict who thinks they're managing their life when really they're destroying it."
I'm pacing now, running my hands through my hair. The room feels too small, too hot. "I'm not destroying anything. I'm successful. The band is successful. I'm providing for my future, for our future."
"What future?" She laughs bitterly, brushing at the tears under her eyes. "You think I want a future with someone who lies to me? Someone who calls me a bitch when I try to help?"
The guilt crashes over me, my stomach sinking as I remember saying that to her. "Montgomery, I'm sorry. I didn't mean?—"
"Yes, you did." Her voice is quieter now, but somehow that's worse than the screaming. "When people are desperate for their drug, they'll say anything. They'll hurt anyone. Even the people they claim to love."
"I do love you."
"No, you love the idea of me. You love having me here to play house with, to do your laundry and make you breakfast and pretend everything is normal. But you don't love me enough to be honest with me. You don't love me enough to respect me enough to realize I can't do this again with someone." She crosses her arms over her chest. "How could you ask me to do this again when I've already dealt with it, with my dad?"
She pushes past me, heading for the stairs. I follow her, my panic increasing with every step.
"Where are you going?"
"To pack my bag. I'm leaving."
"Montgomery, please." I grab her arm gently as we reach my bedroom. "Let's just talk about this. Let's figure it out together."
She whirls around, eyes blazing. "Figure what out? How to better hide your addiction? How to make sure I don't find your stash next time?"
"I'm not addicted!"
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes rake over my body. "Then why are you sweating? Why are your hands shaking? Why did you call me a fucking bitch over some pills that supposedly don't matter?"
I look down at my hands, and she's right. They are shaking. My whole body feels like it's vibrating with anxiety and need. "It's not that simple."
"It is that simple." She starts throwing her clothes into her overnight bag. "You're using pills to cope with life instead of actually dealing with your problems. That's addiction, RJ. That's what destroyed my family."
"I'm not going to destroy our family."
"We don't have a family!" she yells. "We have a relationship built on lies and pretending and you thinking you can handle this on your own."
I sit heavily on the bed, watching her pack. The reality of what's happening is starting to sink in. She's leaving. She's actually leaving.
"Don't go," I whisper, tears falling silently down my cheeks. "Please don't go."
"I can't do this again," she says, and her voice breaks. "I can't watch someone I love slowly disappear into pills and lies. I can't be the person who enables it by staying and pretending it's not happening."
"I'll get help."
"You don't think you need help. You just told me you don't have a problem."
She's right, and we both know it. Even now, part of me is thinking about where I can get more pills, how I can replace what she just flushed down the sink. I like those so much better than the coke I have left over.
