Page 52 of Unholy Confessions
"You think you're different," he continues. "You think you can handle it, that you're not like other addicts. You tell yourself you're using to enhance your creativity, or to deal with the pressure, or just to have fun. But here's what's really going to happen."
He stands up and starts pacing, and I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"First, you're going to need more. What you're using now won't be enough anymore, so you'll increase the dose. Then you'll start using more frequently. Maybe you'll switch to something stronger because pills and cocaine aren't doing it for you anymore."
My hands are shaking, and I clasp them together to try to stop it. He doesn't know how on point he is right now.
"Then you're going to start lying more than you already are. To Montgomery, to your bandmates, to your family. You'll lie about where you're going, who you're with, how you're spending your money. You'll become someone you don't recognize."
"Jared—"
"I'm not finished." His voice cuts through my attempt to interrupt. "Your music is going to suffer. It's working now, or at least it will for a while, but it'll wear off. You think drugs make you more creative? That's bullshit. They make you think you're more creative, but the work you produce will be garbage. You'll miss recording sessions, show up late to gigs, forget lyrics you've known for years."
He stops pacing and looks directly at me. "Your career will start to fall apart. Venues won't book you because you're unreliable. Record labels won't touch you because you're a liability. Your bandmates will get fed up with covering for you and eventually they'll kick you out."
"That won't happen," I say weakly, but even as the words come out, I know they're not true.
"Won't it? Because from where I'm sitting, it already is happening. You're using while on stage, aren't you?"
I can't answer because he's right.
"And then there's the legal shit," Jared continues relentlessly. "You think you're being careful, but you're not. Eventually you're going to get caught. Maybe it'll be a traffic stop and they'll find your stash. Maybe it'll be at a venue where security decides to search you. Maybe your dealer will get busted and give up your name."
My stomach is churning now, and I taste bile in the back of my throat.
"You'll get arrested. Your mugshot will be all over the internet. Every mistake you've ever made will be dragged out and examined by strangers. Your family will be humiliated. Montgomery—" He pauses, his voice getting quieter. "Montgomery will have to watch the person she cares about become another cautionary tale."
"Stop," I whisper, but he doesn't.
"Prison is a real possibility, RJ. And even if you avoid jail time, a drug conviction will follow you for the rest of your life. You'll lose opportunities, lose respect, lose credibility. Everything you've worked for will be gone."
Tears are streaming down my face now, but Jared isn't done. He's not going to stop until he's made his point.
"But the worst part—the absolute worst part—is what it does to the people who love you. They'll blame themselves. They'll wonder what they could have done differently, how they could have saved you. They'll live with guilt and fear and heartbreak that you caused."
"I know," I choke out.
"Do you?" He sits back down, leaning forward so he's close enough to grab my shoulders. "Do you really know? Because Shell almost left me when Montgomery was twelve. We'd been together for a long time, we'd been through it before, and she was ready to walk away because she couldn't watch me kill myself anymore."
The pain in his voice is raw, and I can see the memories playing across his face.
"I came home one night so fucked up I could barely stand, and Montgomery was there. My twelve-year-old daughter saw her father stumbling around the house, incoherent and pathetic. She found me passed out in my car the next morning with a needle in my arm, and that was it. Shell packed a bag and took Montgomery to her mother's."
"What happened?"
"I got lucky. I had people who loved me enough to stage an intervention, and I was just scared enough to listen. But it took three tries at rehab before it stuck. Three times, RJ, including the time before we had Montgomery. And each time I relapsed, it broke a little more of my family's trust."
He releases my shoulders and sits back. "Shell and I almost didn't make it. The damage I did to our marriage took years to repair. And Montgomery—she still has anxiety about people she loves disappointing her. She still watches for signs that someone is lying to her or hiding something from her. That's my legacy. That's what my addiction gave my daughter—a lifetime of trust issues and fear."
The weight of his words settles over me like a blanket of shame. "I don't want that for her."
"Then you need to get clean. Not for her, not for me, not for your career. For yourself. Because until you want sobriety for you, nothing else matters."
"How do I do that? How do I want something I'm not sure I can live without?"
Jared's expression softens slightly. "You start by admitting you have a problem. Really admitting it, not just saying the words."
"I have a problem," I say, and for the first time, I feel the truth of it in my bones.
