Page 62 of Unholy Confessions
The question hangs in the air, and I realize I don't have a ready answer. For so long, my identity has been tied up in being RJ-from-the-band that I'm not sure I know who I am without it.
"I don't know," I admit. "I mean, I think so? We're supposed to do the European leg of the tour when I get out of here, and I figure that'll be a good test. See if it still serves me the way it used to."
"That sounds like a reasonable approach. Who do you have to support you in that transition?"
"My brother, definitely. My parents, though they can be... intense. They love me, but they have their own relationship with fame and success that isn't always healthy."
"Anyone else?"
I hesitate, Montgomery's face flashing in my mind. "I'm not sure I have Montgomery anymore."
The admission hurts more than I expected it to. For so long, she was my constant, my anchor. But sitting here in this room so far away from her, I'm starting to realize that maybe that wasn't fair to either of us.
"How do you feel about that?"
I take a deep breath, surprised by my own answer. "Kind of relieved, if I'm being honest."
Dr. Tate raises an eyebrow. "Tell me more about that."
"I think... I think I spent so much energy trying to be the person she fell in love with in high school that I lost track of who I actually am now. And she spent so much energy trying to save me that we both forgot what it felt like to just be happy together."
"That's a very mature insight, RJ."
"Is it? Because it feels like I'm just making excuses for being a shitty boyfriend."
"Or maybe you're recognizing that a relationship built on one person saving the other isn't sustainable for either party."
I consider this, thinking about all the times Montgomery looked at me with worry instead of love, all the times I felt like I was performing recovery instead of actually recovering.
"But what if I'm just running away from the one person who's always been there for me?"
Dr. Tate leans forward slightly. "That's something you need to really think about, RJ. Is this about what's best for your recovery, or is it about avoiding difficult emotions? Because if Montgomery is the one person who makes you feel real emotions—both good and bad—then maybe that's something worth fighting for."
"I don't know how to tell the difference anymore."
"That's okay. You don't have to figure it all out today. But I want you to consider something: when you think about your future, about who you want to become, what does that look like? And is that vision based on fear, or is it based on hope?"
The session continues, but my mind keeps returning to that question. When I picture my future—really picture it—what do I see? The stage, the lights, the rush of performing? Or something quieter, something more real?
And when I think about Montgomery, am I imagining a life with her because I love her, or because I'm afraid of what it means to be alone?
By the time we're dismissed, my head is spinning with questions I don't have answers to. But maybe that's okay. Maybe learning to sit with uncertainty is part of getting better.
As Benson and I walk back toward our rooms, he bumps my shoulder with his.
"Heavy session today, huh?"
"Yeah. How do you do it? Make decisions when you're not sure what's right?"
He stops walking and looks at me seriously. "You make the best decision you can with the information you have, and then you live with the consequences. The key is making sure your decisions come from a place of health, not a place of fear."
"And how do you tell the difference?"
"That," he says with a rueful smile, "is the million-dollar question, isn't it?"
As I lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the facility settling down for the night, I think about everything Dr. Tate asked me. About pressure and expectations and what I really want my life to look like.
For the first time in years, I don't have any easy answers. But maybe that's a start.
