Page 29 of The Ballad of Us
The word lands hard. For seventy-five days, this place has been my safe, controlled, predictable world. Leaving to face real chaos and temptation makes my palms sweat.
“Did Bruce set this up?” I ask as I accept hugs from Wyatt and Cody in turn.
“We asked for it. We've been talking, man—about the band, about you, about what comes next. We figured it was time to have that conversation with you instead of about you.”
An hour later, we're sitting in a circle in Bruce's office, the six of us plus my therapist. It feels surreal. Case in Point is in group therapy together, like a strange, alternate universe where rock stars process their feelings instead of numbing them with alcohol.
“Why don't we start with everyone sharing how Gray's addiction has affected them personally,” Bruce suggests, his voice carrying that gentle authority that's guided me through seventy-five days of digging through my own damage.
The silence that follows is heavy, laden with years of unspoken resentment, disappointment, and love that’s been stretched to its breaking point.
Parker speaks first, of course. He's always been the one to tackle difficult things head-on. “I was scared all the time. Scared you'd overdose from alcohol poisoning, crash on the bus, or die on stage in front of thousands of people. But mostly scared that I'd lose my best friend piece by piece until there was nothing left of the Gray I grew up with.”
His words hurt. Parker and I have been friends since high school, long before Case in Point existed. He's seen me at my best and my worst and knowing that I made him afraid makes me feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world.
Fuck.
Wyatt goes next. “The lying was the worst part. The drinking was bad, but the constant lying about it is what bothered me most. I didn’t like how you made us complicit in covering for you when you were too fucked up to perform, or how you made us choose between enabling you and watching the band fall apart.”
Zep nods in agreement. “Every show became about damage control instead of music. We spent more time worrying about whether you'd make it through the set than we did playing.”
Cody, the youngest and most sensitive of us all, tears up as he speaks. “I kept thinking it was my fault somehow. Like if I'd been a better friend, if I'd said something sooner, maybe I could have stopped it. I lost sleep wondering if you hated us for trying to help.”
Andrew, who's been quiet through all of this, finally speaks. “I felt responsible. You're my little brother, and I couldn't save you. I couldn't make you choose us over the bottle, and that failure ate me alive.”
By the time they finish, I’m crying openly. They’re not the angry, defensive tears of early recovery, but tears that come from finally understanding the cost of my choices. The chair beneath me feels grounded yet small. The room’s mixture of cleaning supplies and leather keeps me in the moment, making my remorse feel real and present.
“I'm sorry,” I manage through the tears. “I'm so fucking sorry. I never wanted to hurt any of you. I never wanted to make you afraid, force you to lie, or make you think you'd failed me. You're the best people I know, and I treated you like shit because I was too much of a coward to deal with my own pain.”
“We know. And we forgive you. But more importantly, we believe in you. This is the most hope we've felt in years.” Andrew gestures around Bruce's office. “Gray is here. He’s sober, healthier than I’ve ever seen him, and he’s asking us for therapy. These are good signs.”
Bruce guides us through the rest of the session, helping us discuss practical concerns about my return to the band, touring, and recording, as well as the triggers that come with our lifestyle. We establish protocols for accountability, communication, and for what happens if I slip.
“What do you need from them on your bad days?” Bruce asks me.
I think about the question seriously, because bad days are inevitable. Recovery isn't a straight line, and even when sober, I'll have days when the urge to drink feels overwhelming.
“Accountability. Don't let me make excuses or rationalize. If you see me heading toward a dangerous place, call me on it immediately. I need you to be the voice of reason over the whisper that's always there, telling me just one drink won't hurt, that I'm strong enough now to handle it. And if you can help it, don't put temptation right in front of my face. I know I'll have to learn to be around alcohol eventually, but maybe we can ease into that.”
“Done,” Parker says immediately, and the others nod in agreement.
After the session, we spend the afternoon on the facility's grounds. It's a perfect Georgia October day—crisp air, leaves turning brilliant colors, the kind of weather that makes you grateful to be alive. We sit by the lake where Randy and I had our first real conversation, and I play them several of the songs I've written in recovery.
The first one is called “Morning Light,” about the difference between waking up hungover and waking up clean. The second is “Stone and Water,” inspired by my work with Thich Nhat Hanh, about how trauma shapes us but doesn't have to define us.
But it's the third song that really gets their attention. It's the one I've been working on for weeks, the one about Rhea, about learning that love sometimes means letting go.
Zep says when I finish, his fingers moving instinctively as if playing an invisible guitar, “That's some of the best writing you've ever done. The way you progressed from A minor to C and then into that unexpected B-flat—it was brilliant. You've always had a knack for crafting melodies, but this one really captures something new. It felt like a drop-D tuning conversation between us.”
“Your voice sounds different, too, like it’s stronger.” Cody notices.
“Recovery voice. Turns out it's easier to sing when you're not constantly drunk or hungover.” I shrug, but I'm glowing from their praise.
We talk for hours about music, the band’s direction, and the album we’ll record when I get out. For the first time in years, we feel like a band, not just five guys managing one guy’s addiction. Sobriety isn’t just reshaping me but our music. Zep suggests a richer, more resonant guitar tone, while Cody wants tighter rhythms that capture our new clarity. We get excited over the idea of a creative rebirth. Sobriety isn’t just cleansing me, it’s cleansing all of us. It’s fine-tuning our sound.
As the sun starts to set behind the mountains, they prepare to leave. Their goodbye hugs are different this time, not desperate or worried, but full of genuine hope for the future.
“Two weeks. Then we bring you home.” Andrew squeezes me tightly in a big brother embrace.
