This is worse. This is worse than when we were apart.
I don't have the option of trying to hate him. I can't write him off as cruel and unworthy of my emotional bandwidth, not anymore. I can't try to stop caring. I can't run away. I can't replace him. I can't seek distraction in another man. All I can do is worry—about myself, about our future, about Scott. He's suffering. He tries so hard, and he's so strong, but the balance tilts against him and he loses his grip, and that's how it will always be, because hardships don't come evenly distributed in manageable packets; they rush in like an avalanche, triggered by even the slightest shift. Alex is getting married spirals into Alex hates me, it was perfect and I ruined it, he was right to leave me, I was horrible to him, I'm horrible, Mitch was right to leave, I don't deserve him, he'd rather have Alex, but I ruined that too, they'd be happier without me, he'd be better off if I never existed, I thought he loved me, why can't I just be a good boyfriend and go to the wedding, what's wrong with me, everything's wrong with me, I'm never going to be a good person, nobody actually wants me at the wedding, but Alex is reaching out and being the better man, it's no surprise Mitch is taking his side, I just have a bad attitude about everything, Mitch only puts up with me because he has to because he's known me so long, I'm holding him back, I should cut him loose, let him go, take my screwed up head and my problems and my hopeless addiction and my lies elsewhere. That's the summary from counseling so far.
Esther is my rock. She handles all the logistics, and coordinates therapy, counseling, and doctor's visits. She's incredibly demanding of Scott when it comes to participating in his treatment, but she never asks him to do anything she can do for him. She picks up his prescriptions, makes sure he always has transportation, and schedules everything meticulously.
She's always on the phone with our record label, telling them they can't push us into releasing something. Eventually they stop trying with her and call me directly, leaving a message.
"Mitch, this is Rose. Listen, Esther's trying to keep this from you and Scott, but I think you should know that you're in a pretty tricky situation right now. The label brought you on to step things up a notch, and the last album was good, but productivity right now isn't looking so great, and I'm worried they're not going to see you as a good long-term investment. I'm on your side here, and I want to help. Give me a call as soon as you can."
Esther's right here, listening to the whole thing. She's livid. "Do you hear this? She's reading from a script! It's not even a good script! Rose is an unpaid intern doing what she's told, not some executive trying to do you a favor. I can just picture them now, writing out a monologue and giving it to the only woman nearby because they think she'll sound trustworthy. And they definitely didn't bring you on to step it up. They brought you because Scott made them and they need him more than he needs them. Oh, they are on thin ice. If this happens again, you're dropping them." She proceeds to call them back and shout at them for a solid hour. They don't call again.
What would we do without her? I shudder to think how much harder this would be without the almost unlimited resources we have at hand. What if we were starving artists, still trying, decades later, to make it big? We wouldn't be able to afford rehab, counseling, therapy, drugs, or the world's best manager. She tells me when I need to stop and take a break. She tells me to stay strong, hold on, keep hope. She promises me he'll get better. She hugs me. It doesn't make me any happier or solve anything for Scott, but I don't need to be happy or better to be comforted. It's the gesture, the fact that she reaches out, it's the contact, warm, firm, and secure, and it's the solidarity, a reminder that I'm not alone.
All the times she told us that I would leave at the first sign of trouble, she was wrong, but she knew exactly what she was doing. By telling me I would fail, she was very deliberately setting me up to succeed. I said I would stand by him, and now my own obstinance is helping me stay as much as anything.
It would be a lot easier if Scott would stop telling me to leave him.
It tears a man apart, waging war with himself. When he drinks, a part of him wins, and a part of him loses. I'm not sure Scott will ever be fully at peace. He lost this battle, and a long war stretches out ahead of him. As he sees it, though, the war is over. He lost when he let me down, and it's not worth fighting anymore, and I need to go.
"I feel hurt when you ask me to leave," I tell him. Our therapist nods approvingly. The whole "I feel blank when you blank" format has stopped making me cringe and is almost second nature now. "I understand you want me to be happy even if it means being apart from you, and I need you to understand that even though this is difficult for me, I still want to stay." Saying "and" instead of "but" is another trick Dr. Reader taught us. The idea is to build on what we say, not contradict each other.
"I don't want to keep doing this to you, Mitch." He sounds so tired. "I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought of was how much longer until I'd be free to drink again. Honestly, how come they don't just prescribe alcohol for depression? It's the only thing that works."
My breathing hitches and I try to keep calm, keep communicating, find the right word. "I feel heartbroken when you... but that's what you're aiming for, I suppose."
"Now, Mitch," Dr. Reader interjects, "it can be hurtful to make assumptions about another person's motivations. Why don't we ask Scott instead? Sc—"
"Because," I cut in, "there's no point if he won't answer honestly." I don't have to assume. I know. "He's trying to make me give up on him. But you haven't given up on yourself yet, have you?" He's still in rehab, still participating in therapy, still taking his medicine.
"I thought I could want you more than I wanted alcohol," Scott sighs. "Need you more... I'm hopeless, Mitch. If I don't ever get better, at least I won't be able to let you down again."
"I'm still proud of you."
"I failed you. You know the saying, 'sold my soul to the devil?' I know what that means now. I gave up my freedom for the solace of drunken oblivion, and now I'm locked up. It doesn't matter what I want or what I need or who I love. I can only disappoint you."
"I love you." I do love him. This is better. This is better than when we were apart, when he was alone.
In the end, Esther is right. Scott does heal, and it's relatively quick this time. He fell off the wagon, and he started showing signs of depression, but he didn't drink for as long, and the depression isn't as deep as before. He pulls himself out of physical withdrawal in the first week of rehab, then begins the much harder process of overcoming mental and emotional dependency. The longer he goes without drinking, the more his confidence grows.
We make a few changes. He's not allowed to lie to me. It's expressly forbidden. At his request, we get a breathalyzer. "I'll feel safer. It's better if I get caught."
"I'll always catch you."
"Yeah? Your legs are pretty short."
He starts running. I grab the back of his shirt before he makes it ten steps. "Caught ya. Now you have to kiss me."
"Not fair!"
"I don't make the rules, bud."
He gives me the tiniest peck on the lips whilst grimacing with his eyes squeezed shut. I giggle and hug him tight. I caught him, and I'm never letting him go. I promised never to leave him, but how could he believe me when I'd already left? But this time, I stayed. There's no shadow of doubt anymore, no tremor of uncertainty in myself as I step back and get down on one knee. We can fight as many battles as it takes. We will overcome this.
"Scott Richard Hoying..." I look up. His hands are covering his mouth. I meet his eyes. "Will you marry me?"
