I'm All Figured Out

From behind the closed bunk curtains, Josh could hear his bandmates talking quietly several feet away. Despite the shut drape, it was inevitable that the voices would carry in such tight quarters as a musician's tour bus. He rolled his eyes and tried to block out the conversation that he knew the three of them were having about him, but snippets of their discussion broke through the barrier every few minutes. 

"...quiet lately. A little too quiet." Matt, ever suspicious. 

"...not really like him for this long. I wonder..." Josh didn't care what Mike wondered. 

"Nah, you guys. Maybe he just needs space. ...not as bad as you think." Good old Ian sticking up for him. 

Josh Ramsay, lead singer of the Canadian band Marianas Trench, former heroin addict, former alcoholic, former bulimic, former self-harmer...was okay. He really was. That wasn't ever up for question or debate. And, while he appreciated that his longtime friends and band members cared enough to worry, it was all needless. There was nothing to be concerned about. In the past, things might have been different, but in his current life, he had left all of those problems behind. Even though the vices were gone, the thoughts sometimes still surfaced. 

He didn't always want to admit it to himself, but if he was to come clean to anyone who asked, provided they were a close friend and not a prying fan, Josh would tell them that temptation was a motherfucking bitch. Sure, he hadn't touched drugs or alcohol in a decade, his skin was free of thin lines of fresh blood, and he was really, really fucking proud of himself for that. No one would ever know exactly how proud he really was. But every now and then... 

The feelings and memories of younger years were strong when Josh would sit down at the bar of some club that he had the band were playing in and he would order water or a soda instead of liquor. Some pretty girl next to him would glance at him without a hint of recognition in her eyes and say, "That's all you're drinking?" Then she would turn to her friend, they'd laugh and lift glasses of amber coloured liquid, downing them in one swallow. He'd hear those ice cubes rattle and the soft thunk as they set the empties back down on the wooden countertop, stained with years of spilled beer and rings of condensation.  

Josh may not have known those girls, but the need to join them in a drink was still nearly impossible to ignore. It was then that he would pull out a ten dollar bill from his wallet, horribly overpaying, and place it down on the bar, leaving his own glass completely filled, unable to handle sitting there any longer without giving in to desire, and walk away. 

The feelings of waning willpower were stronger still when Josh would leave that club and walk down the streets, absent-mindedly passing a group of underage kids who awkwardly held lit cigarettes between their fingers, swiped from either a parent or an older sibling. The smoke would billow from the glowing orange tips of those filtered sticks of nicotine that he was sure were probably only used as status symbols rather than a tool to aid in any kind of addiction. Josh knew. He used to be one of those kids once. 

Now as an adult, he wanted nothing more than to bum a cigarette from one of those teenagers and turn around only to walk straight back into the club. The smoke would mix with the alcohol and linger well on his tongue. Josh could almost taste it. But mostly that was all mental, and he knew it. 

The worst, however, were the days when Josh stared intently at his reflection in some strange bathroom mirror of a rented, temporary living space. Most days, he could scrape a razor across his cheeks, ridding himself of the patchy facial hair that he claimed never grew in properly anyway. He wouldn't even give it a second thought. 

But every so often, he just couldn't force himself to do it. The disposable razor was no longer a cheap plastic handle, two screws and three small blades. It turned into an inconvenient piece of shit that he would have had to deconstruct completely if he wanted to use it in a familiar old way. 

Those were the days that Josh would refuse to shave, claiming that he was too busy, too unmotivated, too careless about his appearance. Whatever excuse-of-the-hour that came to mind was the one he would give. He would make tactless and tasteless jokes about his appearance instead, hoping that no one was able to see through the uneasy, self-conscious façade.  

That's why, when the urge to slip back into his old lifestyle was at its strongest, as it was tonight, Josh hid himself away. The feelings would pass, as they always did. He knew himself well enough to be aware of that. But the trick to getting better was to momentarily keep himself away from all of those things and the people that reminded him of times when he was worse off, which, unfortunately included his bandmates. 

Eventually, though, usually after a couple of days, things would go back to normal and he would once again become his clean-shaven self, and the desire to turn his grooming tools into weapons would dissipate. He would come out of his self-imposed hibernation, rejoining the land of the living. Josh knew how he worked, as did his friends, and they almost always accepted what he needed without question, only truly worrying if these 'episodes' lasted more than a day or two.  

He could already feel himself starting to pull out of the current funk he was in. It was the beginning of the third day, which meant that this time lasted a bit longer than usual, but it was no better or worse than what was typical, and Josh was still holding his own. He knew how lucky he was that he hadn't stepped back in time, and how extremely lucky he was that he was able to fight through the negative enticements that continued to call to him from the sidelines of his life. 

Josh switched off the little light above his bed and slid down flat onto his back, his legs bent slightly at the knees, as the bunk was inches too short to fully accommodate his lanky six-foot-two-inch frame. He laced his fingers together and rested his hands on his chest, closing his eyes and still doing his best to ignore the whispered words of his friends' conversation that continued to drift through the open door to the back lounge of the tour bus. 

"...do we do?" Matt asked, sounding concerned. 

"Leave him be," answered Ian, the voice of reason. 

"Do...think he'll...okay?" Mike's nearly inaudible words reached through the darkness and into Josh's bunk. 

"Yeah, he's always okay." 

No matter what he was trying to avoid, Josh was sure that he was okay. He hadn't fallen back into self-destructive patterns, fairly certain that he never would. And he was still proud of himself. In the morning, he would crawl out of his bunk feeling like himself again. Maybe he would still be a little more ragged around the edges than he would prefer, but that was nothing one more day of slow mental healing wouldn't fix. Yeah, he was okay. He would always be okay.