**TRIGGER WARNING** This chapter address severe insomnia, the resurfacing of a depressive episode (including self-deprecating thoughts), and fear of treatment. Reader discretion is advised.
Fickle like tinsel
It's the lie sitting on the horizon
Cordially presumptuous
Leaving me querulous
And frankly furious
The best place to find Hell
Is behind shut eyelids
--From the song Slumbers of A Time Long Ago
Lyrics By: Orion Bauwens/Benjamin Hill
I call up Ben and Jake and tell them what happened. I suggest they lay low, too, and they agree. I schedule to have Gloria pick up my mail. I'm not stupid enough to have my mail delivered to my house, I have everything forwarded to a drop box, but this entire thing has me on edge.
No one knows Gloria. I mean yeah, I'm sure people have seen her, and I'm sure she's been photographed with me before, but I've tried damn hard to make sure people don't know she's my manager. And I hate to say it, but it's for exactly this reason.
Once I got stupid-famous, I've done everything in my power to ensure my team is protected. I'm scarred by tales of celebrity stalkers. In no way, shape, or form am I going to put anyone associated with me in any sort of danger.
Granted, for all I know, this was a one-off incident. And I'd like to pretend that it didn't mean anything. But that was like, Godfather horse-head moment. That was extreme. Violent.
That meant someone either had a really disturbing way of showing affection, or someone hated my music so much they'd kill a poor dog over it. And honestly? That's half the reason this is so bad for me. I am a huge animal lover. I have more money than I know what to do with, and the two types of charities I give to are ones for children and ones for animals.
So my mind was running away with me. By three in the morning I was on Tristan's porch, smoking and shaking, convinced I had a stalker who knew me so well they knew my obsession with animals and used it against me. Which is absurd. Right?
Right?
When the door opens behind me, I flinch. But it's just Tristan. He's in his pj's and shoes.
He crosses his bare arms. "Can't sleep?"
"Fuck no."
"Yeah, neither can I."
He takes me into his arms as I take another drag of my cigarette. After a minute, I speak.
"You're gonna freeze your ass off in just short sleeves. You should go in."
"Not without you."
I sigh and snuff out my cigarette, rubbing my eye beneath my glasses. "I will, I just have to make a phone call."
Tristan briefly looks hurt.
"My sponsor."
"Ah. Say no more." He gives me a peck on the cheek and goes back inside.
With a sigh, I take out my phone and call up Heather.
"I swear to God Orion, if you're drunk, I'm going to come at you with all of God's fury--"
I laugh. Lord, I'm slowly beginning to love this woman. "No, I'm not, that's why I'm calling you."
"Oh thank God," she says groggily. She then yawns and talks through it. "What can I help you with then?"
I fill her in on the details. By the end of it she sounds fully awake. I don't blame her.
"That's so screwed up."
"Yeah. And all I want to do right now is get in my car, go to the nearest supermarket, get two cases of beer, and just go crazy."
"But you won't."
I sigh. "No, I won't."
"Promise?"
"I promise. I'm not going to fuck up. Not today, anyway."
"Excellent. That's exactly how you should view it--just one day at a time."
I smile a bit.
"Wait--you hired a PI to find your family, right?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you hire her to figure out who did this?"
Oh shit. That's a really good idea. "That's a really good idea!"
"Yeah, I have those occasionally."
I laugh. "Hey, no putting yourself down. And..." I nibble on my fingernail. "I will if something like this happens again."
"Orion."
"What?"
"Orion."
"What?!"
"You should nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand."
I feel like it already got out of hand? But that would mean she's right. I don't want to drag Jessica into this--not yet, anyway. So I keep my mouth shut.
Heather sighs. "You're a stubborn jackass, you know that?"
I snort. "Yup. Comes with the territory."
"Good night, Orion. If you need anything call me back, okay?"
"Thanks Heather."
I feel a little better. Smiling, I go inside to join Tristan.
~
"I haven't slept in five days."
"Literally, or?"
"Literally. I'm jumping at shadows and seeing things out of the corner of my eye."
"Well that's not good. That's sleep deprivation. Do you know why you haven't been sleeping?"
"Someone left a dog's head on my front doorstep, and every time I start to drift off I see it."
My therapist for once doesn't know what to say. She stares at me, blinking. "You mean a real dog?"
"No, a fake one! I can't handle all the stuffing that was coming out, yaknow? Really fucking disturbing."
"Sorry, I just--do you know who did that?"
"If I fucking did, do you really think I would be here?"
"I don't know. You just said it's the image itself that hasn't been allowing you to sleep. Would knowing who did it actually bring you peace?"
I sigh, running my hand through my hair. I just want to sleep. "Maybe."
"Are you alright? Did you alert the police?"
"Yeah. And I'm staying with my boyfriend."
"Boyfriend? You never mentioned a boyfriend before."
"Well, he's not really my boyfriend. We haven't defined anything."
"Regardless, I'm happy you have someplace safe to stay."
"I'm not."
She doesn't even flinch. "Why?"
"I shouldn't have to fucking stay somewhere because some psychopath left part of a slaughtered animal on my doorstep."
"I agree."
I get up and rub my face harshly, pacing. "What the fuck is wrong with people? What is wrong with society?"
"What do you mean?"
"How are we so sick as a collective whole that doing something like that is acceptable?"
"It's not acceptable."
"And yet, it happened."
She smiles faintly. "And yet, it happened."
Shit like that is why I fucking hate therapists. They just fucking twist your words or throw them back in your face.
I glare. "Helpful."
"Why do you think it happened?"
"Fuck if I know."
"Orion."
"It's probably some psycho stalker or some shit."
"Probably."
"It's not fair!" I snap.
She tilts her head to the side. "What isn't?"
"Why do I have to carry this burden?"
"Burden? I honestly don't follow."
I'm suddenly near tears, and I'm pacing back and forth faster. "Why do I have to give up myself in order to be happy? Why was I given a gift and then punished for it? Why is it fair that I'm good at my fucking job, and then it comes with having to fear for my life?"
I shake my head. "Just, fuck me! Why don't I get to be happy? Why did I claw my way out of my past to be treated like this? Why is something positive in my life, something I need, getting twisted into a dead dog's head on my porch? I'm trying to cope here with everything but I'm losing it. I'm really fucking losing it."
"I think you should sit down and take some deep breaths."
"No! I do what I love, and I love what I do, and then--then--"
"Orion, please, sit down."
I sit and hold my head in my hands. I'm getting bad but I don't care. If you can't fall apart in a therapy office, where can you?
"I took a leap to follow my dream, I fucked over people to get where I am, and I fought tooth and nail to the top because I thought it would make me happy, but all I've found is more misery."
"You don't have to do this."
"Do what?" I sniff.
"Be famous."
I laugh bitterly. "Really? Music is literally all I've known. When I wanted to kill myself when I lived with my adoptive parents, the only fucking thing that kept me going was that guitar. That's why I'm so protective of it--as stupid as this sounds, it's my friend. It's my only true friend.
"Plus my grades in school fucking sucked. I didn't go to college. You don't understand--without music I'm not good enough to do anything. My future without music looks like wiping down tables at the fucking local McDonald's." I tisk and glare off to the side. "Yeah, no thanks."
"It's an honest living. And I'm not saying you should give up music completely. Record music. Sing. Play your guitar. Share it with your friends. You don't have to put it out there though. You don't have to go up on a stage."
"Yeah, I do, because as fucked as it is, I don't think my ego could take not doing this." I'm getting angry now. "When I'm on stage I feel like I mean something. Like I have a fucking purpose--that I'm not just a fucking waste of space, sucking up precious oxygen that everyone else deserves."
"Orion--you have to decide which is more important; your music or your mental health."
"Without my music I mean nothing--I am nothing."
"You need to stop telling yourself things like that. It's a self-perpetuating habit. You are worth something. You mean so much to me, you mean so much to Jake and Ben, and to your boyfriend."
"That's all superficial bullshit."
She raises her eyebrow. "Do you honestly believe that?"
I don't say anything.
"How do you think Ben and Jake would feel if they heard you say that? Or your boyfriend?"
I sniff and wipe my nose on my palm. "Sad. Hurt. Probably angry."
"Do you think they deserve better than that?"
"Y-yeah..."
"Don't you think you deserve better than that then?"
I want to tell her yes. I'd say and do anything to get her to shut the fuck up now. I don't like thinking about this. I don't like thinking about any of this because it makes me feel weak. I'm just so fucking pathetic.
And no, I don't fucking deserve anything. I don't understand--there's nothing to like about me, much less love about me. Look at me--I'm imploding. I'm just going to hurt everyone. Even when I don't fucking do anything, just my existing has caused strife. Ben and Jake are hiding away because of me.
"Everything is such a fucking mess and I don't know how to fix it anymore. I don't know what to do anymore." I look at my therapist. "Am I ever going to be happy?"
"What is your definition of happy, Orion?"
Fuck her.
"I don't--I don't know."
I spend the rest of the session having a panic attack, curled into a ball on the chair.
~
I've been given temazepam. It's supposed to help me get to sleep and stay asleep. I've had to swear I'm not going to touch alcohol because it could kill me. I'm not looking to die, so I promise. I also have only been given three pills, because of my predisposition to addictions.
Tristan has to keep an eye on me. We're supposed to call into the office immediately if I have any change in behavior. I'm so freaked out by everything I've even called Heather, though I still feel like I'm bothering her.
Heather tells me I'll be fine. She spouts off some medical stuff at me. She assures me if my psychiatrist didn't think I could handle it she wouldn't have prescribed it. Heather also points out how dangerous it is to go without sleep for as long as I have, and that I really need sleep.
So I look down at the pretty pill in my palm. Closing my eyes I pop it in my mouth.
Well, here's hoping.