Finding His Redemption

by Melanie A. Smith

  The tears start again at that thought. Because now it really is history. All of it. Because of me.

  I know this has to stop. Because nothing has really changed since the darkest days of my life at age sixteen. I’m right back there now, at thirty-six.

  Except now I’m not a helpless teenager with more scars and guilt than brains. And even if I don’t know how to fix this any more than I did then, I know I can’t keep burying those feelings. If I’m going to break this cycle, I need to dig them up and bring them into the light. Something I didn’t even do in rehab. I’ve avoided it, putting band-aids on the problem, hoping it’ll just go away.

  But the demons inside are clawing their way out. They’re ruining my life. And clearly I’m not going to slay them on my own.

  I need help.

  The guitar slides from my lap. I lean forward, not fighting the tears for the first time. Letting them go.

  Letting it all go.

  22

  Shout by Tears for Fears

  * * *

  West

  * * *

  Two months later…

  “So. Kristoffer. How was your week?” Dr. Marks asks, tilting her head in that way only a therapist can.

  “Well, Sherry,” I tease her with a wink. “It wasn’t bad, actually.”

  She smiles tolerantly, her amber eyes crinkling under her silver-rimmed glasses.

  “Your energy does seem calm today,” she remarks knowingly. “You went to your meetings?”

  I nod slowly. “I’m down to one NA meeting a week,” I respond.

  “Still two AA meetings, then?” she asks, concern tinging her voice.

  “Yep.”

  She makes a note, then looks back up at me. “I’m a little surprised. It’s been two months. Do you still feel like you might relapse?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “It’s just become a habit I enjoy. Is that weird?”

  “No,” she allows. “But you’ll eventually need to learn to cope without so many.”

  I hesitate on whether I want to share why I really didn’t scale down this week. Why I felt like I needed the extra support. Not because I felt like drinking, just in general.

  That is, until I remember my promise to myself to stop feeling powerless and accept help.

  “I saw Annika last weekend.”

  Dr. Marks’ eyebrows fly up because she knows it’s been something I’ve been avoiding. “And how did that go?”

  “She’s doing great. She’s got a job at a lawyer’s office, of all places,” I tell her with a chuckle. “We talked about our dad.”

  She nods, leaning forward, clearly eager to hear more. “And?”

  I uncross and recross my legs nervously. Talking about my feelings never gets easier, no matter how necessary it is. But Sherry Marks has helped me more than anyone ever has. She’s got that concerned grandma vibe that never makes me feel judged. Something about her makes me feel safe letting it all out.

  “I told her I felt guilty for leaving her there with just Erik. Especially since I know now how little he did to protect her.”

  “And you felt like that was your job.”

  I nod, a lump catching in my throat. “Yes.”

  “Even though you were only a child yourself?” There’s that head tilt again.

  The lump thickens and my eyes burn. “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  I blink hard, staring down at my finger, which is now tracing circles into my thigh. “She said there’s nothing to forgive, that what he did to us wasn’t my fault. And even if I was there it wouldn’t have stopped anything. But that if I needed her forgiveness, I had it.”

  A tear slips out and I wipe it away self-consciously.

  Dr. Marks leans over and puts her hand over mine. “Did her forgiveness help?”

  I look up, a little surprised at the question, though I don’t know why. She has a way of asking things I don’t expect. Things that cut right to the issue.

  “No,” I admit. “Not even a little. Though I am glad she seems okay now.”

  Dr. Marks inhales slowly. “Because you’ve come so far in understanding the role the abuse played in your addiction and your relationships, I’m going to tell you something I think you’re finally ready to hear.”

  I look at her warily, but I don’t stop her like she says I always can if I need to. So she continues.

  “Maybe it’s not her forgiveness you really need,” she offers softly with a squeeze of my hand. Then she withdraws, allowing me to hear that. To process that.

  I rub circles into my jeans as I do. As I really absorb what she’s suggesting.

  “How can I forgive myself? Even if it wouldn’t have made a difference, if I’d stayed …” I look up at the ceiling, blinking hard against the tears, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “At least she wouldn’t have been alone.”

  “Like you would have felt alone?”

  I look at Dr. Marks abruptly then. Because I know exactly what she’s suggesting, the word she’s used for that kind of thought process in the past — projecting. I’m projecting my trauma, the way I’d feel, onto Annika.

  “Yes, that’s exactly right,” I reply.

  “Did Annika say she felt alone?” Dr. Marks asks.

  I shake my head. “No, she didn’t. She always had a million friends. Even if she didn’t tell them. Or couldn’t tell them. She always had a place to go, people who liked her for her. I was the one who didn’t have many friends. I was the one who missed Erik when he stopped hanging around the house so much. I was the one who always felt alone.”

  “So when you, a mere child yourself, ran away from the mental, emotional, and sexual abuse your own father committed against you, you felt guilty for leaving her. Because if she’d left you, you would have felt abandoned and alone.”

  “Yes,” I admit. This time I don’t wipe the tears away. What’s the point?

  “You feel like you failed your family.”

  I nod. “So as punishment, I failed myself?” It’s not really a question. Because as I utter the words, I know without a doubt they’re true.

  Dr. Marks simply folds her hands in her lap and looks at me with equal parts compassion and encouragement.

  She doesn’t have to confirm the truth. That that’s exactly what I did. I punished myself by behaving so recklessly that I pushed away everyone close to me while the drugs took me away from the deep chasm of hurt I was trying to escape. That I sought validation from people who couldn’t know me, and therefore couldn’t hurt me: the fans. They became everything while I subconsciously sabotaged my life.

  And in doing that I also hurt my friends, my band. Maybe even because I wanted to hurt them. Maybe I wanted them to abandon me because I thought I deserved it for abandoning Annika. And this is all probably why I lied to Max too. Maybe deep down I wanted her to have a new reason to hate me, so she didn’t get too close. Because god knows shit got real the moment I realized I’d fallen for her.

  I really don’t want to be this fucked up anymore. I want to know what it’s like to be happy. To not run from my demons all the time.

  “How do I just … change?” I ask, my mind still reeling. “How do I stop ruining everything I touch as penance for all the things I’ve done?”

  “You’ve done the hardest part in recognizing the root of the problem.”

  “And the other part?”

  “It’s as simple and as hard as forgiving yourself.”

  And we’re back here again. To something I have no clue how to do.

  “How?” I say, a pleading note in the word.

  She contemplates that for a moment. “Imagine Ward had been in this situation as a teen instead of you. Imagine he’d been abused by his father, as had his sister. Imagine if he’d left, then flagellated himself for it for years to the point of imploding his life spectacularly, until as an older adult he was finally able to start dealing with what had happened to him. Would you tell him to forgive himself in this situation?”
/>
  Oh, now she’s just trying to make me cry. I sniff hard. As mad as I was at Ward a couple of months ago, I still consider him a brother. More so than my actual brother.

  “I’d tell him he’d suffered enough. That he is good. That he is loved. That if he needs someone’s forgiveness, he can have mine.” I swallow hard, hanging my head, suddenly acutely aware of both why Annika said what she said as well as the point Dr. Marks is trying to make.

  “And I’d tell you to take that big heart of yours and turn it toward yourself. You are good, Kristoffer. You are loved. But just like in the example with Ward, the person whose forgiveness you need before you can believe or accept anyone else’s is your own.”

  I stare down into my hands, the occasional tear wetting my palms.

  “When you’re able to do that,” Dr. Marks continues after a few minutes of silence, “you’ll know how to move forward. You’ll know who and what is really important to you, and you’ll do what you can to make amends.”

  I clench my hands into fists and use them to rub at my eyes. “And if they don’t want to hear it?”

  Dr. Marks breathes a sigh out of her nose. “All you can do is try. You cannot control another’s reactions. And if you truly accept that, you’ll have peace no matter the outcome.”

  I continue to look down, realizing my right index finger has started tracing circles again. It’s almost automatic now when I’m thinking, having long ago stopped being about the need to drink. That small thought makes me realize how far I’ve come. And how far I have yet to go.

  Dr. Marks’ words follow me home and haunt me into the evening.

  As I’m getting ready for bed, I look up into the mirror. I look tired, but healthier than I have in a long time. And I’m ready to do this.

  “I forgive you,” I say to my reflection. With those words that are as true as the heart I’m about to lay on the line, tears blur my eyes. “I forgive you.”

  23

  Eye of the Tiger by Survivor

  * * *

  West

  When James opens his door, I have to admit, I panic a little. What if he’s angry? What if he only let me come over to tell me off? What if, what if, what if.

  Dr. Marks warned me not to do this and to remind myself that all I can do is try.

  So when, without a word, James steps over his threshold and wraps his arms around me, I gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting it.

  “Hey, man,” I joke, hugging him back.

  He steps back and holds me at arm’s length. “Fuck, it’s good to see you, dude.”

  “Daddy,” a tiny, chastising voice gasps from inside. James’ four-year-old daughter, Zoe, appears in a purple tutu dress, wagging a finger and clutching a naked doll that has only half its hair. “That’s a bad word.”

  James chuckles and tips his head, inviting me in. He leads me into the kitchen where his wife, Jeudi, is stirring something that smells incredible with one hand while propping their son, Zed, on her hip with the other.

  “West,” she greets me with a smile. “I was so glad to hear you called a meeting with the band.” She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “You look good.”

  “And you look like a domestic goddess,” I reply. “What is that amazing smell?”

  She grins. “It’s nothing fancy. Just pasta sauce,” she says dismissively.

  James shakes his head. “She’s too modest. It’s braised beef ragù,” he says. “It’s pretty much why I married her.” He gives her a wink … which I’m hoping means he’s joking.

  The doorbell rings, interrupting any possible explanation, and James points down the hall.

  “I’ll get that. You can go hang in the studio, you know where it is,” he tells me.

  Nerves twist in my stomach, but all I do is smile and nod, waving at Jeudi as I head to James’ studio.

  It’s a decently sized room with an upright piano in one corner and a couple of keyboards lined against the opposite wall. A few folding chairs sit around the couch on the back wall, ready for our little meeting.

  It doesn’t take long for James to appear, Nik and Michael in tow. Nik gives me a wary “hi” and Michael gives me a look. That’s it. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve always been little more than bandmates, and he’s usually the first to challenge me when I say or do something he doesn’t like. He’ll definitely be the hardest sell. They both settle onto the couch.

  James starts to say something but is interrupt by Ward entering the room. His eyes meet mine solemnly, and I can see the battle on his face. Hug me or hit me? It’s weird, but it makes me even happier to see him for some reason.

  “Hey, man,” I greet him quietly.

  “Hey, West.”

  We stare at each other for a moment and I realize so much hinges on how he takes this. He’s really the unspoken leader here.

  I watch him as he sits down on the closest folding chair, draping a hand over his crossed legs. “So what did you call us here for?”

  I puff out a sigh and take a seat in the folding chair across from him. James takes a seat next to Nik on the couch.

  I look around at the faces of my band. My friends.

  This is it. The moment of truth.

  “I called you guys here to apologize. For real this time. And to prove it, there are some things I have to tell you first. Things that aren’t easy for me to share.”

  My eyes flick up to Ward, who is now leaning his chin on his knotted fingers, his elbows propped on his knees. He and James both know about my childhood, but only Ward knows any details. But I know even Ward considered it the past, not understanding how much it still affected me. Not that I did until recently either.

  So I tell them everything, sparing them the most explicit parts of the abuse I endured, but still giving them enough to leave them horrified and hanging on every word. Even, or perhaps especially, Ward.

  I explain that all of my behavior since the moment I left home has been a result of it all, but I didn’t realize it until I hit true rock bottom just over two months ago. That part they pretty much knew, of course.

  “So my therapist, along with my meetings, have helped me understand why I’ve been self-sabotaging. And how to stop.”

  “And you think you can?” Ward asks.

  “Yes,” I say plainly, leaning back in my chair.

  “Man,” Michael says, his voice laced with awe. “I had no idea, dude.” He shakes his head.

  And it’s the first time I think he’s ever expressed any sort of empathy toward me.

  “Well, it’s not exactly something I just throw out there at dinner parties,” I joke, trying to ease the tension of what I just laid on them. I look around at each of them in turn. “I didn’t tell you guys for pity, though. I wanted you to understand what I’ve come to. That I felt guilt for all of that, and that’s why I’ve been such a self-destructive asshole. I think I felt like someone should feel guilty, and fuck knows my dad clearly doesn’t. But I realized it’s not my cross to bear. It wasn’t my fault. And now I can stop punishing myself for it and, by extension, everyone around me.”

  “You’re like, all emotionally connected and shit now,” Nik murmurs, watching me through narrowed eyes. “It’s freaking me out a little.”

  I laugh, loud and honest. “It freaks me out a little too. But I feel so much better it’s not even funny.” I sigh, not sure this conversation is headed where I’d hoped but still feeling good about being honest with them. “So now you know. And I hope you also know that when I say I’m sorry this time, I mean it in a way I never could’ve before. I’m so fucking sorry for screwing this up for you guys. I know that doesn’t undo anything, but I hope someday you can forgive me.”

  Michael looks at me. Really looks at me, in a way he never has before. “I had no fucking clue about any of this. I just thought you were an entitled asshole,” he admits, and Ward snorts, presumably agreeing with the me-being-an-entitled-asshole part. Because, fair. “I mean, I can’t say I’m not pretty fucking disappoin
ted … but for what it’s worth, I forgive you.”

  Nik nods slowly. “Same,” she says nonchalantly. Michael gives her a sharp look, and she rolls her eyes. “All right, all right. I forgive you.”

  I smirk, knowing she probably considers it very un-rock-and-roll to get so mushy. Fuck knows I used to. But I’ll take it.

  I look to James next, who has had his hand over his mouth ever since I dropped the sexual-abuse bomb. He drops his hand, shaking his head.

  “I had a clue, but even I didn’t know how bad it was,” he admits. His brown eyes soften as he meets mine. “It took a lot of strength for you to come here today. To tell us all that. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I caution. “I’m just getting started.”

  James chuckles. “Well, you’re doing a pretty good job of it, from where I’m sitting.”

  Ward raises an eyebrow at him and James shrugs.

  “You guys are all a bunch of softies,” Ward grumbles at them. But I can already tell by his tone that he’s right there with them. He sighs heavily and swings his head to look at me. “Fine. I forgive you. But don’t think I’m not going to make you show me you mean it after what you’ve put us through.”

  I grin widely, not blaming him in the slightest. “I’m glad you said that. Because I meant it when I said I’m just getting started. I hoped you’d all be ready to give me another chance, even though I know I don’t deserve it. Because I’ve been working on something that you might be interested in.”

  Ward looks unimpressed, and I can tell he’s a long way from forgetting my behavior. “We’re listening.”

  “A concert. One so epic that it might just get us back in with everyone we’ve — I’ve burned.”

  James frowns. “And how are we going to do that when the label still holds the rights to all of our material?”

  “I may have written new material,” I respond. “Like, a whole album’s worth of it.”