Hollywood Sins

by N. K. Smith

  From what Natalie tells me, I missed the morning meditation and the midday group since I got here in the afternoon, but I have not missed the individual session that happens every day.

  This place is set up with medical doctors and psychiatrists. Both of mine are female, which I guess is how they plan it. After the medical doctor takes my vitals, I’m sent in to see Dr. Slater. While she looks like she could be a playful party chick, she gets straight down to business after a few niceties.

  I don’t feel like sharing much, so I remain quiet. At the end of it, she says, “It’s okay you didn’t have anything to say, but the expectation is that you earn your place here.”

  “I pay for my place here.” It’s not often I play the star card, but I’m not going to let her sit there and make me feel like I haven’t earned my spot here.

  “True,” she says with a smile. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other people who could do the same. You’re here to figure out how to be healthy. You’ll need to participate in both group and individual sessions in order to stay.”

  “Okay.” It’s not so much that I’m giving in as it’s that I’m just no longer fighting. Just like with the detox center, I have a choice to make, and quite honestly, I can’t muster up the energy to struggle. I want to be healthy, I guess. I want to be famous for the right reasons, and more than anything, I want to like myself again.

  “So let’s say I do the rest of my time here. Then what?”

  “Then you’ll either go into a sober living set up or strike out on your own using NA sessions as a base for your continued healing, but we’ll cover all of that another time.”

  Chapter 54

  I guess it’s not so bad here. I expected to hate it much more. Everyone is supportive in their own ways, but everyone has their own tales of woe. It’s hard to listen to, and the doctors make you listen to everyone. I don’t want to know how Tom had to keep increasing the riskiness of his sexual escapades in order to feel something. I don’t want to know how Chris Steel got into the porn business, or the how the sexual abuse she suffered as a pre-teen influenced Clover Anderson’s decision making.

  But I have to. I have to hear it all, and the doctors keep telling me I have to talk, too. They want to know about how I got into drugs, why I got into drugs, what drugs mean to me, what was my rock bottom. But I don’t know those things. I did drugs because Elsie encouraged me to take skinny pills and get high to stay up all night. I did it because it was easier than not taking them. What do they mean to me? Fuck, I don’t know. What was my rock bottom? I don’t remember, exactly. I just know I woke up feeling torn, battered, and tired.

  Whatever. Anyway, it’s not so bad. The food is good. The sunlight is very good, and I like Natalie a lot. We have good talks. We talk about being victims versus survivors. We talk about culture, and how the expectations put on us helped turn us into what we are right now—recovering addicts.

  I wish I had my laptop. I asked if I could send someone to my house in LA to get it, but they said no. Instead, I’m writing in this cheap composition notebook. I’ve already filled three in the week or so I’ve been here. I don’t know, it sort of feels good to use a pen on paper. Maybe it makes the whole thing more real. I can’t just close the cover and forget about what I’ve written like I can with my laptop. This is concrete and in my face, and I guess maybe I need that.

  I’ve got another notebook for something more creative than journaling. Dr. Slater said hobbies can sometimes help addicts recover because they are a medium to channel emotions and thoughts. So I’m giving writing a go. I’ve read enough scripts to format one in the notebook, and sometimes I can’t sleep, so I sit up and write. Even if nothing comes of it, it’s a way to kill the boredom.

  ***

  I knew when I was told I had a phone call that I wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone, but I agreed to take it anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “Peter.” It comes out as a sigh. I’m really not ready for this.

  “I was so worried. Are you okay? What—”

  His voice holds a little bit of panic, and a lot of relief. I don’t know what to do with it. “I’m fine now. Just went a bit off the deep end, you know?”

  “No. I don’t know. I kept thinking you’d come back and then you never did.” His voice is rising in pitch and volume. “And Locker kept reporting you were spotted in NYC and—”

  “Well, I’m in California now.” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes as I cradle the phone between my ear and my shoulder. A headache is bubbling to the surface. It’s going to be massive.

  “Thank God. I tried to call you last week because Sue told me she’d heard where you were, but the person who answered said I couldn’t talk to you so early in your stay.”

  The feeling of being smothered is instantaneous and overwhelming. I’m sure I owe Peter a million things starting with an apology and ending with an in-depth explanation, but I simply just don’t know how to give either of those things, not to mention I don’t have the energy. The thing about getting sober is that all of those stolen moments where the drugs kept you up get taken back and you’re left with incredible fatigue. I lie back on the sofa in an attempt to relax my tense muscles.

  “Adra? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “I’m beat.”

  “I missed you.”

  I shut my eyes and drape my arm over my eyes. “Yeah. I know you did.”

  He hesitates, and I can almost see him struggling to figure out what the perfect thing to say is but I don’t want him to do that. He always does that. I want Peter to get angry with me. I want him to tell me how much I’ve disappointed him. Maybe the confrontation will be like the one with Bran when I first got here and will get my heart beating faster, and I’ll continue to feel alive.

  “I was thinking about coming to visit. I asked the staff and—”

  “No. I don’t want visitors right now.” I try to sound nice to soften the blow. I’m rejecting him, and I know how much rejection can hurt.

  “They said they thought you would need a support system.” I try not to hear the hurt in his voice, but it’s hard to ignore. It’s not easy to know I’m continuing to hurt him. It seems like that’s all I do.

  “Maybe, but I don’t want visitors now.” To be honest, I just don’t want to see Peter. Even though I deserve to see his disappointed face and feel his anger, I don’t think he’ll show either of those to me. I think he’ll be ultra-sweet and say the exact thing he knows will make it all okay, and he won’t hold me accountable, and I’ll—

  “When you’re ready then, I’ll be there.”

  I groan at his unconditional support.

  “What?”

  “You always say the most ridiculously perfect things.”

  “I’m sorry?” he asks like he doesn’t know if he should be apologetic or proud of his perfection.

  God, I’m a horrible person. “No, I’m sorry, Peter, I just . . . I just can’t handle this right now. I can’t . . .”

  “Okay. I don’t want to put any more pressure on you. I know what you’re going through must be—” Why does he have to sound so sincere and loving? Why can’t he just yell or . . . or . . . I don’t know what.

  “Jesus.”

  “What?” he asks again.

  I let out a deep breath. “Nothing. I have to go, okay? Maybe I’ll call you in a few days?”

  “Okay. Just tell me, and be honest—are you okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know when I know.” Silence takes over until I say, “I have to go. They’re letting me bring Roman in for a workout.”

  A huff of breath comes through the line. “So your personal trainer can come to see you, but I can’t? I don’t—”

  My head throbs so hard, and I feel physically sick, but at least he is finally giving me a little true emotion. “Pete—”

  “No, s
orry. That wasn’t . . . I mean, I understand. It’s okay. This isn’t about me, I’m sorry.”

  There something harsh and disgusting about Peter apologizing to me. It’s exactly the reason I didn’t want to talk to him yet. Peter doesn’t owe me anything. I owe him, and I need to give him something. Anything to let him know all this shit isn’t directed toward him.

  “I’m pretty damned ashamed right now, you know? Roman’s going to give me shit for letting my body and my health get to where it is, and that’s all I can handle. I’m not going to be able to deal with how embarrassed I’m going to feel when I see anyone else, especially you.”

  “But I’m not going to give you cr—”

  “No, you’re not, but like you just said, it’s not about you. It’s about me, and I’m going to give myself buckets full of shit because I know I deserve it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I can’t take your hope and the confidence I don’t deserve.” He doesn’t have anything to say to that. “I have to go.”

  “Yeah, I’ll let you go.”

  I hate the defeat in Peter’s voice. “Peter, I . . .”

  “Yeah?” The hope is back, and I might hate that more than the defeat.

  “Nothing. I’m going to go.”

  “Okay. You don’t have to say it back when I tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I love you, Adra.” My chest seizes as he pauses for just a second before tacking on, “Bye.”

  He hangs up before I get the chance to say anything else. I’m slow to move, slow to remove my arm from over my eyes, slow to pick up my head and upper body, and slow to rise from the sofa. I walk at a snail’s pace out of the room, then through the hallway until I get to the main common area. At the far wall, there’s a divided door. I walk to it, lay my hands on the little ledge. “My head hurts. I feel like shit.”

  “That’s normal,” the tech named Andy says.

  “Can you give me something?”

  He checks my blood pressure and listens to my heart before he gives me a tiny blue pill. I don’t care what it is, I just hope it works.

  Chapter 55

  It’s been five days since I’ve talked to Peter. My mind, as usual, is spinning, dissecting the conversation in a million different ways, trying to analyze and interpret it. But, it boils down to the fact that yet again, I’ve hurt him, and yet again, he’s giving me sympathy and support. I should be thankful. I know I should be grateful to have someone like him, and deep down I am, but . . . well, I’m not sure what’s bothering me. It’s probably just being sober.

  I think about leaving this place and doing an entire eight ball. God, it would be glorious! All of this shit would fade away into nothingness. Everything would be bright and quiet and lovely.

  Fuck. Roman will be here in ten minutes. Working out will be good. Distraction is good.

  ***

  “Girl, what have you been eating?” Roman is on the treadmill next to mine. He’s running but not breaking a sweat while I nearly die from the effort of walking.

  “Nothing.” I press a hand to the stitch in my side. It feels like the skin will break open and some alien life form is going to come bursting out complete with goo and an ear-piercing squeal.

  “I can tell. I’ll leave a nutrition plan before I go today.” I see him look at my treadmill screen before pushing the button on his to slow it down. “Damn. That’s all you’ve got? You’re already sweating?”

  “Sorry,” I say in between pants. “I think I might faint.”

  “Okay.” He shuts his machine down and points to the empty space in the middle of the room. “Let’s do yoga.”

  “Thank God.” I punch the big red emergency stop button and hop down on shaky legs.

  Roman spreads the purple yoga mat out for me, and I realize I shouldn’t be too grateful yet. Yoga has been known to kick my ass, and it’s not like I’ve stretched in a good long while.

  Sure enough, as my absolutely beautiful trainer with his rock hard everything leads me into a series of strengthening and centering poses, I feel like I may vomit. It only takes a few times of me shouting profanities into the quiet room before he tells me to sit cross-legged on my mat.

  “Okay, okay. I see we’re going to have to start slow. Focus on breathing now. Six counts in; eight counts out. Close your eyes and breathe.”

  I do what he says and close my eyes as I draw a deep but shaky breath in. One, two, three, four, five, six. It’s almost as if I can feel my body releasing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Yes, the tension in my belly is almost gone. Just a few more breaths and I’ll be okay.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  I keep my eyes closed, but I frown. The breath comes out in a huff. “I wish people would stop saying that. No one knows—”

  “Breathe.”

  I stop and do.

  “I’m not saying I know exactly what it was or how it felt, Adra,” Roman says. “But I do know you, and you’ve let yourself get pretty far gone. We’re going to take it slow and little by little, we’re going to get you back on track. First, let’s focus on nutrition. I want you eating nothing but healthy fruit and veggies. We’ll focus on protein later. Let’s get your vitamins and minerals right, and then we’ll deal with rebuilding your muscles. Breathe.”

  The more I simply just breathe, the more I feel emotions I’ve suppressed. I want to stop, but how do you stop breathing?

  When the first of the tears roll down my cheeks, I realize that just like with breathing, you cannot just stop emotions. They build up somewhere until no matter what, they come crashing out of you.

  Chapter 56

  This feels like mania. I feel like I’m on top of a mountain. It’s not because I’m sober or in rehab, it’s because of the conversations I’ve been having with Natalie. She’s a writer and has been encouraging me to continue writing my screenplay, but then today, out of the blue, she says, “After this, we should go on a round the world writing retreat.”

  Oh, my God, the idea has hit me square in the head and I’m actually looking forward to it. I mean, nothing’s set in stone, but I told her it would fantastic. And with the two of us using the other for support, we can avoid sliding back into the negative things that brought us here.

  I’m not sure what kind of a travel partner she’ll be like, but it doesn’t matter. Getting away seems like the best thing ever. We can go far away, work on our projects, and forget about the reality of the world pressing down on us again.

  ***

  “So, Adra, only two weeks left here at this stage of rehabilitation,” Dr. Slater says in the middle of our early morning group session. She sits in front of our semi-circle, with Bran on her left and Doctor Singh on her right. “Do you think you’re ready to share with us?”

  Everyone else seems to thrive off this part. Some of these guys, like Cameron and Chris, seem to get off on describing every detail of their downward spiral, but I’ve been hesitant to contribute much of anything.

  My continued hesitancy is noticed, and Bran clears his throat. “The point of group is not to judge. It’s to show that we all understand and have similar experiences in our pasts as well, and just like we’ve learned something about ourselves when everyone speaks about their lowest moments, we’ll learn from you.”

  I readjust myself in my seat. It wasn’t uncomfortable a moment ago, but now it is completely hard and the back is too straight. When my legs are tucked up beneath me, I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. “Um, everything’s already been said. All you have to do is watch the gossip—”

  “That’s not the same.” Bran’s challenge is loud, but he says it in a way that is easy on me. “I don’t want to know what Locker thinks he knows about your experiences. I don’t care about what Hollywood Weekly found out in their investigative report. I want to know what you, Adra Willows, the person, have gone through.”

  I tighten my jaw for a moment as I try to figure out a way to get o
ut of this, but like with everything else I’ve been doing for the past few weeks, I surrender to the fact that I can’t. I can’t control this process. It’s not my place to do that. This process isn’t mine; it’s bigger than me. There is no running away.

  “What do you want me to say? What should I talk about?” My voice is full of soft shame.

  “Your darkest moment?”

  Doctor Slater nods, and adds, “You could talk about what got you into using.”

  “Or about what you’ve lost because of it,” Natalie says.

  I shrug and avert my eyes from anyone in the group. I guess I should just start from the beginning. It’s not only where all this started, but it is so distant that it doesn’t hurt as much.

  “I’ve been drinking for a while. Whiskey, usually. I started when I was young.”

  “How young?” Doctor Slater asks.

  “Probably twelve or thirteen. Shit was going down with my parents, as always.” I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts and my courage. Talking about all this stuff is supposed to make it better.

  “My dad kept a bottle in the cupboard, but it’s not like drinking all your parents’ booze goes unnoticed. So I stopped for a little bit, but those first few times of getting wasted gave me a taste for it, you know?”

  I glance around the room and see everyone’s expectant eyes. They’re not the vultures who sit around yelling for exclusive, juicy details, and are at the ready to snap a photo of me at my lowest. No, I see myself in these people. They want to hear the story to connect with it because they’ve all gone through similar things. “There’s always alcohol in Hollywood. I didn’t even have to be sneaky to get it.”

  “How often did you get drunk?” Dr. Slater continues.

  “I don’t know. It was a long time ago. It never controlled my life though. It was more the feeling of being cool and doing things that my peers did. Not the other kids, but the other actors I was around.”