Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I’d tell others, eventually. Drew knew my history. Mostly. Couple of the other guys out here with me, too. It was no big deal. I just needed something to even me out before the tour restarted. This leg didn’t feel the same and I couldn’t get over it. Something wasn’t…right. It would be, though. When I skipped up those steps and onto the stage this Friday night, the euphoria would heal everything. It had to.
Today was a day off. Drew always worked at least one rest day into my schedule after having to endure a particularly long journey. I needed it, needed the period of adjustment to regulate myself, mentally prepare. Even my ex-manager Lewis, through all his faults, had established the same plan. He hadn’t been left with a choice after seeing the way my brain reacted to being inundated with too much at once. Initially, he kept pushing his luck, pushing me, until something integral to my ability to function snapped inside my head.
That weekend, I’d been flown from Los Angeles to London, onto Paris and then Madrid, all within four days. I’d barely slept, hardly ate. With every flight my veins felt hotter. My stomach grew heavier. My vision got blurrier. About an hour before I was due on stage one night, my body, unable to take any more, began shutting down. I lost my hearing first, my mind blocking out the sound of anything but my own pulse. Then, I couldn’t see. People approached, but my brain wouldn’t allow me to look at them as it chose to focus on the tiny crack in the skirting board. I zoned out. Rocked. Left the earth, it had felt like. Until someone touched me…
I barely remember it happening, but the aftermath remained as fresh in my memory as if it had happened just that morning. Once I’d regained a level of consciousness, my forehead was bruised and swollen from where I’d hammered it repeatedly into a wall. The plaster of said wall was dented, knee height, which explained the pain I’d felt there. Finally, I fell to the floor and cried. In front of a manager I hated, runners I’d never met, hotel staff I didn’t know…I sat there and fucking cried.
I didn’t perform that night, or for two weeks after, but it made Lewis take a harder look at my schedule. It also signalled the beginning of the end with that label. After that night, things were simply never quite…the same.
I had nothing exciting planned today. Probably nurse the headache for a bit. Listen to some music. Pen a few lyrics. If I felt like it later, maybe I’d take a stroll, enjoy the cool air. Late spring in London and late spring in LA could’ve been two different seasons entirely. I preferred the weather here. Being too hot irritated me, though it wasn’t usually an issue with such easy access to AC.
The view from the lounge window, as I sipped another glass of water, felt authentic. Despite the bright rays splaying through the gaps in the sycamore branches, there was still a gloom lurking. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds. Damp patches surrounded the shaded tree trunks. It was earthy here; so much brown and grey. Wood. Bricks. Pavements. Soil. Everything and everybody were so…shielded. Hidden. The threat of rain was only ever a blink away. There was no pretence here. Nothing felt forced or fake. I liked that. The realness. Honesty. It made me question why I spent so much of my life elsewhere.
It annoyed me that I knew the answer, rattled me so much that I turned away from the window and ambled over to the armchair by the fireplace. I sat down, placed the glass on the side table, and leaned forward with my head in my hands. Tense fingers raked through my hair, scrubbed my face, fell down by knees.
“Fuck,” I called to no one. I loved it here. That was never in question. But I could never stay here…because it was too close to the life I’d left behind. Too close to home, the home I’d run away from, and the home I was quickly becoming afraid I wasn’t going to be able to stop myself returning to.
The next day, it was back to work as usual, though pretty relaxed, still. People and demands were brought straight to my door, so I didn’t need to leave the house. I spent the morning signing merch for the tour – posters, programmes, T-shirts – and then finalised the set list with Drew and Aimee, my tour manager, over lunch.
“Can we work one last song in at the end?” I asked, expecting the confused frown which tugged at Drew’s lips. “You haven’t heard it yet. I’ve been working on it with Marcel, for the new album next year.”