Page 66 of Madness

I take a seat, the folding chair creaking under my weight. Around me, people chat quietly or sit in contemplative silence. Nobody gives me a second glance. Here, I'm not Dakota, the bassist of Chaos Fuel. I'm just another person trying to stay sober.

As the meeting begins, I close my eyes briefly. I think of Lauren, of Roman. Of the life I want to have with them. Of the man I want to be. I think of the music I want to make, clear-headed and honest.

And just like that, I've taken the first step on a new stage. The hardest performance of my life is about to begin. But for the first time in a long time, I feel ready to face it.

As the meeting leader, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands that speak of hard-won sobriety asks if anyone would like to share, the air grows thick with anticipation.

My heart pounds a frantic rhythm in my chest, like a drum solo threatening to drown out everything else. I've stood before crowds of thousands, but this small circle of strangers terrifies me more than any stadium ever has.

A woman across from me starts speaking, her voice trembling slightly as she recounts her week. I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting, like a guitar string that won't stay in tune. I think of the mini-bar in my hotel room, of the drink I almost had last night, of Lauren's face during our last video chat, what feels like forever ago – the softness in her features like lyrics I can't forget.

Before I know it, the woman has finished. The leader asks if anyone else would like to share. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional shuffle of feet. It's like that moment before a song starts, when the audience holds its breath in anticipation.

I take a deep breath. It's now or never. Time to face the music.

"I'd like to share," I hear myself say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, like I'm listening to a recording of myself.

All eyes turn to me, but there's no judgment in their gazes. Just understanding. Acceptance. It's nothing like the scrutiny of fans or critics, and yet it feels more significant somehow.

"I'm Dakota," I begin, my mouth dry as sandpaper. "And I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Dakota," the group responds in unison, the chorus to my solo.

I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. My hands are shaking, and I clasp them tightly in my lap. "This is my first meeting. I'm... I'm on tour right now. I'm a musician. And I thought I could handle it, you know? The parties, the stress, the late nights. I thought I was different."

A memory flashes through my mind: my first backstage party, the rush of the performance still coursing through my veins, Chase pressing a drink into my hand. "To celebrate," he'd said. If only I'd known then where that celebration would lead.

"But I'm not different," I continue, my voice growing stronger. "I'm just like everyone else here. I have a problem, and I can't solve it on my own. I've hurt people I care about. I've put my career at risk. And I'm terrified that I'm going to lose everything if I don't get this under control."

My voice cracks on the last word, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. But I push on, like playing through a broken string.

"I have a girlfriend, Lauren. And her son, Roman. They're... they're everything to me. And I want to be the man they deserve. The man I know I can be when I'm sober."

Another memory surfaces: Roman's laughter as I taught him how to hold a bass guitar, his small hands dwarfed by the instrument. The pure joy on his face mirrored in Lauren's eyes as she watched us. I want that moment back. I want a lifetime of moments like that.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "How to stay sober on tour, how to face the pressure and the temptation. But I know I have to try. For them. But mostly for myself."

As I finish speaking, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. It's not gone completely, but it's lighter. Manageable. Like setting down a heavy instrument after a long set.

The leader nods, a small smile on his face. "Thank you for sharing, Dakota. It takes courage to speak up, especially at your first meeting. Remember, we're all here for the same reason. You're not alone in this."

As the meeting continues, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I feel... hope. It's small, fragile, but it's there. Like the first note of a new song, full of potential.

I may be on a different kind of tour now, but I'm ready. One day at a time. One note at a time. And maybe, just maybe, I can compose a life worth living.

38

BREAK ME DOWN

LAUREN

The late afternoon sun shines across the countertop where I'm attempting to help Roman with his alphabet worksheet. My mind, however, is nowhere near the ABCs.

It's been three weeks since I asked Dakota for space. Three weeks of silence that feels both necessary and unbearable. I miss him. God, I miss him. But I know I needed this time to focus on myself, on Roman, on my studies.

A knock at the door startles me from my reverie.

"Mommy, someone's here!" Roman announces excitedly, always eager for visitors.

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