Page 39 of Giving Chase

"That's good, Chase. You recognized the trigger and took positive action. What else?"

I think for a moment. "Eliza's perfume," I admit quietly. "It's the same one she's always worn. One whiff and I'm back in all those moments - the good and the bad."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Nostalgic. Sad. Angry, sometimes. At myself, mostly. For all the times I messed up, all the chances I wasted."

Dr. Hendricks is quiet for a moment, letting me sit with those emotions. Then he asks, "How do the letter and the speech tie into all of this?"

I hadn't considered this connection before. "I guess... they're both about taking responsibility, aren't they? Owning up to my past, my mistakes. But also acknowledging how far I've come."

"Exactly," Dr. Hendricks nods. "They're not separate from your recovery journey - they're part of it. So, let's start with the letter. Instead of trying to apologize for everything, what's the one thing you most want Eliza to know?"

I don't have to think long. "That I'm grateful. For her belief in me, even when I didn't believe in myself."

"That's a powerful starting point," Dr. Hendricks says. "For the speech, perhaps instead of trying to sum up everything, you could focus on the band's journey of growth - which mirrors your own personal journey."

As we continue to discuss strategies, I feel some of the overwhelming pressure start to lift. We talk about more specific coping mechanisms I can use during rehearsals, ways to groundmyself when memories become overwhelming, and how to approach the letter and speech as part of my ongoing recovery rather than separate, daunting tasks.

"Remember, Chase," Dr. Hendricks says as our time winds down, "recovery isn't a destination - it's a journey. You're not failing if you struggle. The important thing is that you keep moving forward, and that you're willing to ask for help when you need it."

I nod, feeling more grounded than I have in weeks. "Thanks, doc. I... I'll try to remember that."

As I walk to my car, I pull out my phone and open a new note. At the top, I type:

Dear Eliza, I want to start by saying thank you...

It's not much, but it's a start. And right now, that feels like enough.

On the drive home, I make a decision. I pull over and dial a number I haven't used in a while.

"Hey, Will? Yeah, it's me. Listen, I was wondering... do you have some time to grab a coffee? There's some stuff I could use a friend's ear for."

It's a small step, but as I merge back into traffic, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. Maybe Dr. Hendricks is right. Maybe asking for help isn't weakness after all.

September 16, 2017

The pounding in my head matches the insistent knocking at the door. I groan, trying to piece together where I am and how I got here. My living room, I realize, as the world slowly comes into focus. Empty bottles litter the coffee table, and there's a guitar - my favorite Gibson - lying haphazardly on the floor.

The knocking continues, now accompanied by a familiar voice. "Chase! Open up, man. We're worried about you."

Will. Shit. The band meeting. What time is it?

I try to sit up, but a wave of nausea hits me. That's when I notice the woman sprawled on the other end of the couch, her mascara smeared, clothes disheveled. I have no memory of how she got here.

"Coming," I croak out, my voice barely recognizable. I stumble to the door, nearly tripping over an overturned amp.

When I open the door, Will's worried expression quickly turns to one of shock and disappointment. "Jesus, Chase. What the hell?"

I lean against the doorframe, trying to muster some semblance of composure. "Lost track of time. Sorry about the meeting."

Will pushes past me into the house, then stops short at the scene before him. His eyes dart from the bottles to the passed-out woman on the couch, then back to me. "Lost track of time?" he repeats, his voice a mix of anger and concern. "You've gone off the deep end, man. What's going on with you?"

The events of the past couple days come rushing back, and with them, a fresh wave of pain and anger. "Eliza," I mutter, reaching for a half-empty bottle on the nearby table. "She's leaving us."

Will snatches the bottle away, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? Eliza's not going anywhere."

I blink at him, confused. "But... her promotion. She said..."

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