18
Alina
“The real question is: do you think you’re ready for this type of attention?” Kristie Shepard—my therapist at Sheena’s Place—asks me in response to the question I’d asked her about whether or not she thinks I’m ready to go on tour.
I can’t believe that we leave in a week. After all of the rehearsals, photoshoots, and prepping for upcoming interviews and press junkets, the last nine months have flown by. And I’ve relapsed twice.
With my weight at 126 pounds, every day is a struggle to convince myself that I am not fat. I’m healthy now, despite at my lowest point having been down to 106 pounds when I was combining laxatives, some excessive exercise, and a lot more fasting after purges in the earlier stages of my illness. But apparently, relapsing twice in almost two years isn’t the end of the world. According to Kristie and others in the group, it happens, and it’s better to accept it and move on rather than dwelling on it and making myself feel so guilty that I slip back into old habits. So that’s what I’m doing.
Of course, Kristie doesn’t answer me, instead she puts it right back on me: “Do you think you’re ready?” It’s a therapeutic technique I’ve grown used to when talking to her, so why I even bother to ask her anything at this point is beyond me.
“I knew you were going to do that. Why can’t you just fucking give me your opinion?” I ask, raising my voice and smacking the cushion of the leather couch in frustration.
Without missing a beat or holding my words against me, Kristie smiles and says, “Only you know how you feel, Ali. I can give you my opinion, but at the end of the day, this is your decision. You know yourself better than anyone.”
“But do I?” I ask. I have such crazy emotions about the whole tour thing. One day, I’m so freaking excited for this experience that I can’t wait to go, then the next day I’m bookmarking the list of online therapy groups Kristie gave me that I can virtually attend while I’m out on the road, if needed. I mark them as “favourites” because I’ve convinced myself I’ll need them while working double time to fight off Her voice telling me to quit. And I ask myself the same questions, over and over: Can I actually do this? Am I healthy enough?
“Know yourself? You do.”
And Kristie’s right, I do. Only I know if I’m ready to head out on tour for eight weeks, even if Her voice is still there, just waiting to come in for the kill. And only I (and She) know what my biggest fear is: that I’m not good enough to pull this off. Yet I still want to hear Kristie tell me. I’m tired of playing through every potential good and bad circumstance and situation in my head. And Kristie knows I’ve been letting Her get to me, too, especially since I’ve been coming in at least two times a week over the last month as the tours start is getting closer. She’s been amazing and doesn’t deserve the way I’m treating her right now.
“I’m sorry for swearing,” I say, “for getting frustrated.”
“Please, it’s not the first time you’ve sworn at me, nor will it be the last. You’ve come a long way, Alina. Be proud of yourself. I am. Gone is the fragile girl who sat here a year-and-a-half ago telling me I was ‘fucking crazy’ if I thought she was bulimic,” she says. She tosses me a piece of bubble gum, the grape flavour that she knows is my favourite.
“Thanks, Kris.”
“It’s the truth. So, what do you say?”
“Honestly?” I waver, rubbing the tattooed dots that form the constellation Cygnus on the inside of my wrist, a habit I’ve adopted when I’m nervous.
“Honesty is the best policy,” she smiles, her brown eyes shining as she places her iPad on the wooden chest.
“I think I am ready.” I tuck my purplish-black hair behind my ear. “I mean, I know my triggers. I have my self-talk down to a tee, and I want this so fucking much. The band, they’re counting on me, and this is a huge opportunity for us. I just need to believe in myself.”
“Then I’d say you know the answer. You just gotta bring it,” she says, and smiles softly. “I’ll be here if you need me, or use those links I gave you. And maybe think about opening up to the band a little, or even just to Paisley. It might be good to have someone—”
“No.” I cut her off. “No way. They’d baby me, and watch me like hawks. I’m better; I’m doing really well. The last three months have been my best.”
“All right, I can see why you want to keep it to yourself, and that’s fine. Use your tools, bring a self-soothe box, and don’t be afraid to change your mind and open up to someone if you think it would help while you’re away,” Kristie adds, crossing one leg over the other.
I nod, agreeing with everything she’s saying. “I’ve already packed a travel-sized soothe box. I even added a picture of you and me from the summer barbecue.” I look up and give her a sheepish grin.
“Sounds as if you’re going on a trip, Miss Cassidy.” Kristie stands, clapping her hands together.
“I think I am,” I say, looking up at her smiling face. And for the first time in weeks, I really feel it. I can do this.
“Now, stand up and let me give the famous guitar player a little hug. I’m so damn proud of you.”
“Thank you for always being here for me, Kristie,” I say, giving her my best awkward embrace.
“You’re a special girl, Ali. I can’t wait for the day when you believe that, too,” she says.
And for some strange reason, I believe she really thinks I am.
It’s been a while since I left a therapy session feeling this light.
Now to keep that feeling going for the next nine weeks…