Because of their snooping, I’d become somewhat of a recluse. I didn’t invite anyone I didn’t already know or trust into my life. I was better off alone. People caused problems, and Lord knows, I caused enough problems of my own without adding anyone else to the mix.
During my first month at Whistling Wind Ranch, I was practically a shut-in. I hated leaving the safety of my own four walls, and I got jittery if I had to talk to anyone other than Tricia.
I’d fired my managers and cut all enablers and yes men from my life. Weaning myself off alcohol cold turkey wasn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
My first week at the ranch was hell on earth. There were hallucinations where I could smell my mom’s cloying vanilla perfume and hear her berating and belittling me.
Tricia had been a godsend. A hard as nails take no shit godsend. She’d nursed me through the worst of the DTs. Some days I was confused. Others, I was disorientated and hyperactive. At times, I was downright belligerent.
Not once did she pry into my life choices or ask me any deep and searching questions about why someone with the world at their feet would want to destroy their life. That was a question I asked myself repeatedly. I still didn’t have the answer.
As sure as the sun would rise, I would sabotage anything good that came into my life. I might not ruin things right away, but I’d slowly sow the seeds and cultivate them, watering them daily with self-hate until the roots were strong enough to pull me under.
Not only did Tricia make me clean up my own vomit, but after the first week, she said if I wanted to eat, I had to make my way to the main house and chow down with the ranchers and everyone else who worked on the farm. She assured me I could trust them as much as I trusted her.
Initially, the two-mile hike left my lungs burning and my skin covered in sweat, but now I could make it in fifteen minutes or less without losing my breath.
No more red-rimmed eyes. No more heart palpitations or paranoia. No more hot flashes or waking up feeling like I’d poisoned my body. I was as sober as a pastor in church on a Sunday, and that was the way I wanted to remain.
At least once a day, the devil on my shoulder would ask me if I really needed to stop, that a few shots would take the edge off, but then I’d Google myself and watch the video of me yelling and screaming at those little girls. Their innocent faces distraught and distressed. Their eyes wide with fear. They’d looked up to me, and I’d let them down.
Pushing everything away for a second, I drew in a deep, centering breath and focused on the view.
I hoped I never had to leave this place. The small two-room cabin surrounded by oaks, maples, and dogwoods was my home. I had a McMansion in Texas, a penthouse in Manhattan, and a small ranch in Wyoming, but none felt as much like home as my little haven tucked away in the woods.
I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of my days in these mountains. I wished that it could be a reality. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. One day, I’d have to go back to the real world and atone for my sins.
For a start, my fans—I still had some—deserved an explanation. Now and again, I updated my social media pages to thank people for their love and support and to let them know I was healing, but I still needed time.
They were eager to know if I was working on new music. I wasn’t. I hadn’t wanted to write a single word or sing a single note since the night of my breakdown. Seemed sobriety and creativity were like oil and water for me—they didn’t mix.
Maybe one day, I’d write again. Nothing I wrote now could be worse than my last album. Every time I heard the lyrics of my old songs, my heart broke a little more. The words showed I wasn’t in a good place. They were filled with anger, hate, and revenge.
Blaming my pushy parents for my problems would be the easy option. Sure, they were due a lot of the blame, like how from the age of thirteen, my mom would give me a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves before I got on stage at talent shows and at beauty pageants, but I was an adult now, and the choices I made were mine. My childhood needed to be put to rest. I wished I knew how to do that. Wished I knew how to move on. Wished I knew how to stop my mom’s voice from whispering in my ear.
The sound of a galloping horse broke through my thoughts and the music blasting in my ears.
My heart picked up speed. No one, and I meant no one, ever came up this way. I spun around and saw Winston, one of Tricia’s prized stallions ridden by someone I didn’t know headed straight for me.
At the last minute, I dove out of the way. I landed with an oomph, and for a few seconds, I wasn’t sure where I was or what had happened.
Searing pain ripped up my leg, and prickly bushes scratched my face and hands.
“Shit. Are you okay?” a deep, rumbling voice asked.
The words “I’m fucking not” bounced through my brain, but they refused to come out. Bile swished around my stomach and dizziness followed confusion.
Strong hands gripped beneath my armpits and hauled me from the brambles.
“Can you hear me?” He sat me on the ground, and I looked up, but he was in the shadows, or
