Gilbert talked me into going to therapy.
Not for the drugs, not for the drinking—those were symptoms, not the disease. It was because there were nights when I’d get so wasted I could feel that thin line between anger and violence disappearing. I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of waking up one morning and realizing I’d actually hurt someone. Or worse.
And I’m not a peaceful person. You already know that.
I’ve always carried this fuse inside me—short, frayed, sparking at the slightest touch. When liquor gets involved, that fuse turns into a live wire. Therapy wasn’t some heroic step on my part; it was damage control. Gilbert knew it, and on some level, so did I.
I didn’t want to end up on the news. I didn’t want blood on my hands.
So I went. Not because I believed in healing or r
