Even before going to rehab I’d sometimes sweat at night, but not enough to make the sheets stick to me like a second skin. That didn’t start until the night I decided to get help, along with waking up to my heart beating so fast that I worried that it might actually explode. Having a heart attack will do that to you, make you second guess your heart’s ability to function or fear that the racing heartbeats are a sign that you’re having another one.
Those were moments when I would’ve given and done almost anything to make it stop and was when the “Drinking Devil” would whisper in my ear. He was a sneaky, conniving little shit, who waited for the right moment to remind me that a drink would make me forget it all. But there was a half-truth to what he tried to sell me. For a moment I would forget, but just as quickly the memories and dreams I tried to escape from would return.
So I tried to take Stan’s advice instead; to find something to keep me distracted from the sweaty sheets, a racing heart and thoughts of drinking. Before that, I would’ve thought my days of playing piano were behind me. A given up childhood hobby that very few ever knew I did. But in my desperation to find something to drown out my fears and pleas to drink, I’d given in one night and started to play again.
The first night it felt forced. My hands didn’t flow across the keys and I could barely remember any of the songs I used to play. I worried that maybe playing the piano wasn’t like riding a bike, something you could give up for years and then pick back up again with a brief refresher course. But it got better, and each time I sat down to play my fingers felt looser and my confidence in my ability slowly returned. It was something else to add to the list of things I never thought I’d do again. A list that grew longer every day in my quest to remain sober.
Truthfully, I enjoyed it and looked for any excuse to play. And as I laid in bed with the sheets clinging to me I figured that I might as well do something entertaining since I was up. But the thought of my sweat drenched ass sliding across the bench made me second guess the idea and I looked at the clock, wondering what time it was and if I had time to shower and play.
No matter how long my blurry eyes stared at the green numbers, they refused to change. Five, zero, seven. “Shit!” I cursed the clock and the time. It would’ve been better if I’d woken up in the middle of the night. I could’ve showered and had plenty of time to head downstairs to play. But with it being less than an hour before the alarm was set to go off, there wouldn’t be time for both.
I flung the sweaty sheets off of my legs, swung them over the side of the bed and planted my feet on the soft, furry rug. I might’ve actually enjoyed the softness of it poking in between my toes, or how the light bouncing off the nearby buildings cast a dim, soft glow in the bedroom; one of my favorite things about living in the city. But they couldn’t distract me from the disappointment of not being able to play the piano or what woke me up.
It was the same dream every time. I stood alone in a large, bright, white room, calling out for anyone to show themselves. Just when I’d give up hope, Dad would appear from some part of the blinding light that surrounded me, dressed in white and every inch of him glowing. He gave me the same disappointed look he always did right before my voice echoed from every direction, bombarding me with the promise I’d made at his funeral close to ten years before. “We’ll be true to ourselves.”
My words that day haunted me, just as much as Dad did and both had been constant since the night I went into rehab. It’s actually what made me go there in the first place. I drank so much in the days leading up to that night, making my dreams and reality blur together enough that I swore I physically heard my voice, even after waking up. Over and over the words repeated and all I could do was sit on the cold bathroom floor, covering my ears and pleading first with God and then my brother George for it to stop.
In my debilitated state, I had the crazy idea that maybe if I got sober, not half-assed sober but “honest to God” sober, the voices and Dad hauntings would stop. But they hadn’t, and the fact that they still felt as real as they did the first night was one reason I was convinced that what happened wasn’t some hallucination.
And as the weeks trudged on and I heard myself say the same words, their message started to sink in. Maybe what Dad was trying to help me understand was that to be happy, stay sober, be the person I wanted to be and someone Dad would be proud of, I needed to be true to who I really was. The person I tried to hide from everyone.
It would be one of the hardest things I ever tried to do. I’d spent years trying to hide the hurting, unsure, lonely guy from the world by being the loud, funny, smartass guy that lived larger than life. It was what everyone expected from me and I worried that if I showed them the real me, they might not believe it.
Even scarier was the realization that I wasn’t sure if I knew how to be myself. But faced with a future of faking it and continuing on in my sad, lonely existence or being real and actually connecting with people, I’d chosen the later. Hoping that at some point it would lead to something better.
The past press conference and that morning were my first chances to show the team, organization and the media the real me. That I wasn’t just blowing smoke up their asses about working hard and earning my place. It was why that morning’s practice was crucial and almost as important as my first practice with the team, six years before.
I needed to be focused and lose, not stressed, with my mind preoccupied on reoccurring dreams, and as I stepped into the shower I hoped that the hot water would help my muscles relax and wash away the memories of my dream. It mostly worked. By the time I sat down to eat something I felt more focused and confident about facing the day ahead.
First up was a meeting with Coach and I made a beeline to his office when I got to the Buck’s facility. I hadn’t been told much about it, but assumed that it was just a formality. A “welcome back to the team” and “glad to have you back” meeting and I wasn’t too worried about it as I caught sight of Coach’s door.
“Trev?” I didn’t even need to turn around to know that the voice belonged to Ryan, but what I didn’t know was why he was there.
“Drews! How’ve you been?” I asked him as I turned around and gave him a rib crushing hug.
“Dude! I need air!” He sputtered and chuckled as I let him go. “I’ve been good but it’s been way too quiet around here without you.” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder.
Under different circumstances, we probably wouldn’t have liked each other. I’d been the starting quarterback and he’d been the backup, something that could cause friction on any team. But Ryan had been drafted a year before from my alma matter, ASU, and he’d quickly become one of my closest friends and been one of my biggest supporters during my recovery.
What are you doing here so early?” I asked him.
“Oh, Coach asked me to meet him in his office around seven. How about you?”
I looked at him and then the door, trying to figure out what was going on. “The same thing…” I told him right as the sound of rushed, heavy footsteps came bounding down the hallway.
