A nostalgic new tale of mixtapes, dial-up confessions, and second chances, is out this week from Claudia Burgoa, and you can read the whole first chapter here.
Chapter One
Roderick
April 13th, 1997
This is it.
The last time I sit on this couch. Today, I have to pretend I’m not still carrying the wreckage of who I used to be. Pretend I’m whole and made it out without a scratch.
Confession time: I didn’t. I just stopped bleeding where anyone could see.
I’m all wounds and withdrawal, stitched together by regret and whatever scraps of hope haven’t rotted away.
A walking relapse.
A survivor on paper.
A ticking clock no one hears anymore but could explode at any time.
Everything was supposed to change when I entered this rehab center. That’s what they all say, right? Some kind of awakening. Cleo, my sister, insisted I do this one more time, for me, because I’m worth it. So I did it, not because I believe her, but because this might be my last chance.
Though, now that it’s almost over, I don’t think that’s what happened—the change. I remained just as I was before I almost died. Just like this room.
The beige walls close in like they’ve memorized every secret I’ve spilled since I arrived. That off-brand lemon scent clings to everything—faintly sour, fake, like it’s desperate to scrub away something it can’t touch.
The wooden clock keeps ticking behind Dr. Keller, just like it did the first time I walked in, thin and worn out. Back when I couldn’t stop shaking—hands, knees, voice, everything inside me rattling like I might shatter if someone looked too closely.
I remember thinking my bones might actually splinter from the inside. That the shame living in me might physically break something. That’s what it felt like back then. As if my skin had forgotten how to hold me together. I was just aftermath and damage.
Now I can sit without wanting to jump out the window and run until my legs give out.
That’s progress . . . I guess?
Dr. Keller is in her usual chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, with that clipboard in her lap. I’m pretty sure those pages contain my damage, cataloged and underlined.
“Congratulations, it’s your last day.” She looks up briefly, all calm and composed as if we should celebrate this milestone.
Hooray, Roderick made it twenty-eight days without relapsing. Sure, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t toy with the idea of running away and finding a dealer—or a liquor store. So, I’m not sure if it counts.
Just keep pretending, I tell myself. This is the last stretch, and then you’re free.
“Yep. Last official day.” I nod twice, unsure what else to do with myself. The words fall flat and toneless—too chill for someone barely holding it together. The panic claws at my throat, thick and rising.
Perhaps I should stay, beg them to keep me longer. Bargain . . . lie?
These people don’t get it. I’m not okay. I’m still craving that escape in the form of whatever I can get my hands on. The thought of walking out of here, of not coming back tomorrow after my meditation session, of not having this room with its stupid lemon scent and crooked rug and occasional moments of clarity—it makes my heart twist in a way I don’t have language for.
I’m scared.
Too fucking scared.
The ambiguity of what I want to do is overwhelming. Run, stay, live . . . I’m just afraid of everything.
Not in the jump-scare, monster-in-the-closet kind of way. In the what-if-I-fuck-this-up-the-minute-I-leave? kind of way. In the what-if-I-still-hate-who-I-am? way.
What happens when the world stops giving you permission to fall apart?
When you’ve spent so long coasting on borrowed grace, you never figured out how to stand on your own?
You look around one day and realize no one’s holding the net anymore—not the way they used to when you were growing up.
Back then, people made excuses for you. They softened your landings, bent rules without asking questions. Because your father was famous. Because you were some fucking musical prodigy. Because—who knows—maybe it made them feel important to say they knew you, helped you, protected you. And when that all stops, when the room goes quiet and no one rushes in to fix it, that’s when it hits you: you never actually learned how to stay upright.
I didn’t learn how to deal with things. I learned how to smile, how to be charming and slide away from accountability, how to let everyone else absorb the damage while I kept playing the part.
At first, I got hooked on being forgiven.
On people willing to lower the bar, telling me I just needed time. That I was young. That I was grieving. Back then, I believed them. I let that be enough.
I leaned on the simple things—money, name, pity. And when that didn’t numb it all the way, I found other things.
Drinks. Pills. Distractions.
Anything to keep from feeling too much or being alone with my mind.
It wasn’t just the fame. It was the safety net. All those soft landings made me think I’d never really fall. And when I finally did . . . I didn’t know how to stop it until I landed here twenty-eight days ago.
“Mmm.” She taps her pen against the clipboard. It’s gentle, but it cuts anyway. “You’ve done good work.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t nod. I don’t smile. I just let her words hang there like they’re’s suspended between us, waiting for me to believe them.
I don’t.
I’ve spent every session dodging compliments, bracing for the sting hidden beneath. They say, “You’re doing so well,” and I want to answer, “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to disappear.” They say, “Be proud of yourself,” and I think, “You don’t understand. The moment I let myself feel proud is when everything will fall apart again. So, no, I won’t feel any of that shit.”
Because what if I believe I’m okay and then fuck it all up tomorrow?
I tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. My fingers curl around the fabric—just a habit, something to keep them occupied. I stare past her, past the clipboard, at the weird art by the door. It’s supposed to be abstract. Supposed to mean something. Looks more like regret pretending to be art.
“Even though you worked hard,” she says, voice steady as ever, “I hope you know there’s more work ahead. This was the easy part.”
Is she for fucking real? I almost laugh. Actually, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop it from coming out bitter and loud.
Easy?
Easy was forgetting. Easy was staying high. Easy was numbing every thought with whatever I could get my hands on.
This. This twenty-eight-day treatment was fucking brutal.
Getting clean wasn’t some beautiful montage. It was sleepless nights, shakes, and screaming into pillows. It was pacing my room like an animal, counting seconds until the next hour passed without giving in. It was wanting to crawl out of my skin because I couldn’t stand the sound of my thoughts. It was looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back—and hating him anyway.
It was every goddamn second of choosing to stay alive because apparently, I’m not good at dying either.
And now I’m supposed to walk out there and just . . . do it?
Live?
She keeps talking, but her words fade into static humming behind my ribs. I know she means well. I think she cares enough, but right now, I can only think about the door I’ll walk out of. The hallway. The world beyond this building, where no one knows I’ve clawed my way back from the edge. I don’t even know if anyone cares about me anymore.
Out there, no one cares if I’m holding my shit together or not. I could disappear, overdose again. Even set fire to whatever scraps of my name are still left, and the world would barely blink. A few headlines, maybe a mention in a magazine, then they’d move on to the next tragedy.
I learned that when the band fell apart—how quickly people forget the songs that once felt like heartbreak hymns. One week, you’re someone’s anthem, the next, you’re buried under a stack of newer, shinier voices. Just another name in a liner note they don’t bother reading. Not anymore.
I thought going solo would fix it. Maybe if I stripped it all down—just me and the music—I would feel alive again. That they’d care for me again. I’d earn my place this time. But I didn’t write my way out. I burned out instead. Ended up in the back of an ambulance with a pulse that didn’t want to stay. And even then, part of me hoped it would be enough—that people would care again, that the silence would lift. But it didn’t.
Not really. The truth is, they don’t miss me. They miss who I was when I made them feel something. They loved the illusion. Sadly, now I’m the only one who ever believed it was real.
Isn’t that pathetic?
But I’m here.
And I’m still breathing.
Even if I don’t know what comes next.
Which is why I just nod to Dr. Keller, as if I’m taking it all in instead of freaking the fuck out.
“But here’s what I want you to remember, Roderick, and this is important—especially for someone like you.” She leans forward, elbows on knees. “You can always come back. Not here, necessarily. But to the work. To your sponsor. To your tools. And if you mess up, it’s not the end. It’s data. That’s what we call it.”
I blink. “Data?”
“Information about what tripped you up. So, you can respond differently next time.” She smiles faintly. “That’s what we’re aiming for. Progress, not perfection.”
It sounds like a line they have on a cue card to read when people are leaving. Though, when she says it, it doesn’t feel that cheap.
She goes quiet for a moment, then adds, “You know, emotional maturity doesn’t arrive just because you’re in your thirties.”
I snort. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“I mean it,” she says, serious now. “Your brain, Roderick, especially the parts tied to impulse control, trust, emotional regulation—those don’t just click on because you blew out some candles. You grew up in a world that handed you everything before you even asked. Sometimes before you knew you wanted it.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “And I thought that meant I was lucky.”
“You weren’t. You were deprived of the small, vital agonies of developing identity. Making choices. Taking responsibility. You were protected from the struggle, but not from the consequences. That doesn’t absolve you from the mistakes you made. It should serve as a tool, a foundation from which you start your growth.”
The words hit hard at the center of my chest in a way that doesn’t feel gentle. Not cruel, either—just truth in a way that makes my skin itch. I was deprived. Protected from the struggle, but not from the consequences. No one’s ever said it like that.
Not my parents, not the managers who let me self-destruct as long as I showed up for press. Not the journalists who called it a “spiral,” like I was just another cautionary tale waiting to happen. Not even the people who claimed to love me.
I always thought that the absence of limits meant I’d won something. But now I’m realizing that all that freedom wasn’t real freedom. It hollowed me out before I even had the chance to become someone.
I don’t say anything; just let the silence stretch. If there’s something I’ve learned, it’s that some truths don’t require a reaction. They need room to hurt.
“You’re only now learning what it means to ask for help. To notice your needs before they spiral. That’s not weakness, Roderick. That’s maturity. And it’s still developing.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and nod again. My throat is tight.
“Don’t let that inner voice shame you for being a beginner at something you never had a chance to practice.”
That stops me cold. Feels like she took a flashlight and found something I buried so deep I forgot it was there.
“You think you should already know how to do all of this,” she continues, “but how could you? You were six and famous. Eighteen and too alone. Twenty and drunk. Twenty-five and barely present in your own life. Now? Now you’re not late. You’re just . . . arriving.”
I want to tell her thank you, but the words catch. I don’t think there’s more to say, so I stand. Tug the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands.
She watches me with that maddening patience I’ve grown to both hate and need.
“Thank you for . . .” I shrug. “Let’s try not to meet again.”
She smiles, almost but not quite amused. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
The hallway outside is buzzing. Someone’s watching reruns of Happy Days down the hall—sunny voices and old theme music bleeding through the open door, too cheerful for a place like this. Laughter erupts near the vending machine, sharp and sudden, punched out of someone who hasn’t had a reason to smile in a while.
I look back once more. Dr. Keller doesn’t follow me to the door. Instead, she says, “Remember what I told you: if it gets hard, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It just means you’re growing.”
I nod once. Then I step into the corridor into the unknown.
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