Chapter 61

HUDSON

Days blurred together in this place. Each morning, I woke to the same sterile surroundings, the same bland meals, the same endless cycle of therapy and group sessions that seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

Each face in the group was a mirror reflecting back my own struggles and disappointments. I saw myself in all of them. They were all people grappling with their past, their failures, their demons. I was right in the middle of it all.

I had lost track of time in between the monotonous routine and the lingering effects of withdrawal. My body ached with a persistent soreness that no amount of sleep could alleviate. My mind, once fogged by alcohol, now ran rampant with thoughts and memories I didn't want to face.

Fragments of my last night with Diana played out over and over. Her laughter woke me up in the middle of the night. She wasn't really there, but I would wake up and swear I could smell her.

The relentless pursuit of redemption was exhausting. And yet, despite the hardships and the frustration, I know deep down that it's necessary. I need to confront my past, my mistakes, my shortcomings head on if I ever hope to find peace. That's what this whole stupid process is about. If it didn't work, if I didn't walk out of here cured, I was going to be pissed.

This was not easy. Every day was a struggle, a constant uphill battle against the tide of negativity and self-doubt that threatened to take me back down at every turn. It was weird on the inside. There are no distractions, no escapes—just me and the raw, unfiltered truth of my existence. That was the hardest thing about being inside this place.

Where once I would have turned to alcohol to numb the pain, to drown out the cacophony of voices that echoed in my head, now I had nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. And let me tell you, they weren't always pleasant.

I found myself wrestling with feelings of inadequacy, of unworthiness, of a deep-seated fear that I would never be able to measure up—to myself, to my family, to the world at large. And as much as I tried to push them aside, to bury them beneath my usual cocky mask, they always found a way to resurface, to claw their way back into the forefront of my mind.

As the days dragged on, I wondered if I'd ever be able to complete my program. Six weeks felt like an eternity. I don't know if I'll ever be able to conquer my demons and emerge a changed man. But I'm going to keep trying. I came in here doing this for my family, but I quickly learned that was no longer the goal. This is for me. I had to do this for me, or I didn't make it to the end.

I checked the time and sighed. It was time for therapy. I swore, that was all I did. Therapy with others. Therapy alone. I dreaded the alone sessions. I couldn't hide behind anyone.

The one-on-one sessions with my therapist were always the most challenging part of my days. It was a relentless barrage of probing questions and uncomfortable truths that forced me to confront the demons lurking in the darkest corners of my mind.

"Hudson," the therapist greeted me. "Have a seat."

I settled into the familiar discomfort of the therapist's office. I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread wash over me, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me this session would be different. I had heard about these come to Jesus sessions. I had avoided mine but it looked like this was my moment.

I reached for one of the bottles of water and prepared myself.

"So, Hudson," my therapist began, his voice gentle but firm. "Let's talk about why you think you drink the way you do."

"Let's just get right to the point," I said with a laugh.

He didn't smile. He rarely did. Instead, he just looked at me.

I hate fucking therapy.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I struggled to find the words to express the tangled mess of emotions swirling inside me. "I don't know," I admitted.

"We've been doing this for a while," he said. "You have the tools to dig down and learn what it is that triggers you."

I took a deep breath and tried to sort through what I was feeling. It was a search for a needle in a haystack.

"It's like—" I paused. I struggled to find the words. I hated this soul-searching bullshit. "It's like I can't have just one drink. It's all or nothing for me. If I pick one up, odds are I'm going to keep drinking until I pass out. I can completely avoid it if I want, but if I choose to drink, I get drunk."

My therapist nodded, his expression thoughtful as he considered my words. "And why do you think that is?" he pressed, his gaze steady as he met my eyes.

I shrugged, feeling a familiar sense of frustration welling up inside me. I hated the way he looked at me like he was giving me a brain scan and finding out all my dirty little secrets. "Habit, maybe," I muttered. "I don't know."

But my therapist wasn't satisfied with my answer—not by a long shot. "You do know," he said.

He prodded at the walls I had built around my emotions until I felt like I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty and self-doubt.

"I like the taste." I shrugged.

"That's only part of it," he replied, scribbling something down on his notepad. "You're escaping. You were escaping something. What is that?"

I tried to laugh it off, as if the answer wasn't devouring me from the inside out, devouring every bit of peace and sanity I had left. "Aren't we all trying to escape something?" I quipped.

The therapist didn't smile. He rarely did. He simply stared at me with those penetrating eyes of his, waiting for me to shatter my own defenses.

I sighed, slumping back in my chair. I felt exposed, vulnerable. As if he had peeled away the protective shell I'd so carefully constructed around myself. "I don't know," I repeated. But this time, my voice was quieter, almost inaudible.

"You do know, Hudson," he persisted. "You just have to be willing to face it."

"Face what?" I snapped, anger lacing my voice. But the rage was fleeting, replaced with a hollow weariness that seemed to seep into my very bones.

"Whatever it is you're running from," he replied calmly, undeterred by my outburst. "The root of all that pain you're trying to drown out."

It was all bubbling to the surface. My instinct was to fight back the emotions. I didn't want to feel. But I committed to making this work.

"With so many brothers, I've never really known where I fit in," I confessed. It was always there humming beneath the surface.

"You have a large family." He nodded.

"I do. A very large, wealthy family with a lot of expectations. I'm not the go-getter businessman like so many of my siblings. I'm not the family man, the traveler, the private investigator. I'm just Hudson. The good-time guy. The guy not to be taken seriously. When one of my brothers is having a shitty day, they call me to take them out. They can tell me all their problems and I'll listen, I'll advise, but I won't judge. Because that's just who I am. The guy who helps everyone else forget their problems by drowning them in alcohol and wild nights."

Silence hung heavy in the room for a moment as my therapist continued to scribble in his notepad. "And how does that make you feel? Being ‘just Hudson'?"

"Empty," I admitted. "Like there's something more I could be, should be. But I don't know what that is, or how to find it."

My therapist listened intently. "Do you want people to take you seriously?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know," I admitted.

But my therapist wasn't about to let me off the hook that easily.

"You do know," he challenged gently. "You've just spent years not allowing yourself to recognize it."

I chewed on my lip, mirroring his thoughtful gaze. "Maybe I've been too afraid they'll reject that side of me. The serious one, the one who wants more out of life than just the next party."

"Afraid?"

"Yes," I admitted reluctantly. "Afraid they won't accept me, afraid they'll see me as less fun. They don't want me to be serious. I guess I just kind of go with it."

"You clearly wanted Diana to take you seriously," he pointed out. "You put in a lot of effort with her. You planned dates, took her on a trip, showed her how you could love her."

I squirmed in my seat, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I hated that I ever talked about Diana. "I did," I admitted. "But it wasn't sustainable."

"Why?" he pressed.

I gritted my teeth, the words catching in my throat like a jagged piece of glass. "I got scared," I confessed, the admission hanging heavy in the air between us. "So, I ran. I didn't want to drag her into my world. I'm a mess. She doesn't deserve that. She deserves better."

And as the words tumbled from my lips, I felt a sense of liberation wash over me—a fleeting moment of clarity in the midst of the chaos that had consumed my life. In that moment, I realized that my drinking was not just a symptom of my insecurities, but a desperate attempt to escape from the pain and uncertainty that had plagued me for so long.

"Isn't it fair to say then, Hudson," my therapist mused, "that you use your reputation as the good-time guy as a shield to hide behind?"

I frowned, the truth of his words stinging. "It's not intentional."

"But it's convenient," he said. His tone was not unkind, but it was firm. "You've gotten so used to wearing this mask that you've convinced yourself it's who you are."

The realization hit me like a punch in the gut. He was right. I'd been hiding behind my carefree persona, using it to keep people at a distance. To ensure they never got to know the real me. It was easier to be the screw-up.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't want it to be easy. I wanted to face the demons that had haunted me for so long. "I want to change. I want to find out who I am beyond the good-time guy fa?ade."

A small, understanding smile tugged at the corners of my therapist's lips. "Change is possible, Hudson," he said gently. "It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. It's going to take time. It's going to be very uncomfortable. Few people like it, but it's necessary. You can't fix what you won't admit is broken."

I nodded. "I know. I get it."

"Our last few sessions have been very surface level," he said. "If you want this to work, you have to go deep."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. It was time to peel back the layers I had meticulously built up over the years, time to confront the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. "Let's do it," I said with newfound determination. "Let's go deep."