GIN AND JUICE pt 16

The energy inside the PlayStation Theater was insane. He’d landed in New York City two days ago to do press and it had been nonstop ever since. But now, Shawn was waiting. Waiting for the announcement of the Heisman Trophy winner, waiting for the realization of everything he’d worked for, everything he’d sacrificed for, everything he’d almost thrown away.

God grant me the serenity

Each Heisman finalist had a video package, played live on ESPN for the world to see while they announced their names for the final time. The footage he was watching didn’t seem real. His own face flashed multiple times on the screen at different ages with different teams and different trophies. It was like looking in a mirror submerged underwater. The images were fuzzy, rippling behind a veil he couldn’t break through. That kid….teenager….man was a familiar stranger. He knew that he’d done all of those things, won all of those trophies and championships, knew he deserved them. But what it had cost him to get there…he was still grappling with that reality.

to accept the things I cannot change,

He guessed the meetings had been working. Coach Bradford had taken him to his first AA meeting the morning of his first day back at practice. He’d gone everyday, sometimes twice, for three weeks. The diversity of the people there had shocked him. Alcoholism didn’t discriminate. There were older men in expensive suits and young women in clothes that one wouldn’t expect to see in the light of day. Several of them were college students. But more than seeing them, to hear them was startling. All of them had their own demons, their own armor, and so many were similar to his. He’d thought for so long that he was alone, that no one could possibly understand the pressure he was under. But these people understood what it was like to chase the darkness, to find comfort in a night they couldn’t remember. It had the power to make them feel free and it had the power to destroy them. He’d known that freedom, enjoyed it, drowned in it.

courage to change the things I can,

Addiction, they’d labeled it. Forced him to accept that’s what it was. But, he’d always felt like he could stop if he had wanted to stop. Sure, he’d spent time on some bathroom floors, but that didn’t mean that he was addicted. His night at the hospital had just shown him his limits, he wouldn’t do that again.

But sitting in those meetings, listening to stories that were just like his…

“Oh, I told myself I could stop…”

“I couldn’t remember, but at least I couldn’t feel it either…”

“The hangover made me feel alive…”

Then again it had been so easy to stop when he was with her. Instead of chasing the darkness, he bathed in her light. Instead of not remembering his nights, seeking to be free of himself, he remembered every fucking second of every minute he was with her, around her, inside her.

He thought back to that text the morning after the hospital and his thoughts the days following. Between his parents and the holiday and the meetings, he thought she would fade away, thought being apart from her would help him clear his head and get some perspective. But she was more present than ever. The thoughts ate at him. Why didn’t she come that night? Was it really over? Did she love him at all? He had given her so much of himself, his whole suit of armor, and she’d crawled inside of him, infiltrated every inch of him, only to rip his fucking heart out.

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Coach Bradford squeezed his shoulder. They were about to make the announcement. He couldn’t change anything about his early life, couldn’t change the choices he’d already made, and the choice she was making him live with. He couldn’t control whose name was about to be called. They said in meetings that he could only control the choices he made today. He wondered if they knew what it felt like to be judged constantly for the choices he made yesterday, or the day before yesterday, or three years ago. All of those choices led him here, to this moment that could make or break his whole career.

If he was being honest with himself, he really wanted a fucking drink right now. It happened a lot these days. The anxiety rushed through him, like crackling gunpowder on its way to a quick fuse and inevitable explosion. He squeezed his fingernails into his palms so hard he thought he might draw blood. He counted his heartbeats through his fingertips. As they read the names of the nominees one more time, he thought back to the first time he shared at a meeting. It felt almost as nerve-wracking…

"Hi, my name is Shawn and I’m….an alcoholic.

You probably recognize me. Probably knew my name before I just said it. I wouldn’t call myself famous, but enough people know who I am and enough people expect things from me to feel pressure all the time. It started with my parents in the seventh grade. Then the coaches. Then the fans. To deal with it, I took my first drink when I was fifteen. I had my first blackout at sixteen. By the time I was seventeen, I was so good at hiding the hangovers, the personality shifts, and the nights passed out in various beds and bathrooms that no one questioned if I had a problem—it just looked like I had a fucking good time.

So I convinced myself that I didn’t have a problem, convinced myself that I could stop whenever I wanted. And I did for a time. When I was with her, I didn’t need to drink to feel like myself, didn’t need to drink to run from the expectations I felt from everyone in every direction. She didn’t even know who I was when we met. I just drunkenly spilled my beer on her. Later, when we met again, I don’t even remember it. I had been passed out in the bathroom and puked everywhere. Probably alcohol poisoning….again. But she stayed with me. Left me her number. She lied to get away from my public life. I lied to protect her from my demons. I drunk texted her a couple days later and she came because she knew what no one else did. That I was a danger to myself. She stayed….again. Never judged me for my drinking, for the confessions I couldn’t help but spew at her feet like yesterday’s bender. She made me feel safe, made me feel like I didn’t need that suit of armor I kept myself wrapped in to hide from the weight of eyes always on me.

Part of the comfort was because she has social anxiety and wanted to keep our relationship a secret. It was easy at first to hide her from the world because I was still determined to hide myself from the world. We studied, we ran, we watched movies, we talked, we just drove around in my Jeep while I held her hand. But things fell through the cracks. People found out, started asking questions. She got anxious and I felt her pulling away. The truth is I wanted to tell people about us, wanted everyone to know that I had this other person inside of me the whole time. I wasn’t just America’s Football Poster Boy, always smiling, always throwing a touchdown. I had doubts and fears and cracks, so many cracks, in the armor I worked so hard to keep up.

When she left, I went straight back to the darkness, to that black pit of nothing where I didn’t have to deal with all of it without her. I drank and drank and drank and drank, but instead of nothing, all I could see, all I could feel, shit—all I could smell—was her. She was everywhere and nowhere. Everything and nothing.

Then I landed in the hospital with alcohol poisoning and a failing fucking liver. The football god, QB1, Shawn treats-his-body -like-a-temple Mendes, was falling apart and he was going to take me with him.

I see now that I was just as addicted to her light as I was to the dark. It’s hard to admit that. I still love her so fucking much and I hope she still loves me enough to wait. Even though I asked too much of her. Even though I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I wake up everyday and want to text her but I don’t. I stare at my phone and think about all the things I’d say, all the questions I’d ask. Then I put it down, get out of bed, and open the blinds.

Being in the hospital was a rude awakening. It showed me that I do have limits. I am not invincible. My liver is a precious organ. But most of all, it taught me that I have to get out of bed on my own two feet. I can’t rely on nights I can’t remember or the hope of seeing her again. Getting up in the morning has to be my choice, no matter how much I want a drink or how much I want her back in my arms. Opening those blinds might dim her light, but it will allow her to come back to me and not fear my darkness.

Thank you."

“And the Heisman Trophy winner is…”

The announcer, some executive in a suit who was probably worth more than Shawn will ever make in his lifetime, seemed to move in slow motion. The hair on the back of Shawn’s neck stood up. He could feel the miliseconds tick. It felt like a vacuum, like the air was getting sucked out of the room and he might die before they called anyone’s name. He closed his eyes and thought of her, asleep against his chest, and matched her slow breathing.

“SHAWN MENDES!”

***********

His eyes were closed when they finally called his name. He’d looked like he was in deep discomfort during the whole presentation. It wasn’t just the place inside of him that you knew, that wasn’t obvious to anyone except you, but the expectation and anxiety had been clear on his face for everyone to see. In that moment, right before they’d announced the winner, he seemed to have found peace behind his eyelids.

You wondered what he’d seen there.

Now, he climbed the stage and shook hands with all the previous Heisman winners that had showed up for the event. Behind the podium, he grasped the microphone a little tighter than was necessary, white knuckles reflecting the light from the TV cameras. When he started to speak, you realized, even through the scattered signals of television waves, that something was missing.

A little gasp left your lips when he stuttered, stumbled through the speech he pulled out of his pocket. You could see his hands shaking. He was so nervous. Nervous in a way that he’d never let people see just a month ago. The last little piece of him, of that cold, unflinching suit of armor rattled in your chest. You could still feel it from time to time when you saw him on TV or on a campus athletics bulletin in your email. When those pieces left you bleeding and broken on your dorm room floor a few weeks ago, you’d thought he recalled them back to him, that he needed them to survive without you. But you saw now that they’d left you both vulnerable and unprotected.

“I want to thank my parents for instilling in me the work ethic it took for me to get here,” he was wrapping up his speech, tears shining but unfallen in his eyes. “I want to thank my little sister, Aaliyah, for supporting me even when I was an absent older brother,” his voice cracked, giving his sister a warm smile.

“Lastly,” his voice cracked, “I want to thank someone who couldn’t be here.” He paused and swallowed hard, a hand catching a single tear threatening to spill out of the corner of his eye, “for giving me the strength to finally stand on my own.” He chuckled to break the tension, the questions you could feel bubbling in the room even through the TV screen.

“Thank you,” he put his fingers to his lips and blew a signature kiss at the camera, “I love you.”

You sat on your couch speechless, legs curled beneath you, wrapped in a big fleece blanket. Wiping at your face, your hands came away wet. He still loves me. Even after everything. After sending him away to drink himself half to death. After not going to him at the hospital. You didn’t know why or how. But he did. You slumped over and hugged a decorative pillow as your mom breezed into the room. She looked from your tear-stained face to the TV where Shawn was still accepting congratulations from various media persona on mute.

“Oh, honey,” she sat down and put your head in her lap, combing her fingers soothingly through your hair, “is that him?”

You nodded your head, a choked sob ripping itself from your throat. Your mom sat quietly in that comforting way that only moms know how. When Caroline had called her, when you’d come home and postponed your finals for mental health reasons and spent three days in bed asleep, she’d sat there and held your hand for countless hours until you were ready to tell her about it.

It was a few things at first. His name. His football position. His background. His eyes that changed color. That one curl that swept into his face and made an S-shape. But once you started talking about him, it was so hard to stop. It poured out of you. The 6 AM runs. The afternoons in the library with your feet propped up in his lap. Sneaking him in and out of your dorm without anyone seeing him. How you’d met him. How you’d lied. How you’d rushed back to save him from himself. The beautiful night you lost your virginity. The ugly night you let him go thinking he was better off without you. It was out of order and disjointed, but she’d listened to it all, had collected the tears and memories that burst through the dam you’d built to keep it all in.

“Sweetie, I know you love him,” she said matter-of-factly, like your young, wreckless love was never something up for debate. Her hand stilled in your hair and you sat up. It was time for the talk you’d been waiting to have this whole break, the one where she tells you that it was stupid to have given so much of yourself to someone that you were never going to be able to make happy, the talk you’d had in your own head back and forth with yourself for three weeks.

“But, I think this experience is going to help you.”

Oh?

“What do you mean?” you caught her eye and she looked over, her hand sneaking into yours. You could tell this wasn’t going to be easy, for her or for you. There was no way to know how long she’d been harboring what she was about to say.

“I mean maybe this is a wake-up call,” she cleared her throat, “for the both of us.” She turned your hand over in hers and traced your heart line. “I’ve spent so long keeping you close to me, so long helping you manage all of your hopes and dreams and fears, teaching you the survival skills that you needed to leave me and go out into the world, that I never stopped to ask myself if I should do more than help you survive.

“You’ve always been so anxious. Ever since you were little. I thought going to college, getting out of the nest, would help you to grow out of it. But it’s that kind of negligence, that got us here. That had my phone ringing in the early hours of the morning to tell me you were almost catatonic on your dorm room floor,” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep it together and be strong for you.

“I– I’m so sorry I–”

“No, no, no,” she cupped your cheek and you leaned into it, desperately seeking the physicality of comfort, “you didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing you could have controlled about this situation. It’s just the way you’re wired and that’s okay. There is nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with you. But going to class, getting good grades, reading books, staying in your dorm room…those are the things we do to survive. And if that’s what you want, I will continue to support you until you’re sick of me on the other end of the phone.” Her thumb swiped at the tears streaming silently down your face. She smiled that brilliant mom smile that always put her at ease.

“But, this?” she pointed to Shawn’s face, still nervously talking for the cameras. “If you want this, want him, honey, it’s time to start living instead of just surviving.”

It was the final hammer against the dam before it all burst open. You didn’t recognize the sound of the wail that escaped your chest. All the months of tension and loneliness and isolation bubbled to the surface. You collapsed into her arms.

“Mom, I miss him so much,” you cried while she stroked your back, “I just don’t know what to do. I’m so scared all the time.”

“Shhh, I know baby,” she held you, let you cry until your eyes were dry and your throat was itchy. The weight settled in your chest again, just like that night in your dorm. It was always there, waiting for you to succumb to it again. But the pain of never seeing him again, never talking to him again, never feeling his heart beat beneath your cheek in the morning, was like a knife to your chest, more acute than any paralysis. A shudder rolled through your body, shaking you at your core.

“I know you’re scared. But do you love him and miss him enough to change that?”

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