Clean

by Juno Dawson

  Goldstein nods.

  I think I know me now.

  I go on. It’s time. I’ve thought it through and this is what I want to say. No. What I have to say. Deep breath, and I fall off the edge:

  ‘It’s really clear now that nothing ever really mattered. There was no risk to anything I did; there was always a safety net. I don’t think I was ever even aware of it, but it was there. Maybe I did all that crazy crap because I was testing it, testing it to see if it would always catch me. I became a brat. At first, I guess, it was just to see how much I could get away with. I don’t really know when it stopped being an act and I stopped liking myself very much, but I just became this massive twat. Like, what’s the point of anything I do? I just go to parties and shop and even charity stuff is mostly bollocks. I’m embarrassed to be me, and knowing that real people actually have real problems just makes me feel like an even bigger twat, you know?’

  ‘You don’t think you’re a real person?’

  ‘No. I’m acting. Acting the way I think people want “Lexi” to be. The one my Daddy wants, the one my friends want, the one Kurt wants. So I kept doing more and more stupid stuff. Like, what’s the worst I can do before I hurt myself? I think I did hurt myself actually, in lots of different ways.’

  He nods, ever so slightly. I pause and sip some water. This is good. I’m embarrassed. But this is it, this is the truth.

  ‘Nothing mattered until something I did mattered. Grafton was right: one day something I did would have consequences. I just thought they’d affect me. And they did – I mean, look where I ended up – but karma came for Antonella first. I know, I know, it’s not all my fault, but I think we were the same. She wasn’t . . . none of us were saints or devils. I think we were both starting fires to see if any of them burned.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘After she died, I was like, what’s the point? I didn’t wanna know me, any version of me. So I pretty much hit the big red button. I just wanted to be out of it. And you tell yourself it feels nice, but actually how it feels is numb. It was anaesthetic.’

  Dr Goldstein looks faintly proud. I feel like I’ve just performed for him. The version of Lexi he wants. I feel a bit grubby, but lighter somehow. A python passing a huge bolus down her body. ‘And now you want to feel again?’

  ‘Yes.’ Be honest. ‘Well, I think I should. But I might never. And that’s weird.’

  ‘Both the good and the bad?’

  ‘People tried to shield me from the bad my whole life. It didn’t work. So yeah, it’s time to feel it all. All the pain . . . all the hate . . .’

  Goldstein smiles, but his eyes are sad. ‘Lexi. If you don’t mind me saying, you seem quite adept at pain and hate. We have to teach you how to love. And you need to start with learning to love yourself.’

  I want to make fun of him. I want to mime blowing chunks in his face.

  But, of course, he is right.

  I resign myself to the Ten Steps. Yes, it’s a bit cult-like; yes, it’s dogmatic; but it gives me something to focus on.

  It’s odd. I like Normandy, Dashiell and Celine – my fellow inmates – but this time I’ve learned not to get attached. I listen in Group. Normandy cries a lot and talks about ‘being blessed’. Dashiell has the shakes most mornings, but is mostly guilty about what he’s putting his loved ones through. Celine really doesn’t want to be here. She’s monosyllabic, French and smokes even more than I do. That’s saying something.

  I contribute meaningfully at Group. I’m slicing my guts open and everyone’s having a good rummage in my entrails like they’re browsing a flea market. But as the weeks crawl by, and as I offload more junk, I feel less ashamed and more unapologetic.

  It’s like I’m getting rid of unwanted, cumbersome baggage. I’m giving it away, for free.

  I set my alarm for dawn each morning.

  I know.

  I guess I want to recapture that day we all watched the sunrise.

  I’ve been learning yoga from Padma, the instructor. I’m getting pretty good at it. As the sun rises, I take my rolled-up yoga mat on to the terrace and run through a pretty hardcore sun salutation. Downward Dog, Cobra, Warrior Pose, Tadasana. I can do a shoulder stand and a headstand. Getting into my body takes me out of my head. I like it. I know it’s a bit Notting Hill Yummy Mummy, but I can see my body changing. Instead of looking scrawny, I look lean and strong and healthy.

  I ride Storm every day. He even lets Elaine ride him too now. He doesn’t seem to like it always, and he’s still an asshole to the other horses, but you know I’m a sucker for a bad boy. I’m totally in love with him; I wish I could take him with me.

  In the afternoons, I work remotely with a tutor. We’re working on English Literature and Creative Writing. I’m allowed to email him at Roehampton University and he gives me feedback on my work. I’m so, so rusty. The first essay – about representations of children as ‘monstrous’ in literature – was the hardest thing I’ve ever written. It’s like learning to speak all over again. The last few years at St Agnes were too easy; I was phoning it in. This is like advanced Ashtanga yoga for my brain.

  Sometimes I go down to the kitchens and hang out with Denise and Matteusz, the main cooks. Denise is an old battle-axe who worked under Gordon Ramsay back in the day, while Matteusz is talented but lazy. All he wants to do is take cigarette breaks and try insane new recipes. Between them, I’m learning a lot. I make a soufflé and perfect poached eggs. Matteusz shows me how to make a detox smoothie with spinach, ginger and cinnamon, and Denise teaches me pastry from scratch, which is more satisfying than it sounds.

  It sounds crazy, and I guess I am an official crazy-person now, but it’s pretty clear that I can’t go back to London with nothing to do. I’ll just get high again as soon as I’m bored. As corny as it sounds, I’m going to need a new hobby. The devil makes work for idle hands.

  Dear Nevada

  I hope you’re well. I wanted to write to you to explain what’s going on. I don’t know what you’ve heard, what bullshit rumours are going around, and I wanted to set things straight.

  Yes, I’m in rehab.

  Yes, it’s because I’m an addict.

  I’m trusting you alone with this information because I hope I can rely on your discretion. See, if anyone else knows how I feel about Antonella, it’s you. I never said this because I’m emotionally stunted (obviously) but I totally loved her and I didn’t deal with her dying. Like, at all.

  Anyway, I’m working things through and I’ll be back in London at the end of summer. Probably.

  I miss the old days, when we were young and everything was listening to music and kissing posters in your bedroom. Do you?

  Love Lexi

  PS – I’m not sure about Fo. Let’s talk when I get back.

  Dear Kurt

  I’m going to keep this super chill, OK?

  We are so bad for each other it’s not even funny.

  If you can’t see that, I can’t help you.

  I’m feeling better and I want to – need to – stay that way.

  We had fun in the beginning, but it stopped being fun a long time ago.

  There’s a horse here. He’s called Storm. I had this strange need to break him in. I greatly romanticised it, but it wasn’t love. What I really wanted was to control him, bend him to my will. That’s a game we played too, and a game we’re both losing.

  I’m really glad I got help, Kurt. I can’t tell you what to do, but I hope you get help too. The way we were living . . . we convinced ourselves it was OK, that it was normal, but it wasn’t. You can only live that way for so long before the damage is permanent.

  You’re not going to see me for a while. It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s myself. You know what’d be cool? In like ten years, it’d be awesome to see you on Primrose Hill with your gorgeous wife and adorable, floppy-haired kids. We’d be different then, and maybe we’ll laugh about all this.

  Love Lexi x

  Hey there!

  L
exi, girl, it’s awesome to hear from you – and I’m so freaking proud of you! You take all the time you need. I kinda miss that place too. I’m doing pretty good. Diandra hooked me up with this new lifestyle coach, Guru Rachel. She’s the best – she’s worked with Ariana, Gwyneth Paltrow and Oprah. I know it sounds pretty phony, but I think she’s helping me with empowerment and assertiveness. I’m hoping to convince Daddy that I should get my own apartment. I think being more independent and making choices for myself will help. I gotta stop feeling guilty about Mom too. That being said, I’m thinking about doing an internship on Daddy’s campaign. I think it’s time I stop denying who I am and where I come from. Sure, I’m kinda mad at my Daddy about some stuff from the past, but, to a lot of people, he’s a hero. He’s making a difference, changing the world. If he won’t come to me, maybe I need to go to him. I keep thinking about our talk in the kitchen. Excuse the obvious fat joke, but maybe it’s time to do something bigger than me, go fight the good fight. What do you think? Would that be cool?

  When you get out, get on a flight to JFK! Come and stay any time! Say hey to Goldstein and Ahmed. Is Sasha’s crazy ass still there?

  Love you, girl

  Ruby xoxo

  Dear Lexi,

  It’s so lovely to hear from you! I’m glad you’re getting the help you feel you need. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

  I’m not doing too badly. My uncle is taking me on as an intern at his production company from September. Privilege, etcetera. I’ve always loved films so I’m quite excited. Anxious, but excited. I’m terrified I’ll make a mess of it. I’m sticking to my OCD medication and I’ve decided to go tee-total for the time being. I thought it for the best. Father is disappointed I’m not going back to Cambridge, but I think he’ll get over it.

  I saw Kendall a couple of weeks ago, and she’s excited to see you when you get back to London.

  I’m afraid I don’t have any contact details for Brady. I did get an email from him assuring me he was well (and sober), but there was no forwarding address which was quite frustrating. I think we need to respect his recovery, however hard that may be.

  Please send my love to everyone at the centre and I’ll see you soon. Give me a call if you need to talk, day or night.

  All my best,

  Guy Samson-Reed

  ‘It’s about time,’ says Goldstein in our session, ‘to start thinking about reintegrating you with your family.’

  ‘So soon?’ It feels like I only just got back, but it’s been another eight weeks.

  He nods. ‘I think this time it’ll be better, Lexi. You have the full support of your whole family and they can help in your ongoing recovery.’

  ‘I know.’ I now understand why Guy and Sasha so feared leaving the island – I can cope here. Few choices, no temptation. It’d be so much easier if I could just live out here with the horses.

  ‘You can’t stay here forever,’ he says, apparently reading my mind.

  ‘I know that too. I’m scared I’ll relapse again.’

  ‘You may do. And you know that a relapse is only a setback, not a reason to give up on recovery.’

  We’ve spoken many times about this. ‘I wrote to everyone,’ I tell him. ‘They all say hi.’

  He smiles. ‘I’ve been in touch with them all too.’

  ‘Even Brady?’

  He pauses. ‘Yes.’

  It’s so stupid, but I want to cry. Just knowing he’s out there fills me with . . . something warm and nice in my chest. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Lexi . . . you know I can’t talk about other patients.’

  ‘Please.’ I wipe a tear away before it can roll. ‘I think about him all the time.’

  ‘Brady’s fine.’ Goldstein reaches over the coffee table and takes both my hands in his. ‘He’s working on his recovery, just as you are.’

  I know he won’t tell me anything more. I nod.

  That night, I have a cigarette before bed on the lounger by the pool. It’s warm enough to swim outdoors now. There are lights under the water and the turquoise pool glows and shimmers. It’s a balmy evening. I wear only a baggy T-shirt and my pants. I’ll go to bed soon, I have some reading – Paradise Lost – to do, but I can’t stop thinking about Brady.

  I need to stop.

  Or rather, I need to start – start getting over him.

  I’m going to drive myself crazy, just when I’m getting sane. I’m starting to see what he meant about love being an addiction – it takes over. Now I’m clean of Kurt, feelings for Brady have come rushing in to fill the void.

  I fall asleep thinking about our big reunion (in my head, he’s waiting for me in the rain as the ferry pulls back onto the mainland). I dream we’re together in my bed only to wake up with a pillow in my arms. It feels a little like mourning, which is crazy because he was never mine to mourn. I guess we’ll always have those few moments – the Witch House, the night the boat sank – and I should be grateful for them. This way, it never has to go stale. We’ll never fight; he’ll never stray; I’ll never become his nagging shrew girlfriend.

  I look up at the moon. I wonder what time it is where Brady is, and if he’s looking up at the same moon.

  STEP 10: I UNDERSTAND RECOVERY IS AN ONGOING, LIFE-LONG COMMITMENT

  Tomorrow I go back to London. Again. I’m shitting bricks. This time, I’m going back knowing full well I fucked it up the last time. I also know my old friends don’t ‘get it’. I’m not sure I can be around them ever again. I know that life can’t be the same as it was. I know I have to avoid Kurt at all costs. Even so, I’m nervous. I can’t go through all this again. I can’t keep ricocheting back and forth to Clarity every other month.

  I look around my suite. Clothes are strewn everywhere, half in and half out of my case.

  I wonder what desperate, deluded, broken little creature will take up residence in here after tomorrow. I smile to myself.

  In the desk drawer there’s a pad of Clarity Centre paper and pen. I sit down and have a think.

  TEN (MORE) STEPS

  Welcome to Clarity! This is what I’ve learned during my considerable stay . . .

  1. Make a friend

  2. Make two friends for when the first is being a dick

  3. Say YES to things. Except drugs: Just say NO to those

  4. Watch the sunrise. Trust me

  5. Accept help when it is offered. You do need help. Who doesn’t?

  6. Every day, brush your teeth, shower and get dressed. It means you haven’t given up

  7. Talk about yourself. Your story is as important as anyone else’s. But also listen because your story isn’t more important

  8. Go outside, at least once a day

  9. Sleep enough, but not too much. Eat good food

  10. Know there’s nothing so broken you can’t fix it

  You’re welcome. x

  I take the letter and slide it behind the mirror. It doesn’t fall out of the back. I don’t know if anyone will find it, ever, but knowing it’s there will amuse me greatly. And who knows, maybe it’ll help someone, somewhere down the line.

  Nikolai flops onto my bed like a beached whale. ‘Lex,’ he says, ‘you have to leave the hotel. Your room smells like mouth.’

  ‘Fuck off, no it doesn’t.’

  ‘It really does. You haven’t been outside since Mum went home.’

  Mummy wanted to check that the rehab had ‘stuck’ this time so had hung around for a few days, but she and her toy-boy are in the process of opening a chain of gyms on Grand Cayman so she had to get back. I’m not sure how my future relationship with Mummy and Daddy is going to look just yet, but we’re trying. We’re all trying. It feels like my parents used to manage me. Now I’m vaguely grown up, I see I’m going to have to manage them.

  ‘So? I’m catching up on Netflix. I have like four boxsets to get through.’

  He gives me a pointed look.

  ‘Five days back and I’m still sober.’

  ‘If you’re just going to stay here a
nd order room service, you might as well have stayed on the island.’

  I shrug. Maybe I should have.

  ‘Right. Get in the shower. We’re going out.’

  ‘Nik, no . . .’

  ‘Do you want me to kidnap you again? You know I will.’

  ‘Uh! I hate you and you smell of wee!’ Under duress, I shower and get ready, not even bothering to wash my hair. I shove it in a messy ponytail and dress in some torn skinny jeans and my House of Holland T-shirt: GET YOUR ROCKS OFF LEXI VOLKOV. Henry Holland is a friend of mine.

  Nik is waiting in the car and we drive towards Soho. It’s one of those humid London evenings where hyena packs of braying City boys spill onto the streets outside pubs, ties loosened. The pavements bake and giggly girls compare Tinder notes over Aperol Spritzes.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘Ivy?’

  ‘God, no.’ He taps on the window to the driver. ‘I think this is it. Thanks.’

  We get out of the car and Nikolai leans over the banister to a basement underneath a theatre. ‘What is it? A new cocktail place?’ I thought London had seen sense over the whole ‘hidden speakeasy’ fad. If one more steampunk ‘mixologist’ tries to serve me gin in a teacup, I’ll scream. ‘Nik, it’s exactly this sort of thing I’d like to avoid.’