Pretty Damn Good
I'm sat here in the dressing room, staring into the mirror, clutching my plectrum tightly in my hand. Tom, Danny and Harry are bustling about, getting ready for the gig. It's the first night of our new tour, I should be getting ready, but instead I'm sitting here thinking of how much things have changed, how I've changed.
I still have moments where I felt like I did before I went into rehab, but I'm slowly getting there. I can smile now, laugh even. But it wasn't always that way.
It's all good to be able to make music for a living, to have fans who appreciate you and your band's music, to fill your day with the things that make you happy, but that all means nothing when it doesn't fill that hole inside. That stupid emptiness that you can't explain but you know it's there.
I'd lost count of the amount of times I used to sit trying to get past the fog, to feel something, anything to prove that I wasn't just a shell drinking itself into an early grave and being amazed at how I was still here and still standing after all the shit I'd been through. There just seemed to be no reason, no concrete reason for me still being here and still living.
It wasn't until I was half way through rehab and going through withdrawal that I noticed. It had been staring me in the face all along, but it wasn't until the fog started to lift that I could finally see it. I did have reasons to get up in the morning and to put myself back together. Three of those reasons were named Tom, Danny and Harry. Sure we had our moments where we'd want to punch each other, but they were my brothers and as reasons go, they're pretty good ones.
Add them to my amazing family and other friends and I now think that whenever that fog decides to rear it's head, well, it can get fucked.
I've got my reasons to live and a gig to play.