A/N: Friendly reminder that there are flashbacks before every regular chapter. It seems like some people were missing it when I posted them at the same time as the chapter, so I'll be posting them the day before now. Chapter 3 will be up tomorrow!
Sometimes you just don't know the answer
'Til someone's on their knees and asks you
"She would have made such a lovely bride
What a shame she's fucked in the head," they said
~ Taylor Swift, champagne problems
BPOV - AGE 18
Rehab had a reputation for being awful. Rightfully so. It was a place where your independence was stripped away from you and your life ruled by the white coats that roamed the halls. But after two years in Hollywood, rehab was a vacation for me.
It was quiet. Peaceful. There were no million-dollar decisions for me to make and no schedules I had to keep in order to make everyone happy. I didn't have to question every step I took or wonder who was hiding behind the bushes to take my picture.
It was heavenly.
The other patients didn't give a fuck about me–they had their own problems. I saw the spark of recognition in a few faces, but no one talked to me outside of a few group sessions my therapist had recommended I attend.
I got to sleep as late as I wanted and ate whatever sounded good to me. There was a window seat in the main room where I spent most of my time. Where my days blurred by in a flurry of watching the flowers in the garden blow in the breeze or the rain splatter against the window. I had the time to read a book for fun.
Kate visited me twice a week. She never once asked me about work or made any subtle jab that I should get back to it. She asked about me. How I was doing. If I felt better. If I was happy.
I was sure it was written somewhere in that file of mine–how fucked up it was that I enjoyed rehab.
My parents didn't visit. My sister never called. I didn't mind. They would have ruined the blissful ignorance I was happily drowning in.
I pulled on a comfortable cotton pullover and slid my legs into some soft black leggings. Just as I tied my hair up, a soft but bliss-endingly urgent knock rattled my door. Kate walked in, not giving me the relaxed smile I had gotten from her the last six weeks. Her face was drawn, eyes urgent as she closed the door behind her. "We need to talk."
And just like that my vacation was over. The next morning I was sitting in my lawyers office. Across from a psychiatrist that had been hired by my parents to do an independent assessment of my mental health.
Kate explained the whole thing to me. I understood the basics; that my parents were 'worried' about me and my ability to take care of myself and–most importantly–my career. Kate said they had talked to her about it, about me, and she left the conversation with a knot in her stomach after they let it slip that she might be contacted to submit a statement as they went forward with a conservatorship request.
I barely understood what a conservatorship was. I had never heard of it. But I knew I didn't want it. Or need it. I might have enjoyed rehab, and I might need a few different drugs to keep my mind from getting too caught up on the bad shit, but I could take care of myself. And my money.
I knew that was what it was about. My parents, my mother most likely, was more concerned about the lavish lifestyle she had become accustomed to. She didn't give a shit about my wellbeing.
"How are you feeling today, Ms. Swan?" the doctor asked, sitting across from me at the shiny oak table.
I gave myself a moment to mourn the serenity I had come to love; the window seat and the books and the flowers. Then I put my award-winning smile on my face, beaming at the doctor. "I feel great. Ready to get back to work."