At five o’clock on the dot, my father poured vodka sodas for himself and my grandma. Running between the kitchen and back deck to check on the steaks, Tennessee-in-July humidity dripping from his brow, he absentmindedly offered me a drink.
From the couch, where I was laid out with my eyes clamped shut, I shouted, “Dad! I am SOBER! I cannot have vodka!” I forced my eyes open only to roll them, my snarl brimming with teenage angst.
But I was not a teen. I was a 35-year-old woman, recovering from a head injury and drug and alcohol addiction (the former a result of the latter). I’d lost my house, my money, and, apparently, my mind: Like my 92-year-old gran, who had moved into my dad’s Nashville three-bedroom a few weeks before I did, I wasn’t deemed capable of living on my own.
My actual teen years in Minneapolis were wild and doused in, well, vodka. My father’s already busy touring schedule with his band, The Rembrandts, exploded after they recorded “I’ll Be There for You,” the theme song for Friends—leaving little time for him to be there for me. When my mother moved to another state to remarry, I dropped out of school, got a fake ID, and took off for Los Angeles in hot pursuit of my own stardom. When my grandmother found out, she wrote me a disappointed letter condemning the dangerous path I was heading down. I was, she argued, much too young to be on my own.
Now, nearly 20 years later, Gran’s warnings rang in my aching head as I found myself sleeping in my dad’s second guest room—a generous description for a glorified guitar-case mausoleum. Sandwiched between the dusty cases and Friends paraphernalia, I wondered if I’d died and gone to hell.
Alcohol and drugs stunt your emotional growth, and it’s often said that when getting sober, you revert to the age you were when you first picked up your habit. And so my second adolescence began—only this time, I was actually living with my family. I had the feeling we were trapped in a multicamera sitcom—a glam-but-losing-it grandma, aging rock-star dad, crazy-broke daughter—and I prayed we wouldn’t get a second season.
Like a typical teen, I sulked around the house in baggy clothes, complaining of lightning-strike headaches and the turmoil of simply feeling my feelings. After cutting and bleaching my hair, I realized that I looked eerily similar to my grandmother and father, both natural blondes. So, needing to individuate, I dyed it pink.
When my father wasn’t working in his recording studio, he made us three meals a day: eggs over easy, bacon; meat sandwiches; meat and potatoes. Ketchup was a vegetable. My grandmother spent her days in her room, watching Fox News and doomscrolling on Facebook. When she finally emerged at 5 p.m., her hair done up and lipstick perfectly painted, I could hear them bicker from where I hid, sobbing and scribbling violently in my journal about the miserable state of my life, the smiling faces of six unflappable Friends mocking me from a silver-framed poster on the wall.
I got a job in a pizza restaurant and tried to fit in with my coworkers, some of whom were teens, hormonal and pimple faced. I was breaking out too, as my skin detoxed after years of chemical abuse.
On Halloween, when a plastic pumpkin filled with tricks and treats sat on the host stand, I stole two little rubber glow-in-the-dark rats out of it. The floor manager reprimanded me, saying they were for children, but when she turned away, I tucked them into my pocket. They would be my pets.
I began seeing a therapist and attending 12-step groups. It was a good way to get out of the house; after years spent riding the highs and lows of wild love affairs, of playing in cool bands and walking on red carpets and even appearing on a TV show, living with my family felt like being on snail time. I didn’t belong here—I was meant to be a star. Surely, this was some kind of divine, cosmic error.
But eventually—reluctantly—I began to look forward to our daily meals. I introduced my glow-in-the-dark pets, and nobody said anything about them being made of rubber or the fact that rats don’t belong at the dinner table.
On Christmas, my father roasted brisket, poured me a pint of filtered water, and piled extra salad onto my plate without my asking. We cracked up as Gran pretended to feed the glow rats a shred of carrot from her salad and he gently cooed and patted their tiny heads. After dinner, as my dad and gran sat on the couch, I stared at their familiar faces, bathed in the blue glow of the jumbo flat-screen, and was overcome with a strange sensation—something like calm, or belonging.
Stuck inside on a stormy afternoon, I was helping my dad tidy the kitchen when he told me he was proud of me. He said he was sorry that he hadn’t been there when I was a teenager but promised that he would be from now on. It was everything I never knew I needed to hear.
On my one-year sober birthday, I posted on Facebook about the head injury, losing everything, getting clean. The outpouring of support was overwhelming, better than any attention I’d received for being onstage or on TV. Gran came to me after reading it in her recliner. Mascara ran down her soft, powdered cheek as she told me she was proud of me. More than that, she was impressed.
“You put your truth out into the world,” she said. “And now no one can say anything about you. You’ve already said it. You just gave yourself absolute freedom.”
All this time, I’d thought I had to be a shimmering mirage in order to be adored—an idea I’d confused for love. But really, I now realized, the stable, unwavering pulse of my family was enough and I was enough.
Over the next six months, I gave in to my family’s predictable, unconditional love. We ate our meals with the rubber glow rats, chatting about everything under the Tennessee sun, and watched movies together nearly every night. I worked at the pizza restaurant, worked the steps, worked in therapy. The headaches cleared. I still harbored far-flung dreams, still wanted to grow up and reach my potential, but this time in the right way.
When I finally moved back to LA, I struggled to find my wings, like any kid fresh out of the nest. But I trusted I’d be okay. I felt new to the world, but the California breeze on my skin felt like freedom. And I knew my dad was always there if I needed him—that I was part of a family that loved me, even if it wasn’t always perfect.
A few weeks later, my dad FaceTimed me from the hospital. Gran’s health was failing. To cheer her up, I pulled out the glow rats, and we all spoke in funny voices as I tried to hide my shock at her frailty. While she still looked glamorous, it was the first time I’d ever seen her without makeup.
I told her how grateful I was that fate had stuck us all together at my dad’s. Then I told her I loved her for the last time. Soon after, she was free too.