About a year before I finally left, we got flown out to New York. Two days, maybe three. The label had arranged this press circus — a room, a table, a speaker in the middle, and a conveyor belt of journalists all asking the same bloody questions. Over and over. Same phrasing, same expressions. ALL DAY. That kind of repetition hits me like sandpaper across the brain — one of my autistic triggers, I cannot stand repetition very well.
By the end of the first day, I’d had enough. I turned to Alex and said I’m done. I don’t care what the label says — I’m not doing this anymore. I’ll make the music, but I won’t face the press again. Not ever. I told him I’d leave if he didn’t take it all on himself.
Eventually, he agreed. But they were furious. The whole group got involved again, individually, like being thrown into a washing machine of opinions. They treated it like I’d abandoned some sacred duty. Like it wasn’t just self-preservation. Like it wasn’t the only thing keeping me from burning out.
They didn’t understand. Or they didn’t want to. Either way, that was a pivotal point and I should have realised at that point that I wouldn’t last much longer.
