Imagine your 37 years old and you're alone in your beautifully appointed dressing room

before a show.

You look up at the clock, go time.

The audience is seated, the lights, the mics, the music, they're all queued up and ready

to go.

There's just one hold up.

The drugs haven't kicked in yet.

You try to visualize the chemicals coursing through your veins, coming to your rescue like

they always have.

But tonight, they're taking longer than usual, way longer.

How are we coming in there, champ?

That's the stage manager's polite way of saying, what's the freaking hold up, dude?

I'll be just a minute.

You pop another half pill and take the last swig from a bottle.

Still, nothing.

The terror in your body starts to rise up.

You can't go on stage like this.

If people saw you right now, that would be the end of your career, the end of your family,

the end of you.

You can't contain all this fear and frustration any longer.

It's gotta come out.

Through your fist, which you slam right through the dressing room wall.

...