I’m sitting in a circle, wearing a glittering devil costume that suddenly feels like a prison. Around me, strangers share their stories—addictions to pills, alcohol, gambling. I clutch my hands together, trying to steady my breath. My name is Elton John, and I’m here because I almost died.

The therapist nods. 'Why don’t you begin?'

I close my eyes. The music starts in my head—'The Bitch Is Back'—and suddenly, I’m back in Pinner, a lonely boy at the piano, playing for a father who won’t look up from his newspaper.

The room fades. The past takes over.

I see my mother’s cold eyes, hear her say, 'You’ll never be loved.' I feel the first rush of stage lights, the thrill of being seen. Then the drugs, the sex, the screaming crowds, the emptiness after every show.

I open my eyes. 'I don’t know where to start,' I whisper.

'Anywhere,' the therapist says gently. 'Just tell the truth.'

I take a breath. This is my story. And for the first time, I’m not performing.