Heal Me

12

The rehab center felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. Its dull beige walls felt like they were closing in on me. The antiseptic smell mingled with an undercurrent of despair, amplifying my sense of confinement. I often wondered if this was exactly what I needed—a place where I couldn't escape from myself, no matter how desperately I wanted to.
The withdrawal symptoms hit me like a freight train. My body ached as if every muscle was rebelling against me. I was constantly sweating, then freezing, my skin crawling as if a thousand ants were marching beneath it. Sleep eluded me, and when I finally managed to drift off, nightmares twisted my dreams into horrific shadows of my past. I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Each day felt like an uphill climb through thick mud, my thoughts clouded by the fog of the withdrawal. I craved the numbness that heroin provided, the escape from the memories that now crashed over me in relentless waves. As the haze lifted, I realized I had to face the demons I'd buried deep inside. The heroin had masked everything, but now, stripped of that escape, the dam broke and that pain flooded through.
My father's alcoholism was a violent force. He never needed a reason to lash out. Sometimes I'd be lucky and he would just yell at me; other times, he'd turn violent and smack me around. My mother was absent, too wrapped up in her own drug and alcohol induced haze to notice or intervene.
Then there was Morgan.
I met her when I was fifteen. Morgan was wild, free-spirited, and entirely unapologetic about who she was. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She seemed to understand the darkness I carried, but I didn't realize then that she was a part of it. At first, she felt like my escape. Her voice cut through the heaviness that always hung around me, but I soon learned that Morgan was poison. She was the one who gave me my first dose of heroin. As soon as I pushed the plunger on the needle, I felt the rush of euphoria flooding my senses. The warmth spread through me, blanketing the pain and chaos of my life.
Each shot she gave me wrapped me tighter in a cocoon of dependency, and I couldn't see it through the haze. "You're nothing without me," she'd whisper, her eyes gleaming with a mix of affection and something darker, something predatory. "I'm the only one who truly understands you." Those words burrowed into my mind, poisoning my thoughts until I didn't know where she ended and I began. She preyed on my fears, feeding on my insecurities like a hungry wolf. Every time I reached out to friends or family, she'd pull me back with an insistent tug. "They don't want you, Trevor," she'd say, her voice silky and soothing. "I'm all you have."
With her, I didn't have to hide. She reflected my mess back to me, and then she would use her body as a weapon. "You know I love you, right?" she'd say, drawing me in close, her breath hot against my ear. "You need me, Trevor. Without me, you're nothing." Her touch was electric, a blend of tenderness and manipulation that left me dizzy. I'd lose myself in her, craving both her affection and the high that followed.
Now, I had to confront it all.
I sat in my room staring at the cracked ceiling, and a nurse knocked gently on the door. It was time for my one-on-one session with the counselor—the part of the process I had been dreading. When I sat down in the therapist's office, I felt my throat tighten. The woman across from me had a soft voice, the kind that was meant to make people feel comfortable, but the questions she asked were sharp, cutting through the facade I had tried to put up.
"So, Trevor," she began, her voice soft yet steady, "how do you feel about the progress you've made so far?"
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the question press down on me. "I don't know if I've made any progress," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, scribbling something on her clipboard, her focus unwavering. "Dealing with the pain is part of the process, isn't it?"
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing larger. "Yeah."
A heavy silence filled the room, stretching like a taut wire between us. Then she asked the question I had both dreaded and known was coming: "Tell me about your childhood. What was it like growing up?"
I froze for a moment, caught in the web of memories I had long avoided. But I knew I couldn't run from this any longer. Not if I wanted to heal. Not if I wanted to change.
"My father was... he was a violent alcoholic. He'd beat me with anything that was in reach, and didn't care if he left marks or drew blood. I think that he liked it when he left marks on me. On good days, he would just scream at me, and tell me that I was worthless—stupid, a failure. My mother didn't give a fuck. She was so messed up on pills and vodka that she didn't even know I was there. I'd come home from school, and she'd be sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV."
The words poured out, unfiltered and raw. I could see her scribbling notes, but I didn't care. I needed to release this.
"After a while, I started to believe that I was nothing, that I'd always be a screw-up. It didn't matter what I did or how hard I tried. I was destined to be the kid who didn't matter."
Tears began to spill down my cheeks, and I didn't try to hold them back.
The therapist sat silently, her expression compassionate yet firm. "It sounds like you carried that pain alone for a long time."
"Yeah," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I learned to deal with it by running away, and by using anything I could to numb it."
She nodded, her eyes steady and understanding. "And now, you're here. You're not running anymore, are you?"
I looked down at my hands, calloused and scarred, reminders of all the damage I had inflicted on myself and others. "No," I admitted softly. "I'm not running."
For the first time in what felt like ages, I sensed a flicker of hope. Maybe—just maybe—I could confront my past and begin to rebuild my life. It wouldn't be easy, but I couldn't keep running. Not anymore.
The silence hung heavily after I spoke. The therapist's gaze was calm and reassuring. I could see the empathy in her expression, but it wasn't pity. It was genuine understanding, and for the first time in a long time, I felt truly heard.
"Do you think about her?" she asked gently.
My heart sank at the thought of Ellie.
I hesitated, grappling with the truth that had become so familiar yet painful. "I think about her every day."
"What do you think about?"
The words choked in my throat, but I pushed through. "I think about how I ruined everything. She was... is everything to me. She made me believe I had a future. That I could be someone worth loving. That I was worthy of her."
She nodded, her expression unwavering. "It's natural to feel that way. But change is possible, Trevor. You're here because you want to change. You've already taken the hardest step."
Frustration surged within me. "But what if it's too late to make things right? What if I'm just... too far gone?"
"You're not too far gone," she replied firmly, a spark of conviction in her voice. "And Ellie—if she sees the change in you, if you show her you've done the work and taken responsibility, then maybe there's a chance. But you can't just do it for her, you have to do it for yourself."
I nodded, feeling a small glimmer of hope start to lift the crushing weight in my chest. It wouldn't erase the pain of what I'd done, but maybe it was a start. I needed to prove to myself that I was worth something before I could even think about proving it to anyone else.
Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, a mix of sorrow and fragile hope. I let them fall, feeling lighter with each drop. "I love her," I said, my voice trembling. "I love her with all my heart."
The therapist's brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. "When did you two break up?"
"Six years ago," I said, feeling the sting of that truth cut deeper. "It's been six years, and I still can't let her go."
Her expression softened, but her concern lingered. "That's a long time to hold onto feelings for someone. Have you processed that loss?"
"I don't know how," I admitted, the weight of her question pressing on me.
She leaned in, her voice gentle but firm. "Trevor, it's important to understand that while it's beautiful to love someone deeply, you also need to ensure that this love doesn't keep you anchored to a past you can't change. You need to focus on healing yourself."
I nodded, the realization hitting me hard. I wasn't just grieving Ellie; I was mourning the version of myself I'd lost along the way. "I want to her to be proud of me, even if she doesn't want anything to do with me," I said, my voice breaking.
The therapist offered a small smile, filled with understanding. "That's a significant step, Trevor. Acknowledging that is part of your healing journey. You can love her, but you also have to love yourself enough to let her go—if that's what's meant to happen."
Later that evening, I found myself walking the grounds of the rehab facility. The sun was beginning to set, and the cool breeze felt like a reprieve from the heaviness of the day. I stood there for a long time, trying to collect my thoughts, to find a sense of peace in this new life I was attempting to build. The sound of the birds and the rustle of the leaves brought a momentary calm, and I let my mind wander, reluctantly but inevitably, back to Ellie. I had to admit that the things I'd done were inexcusable. There was no way to take back the hurt, no matter how clean I got or how many steps I took to fix myself. The one thing I could do was try to make sure that this time, I didn't run.
I thought about the life I had imagined with her. I thought about how she had always been the kind of person who gave everything to those she loved, and how I had been the one to destroy that. It had been so easy to lose myself in the chaos of my addiction, and I'd convinced myself it was the only way to survive. But the truth was, I had been running from everything that mattered. The pain of my childhood. The abandonment. The guilt. All of it.
There were days when the cravings threatened to drown me. Days when the guilt and shame were unbearable, but in those moments, I had to remind myself that I was doing this for me. I had to prove to myself that I could be the man I once wanted to be. And maybe—just maybe—that man would be someone Ellie could be with again.