Months passed, and Rose helped me get into a drug treatment program. She drove me to appointments, waited outside cold clinics with coffee in hand, and sat silently through my worst moments, never asking for anything in return. Eventually, I told her how she made me feel like I was walking on clouds — like for the first time, I wasn't dragging my past behind me like chains. But when I asked her out, she said no. The rejection stung more than I expected—like salt had poured directly into my open wounds. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a reminder that even the purest things could slip through my fingers. It was the cut that continued to bleed. I broke like a bone and relapsed.
I didn't just hurt myself; I hurt her too. I lashed out, becoming what I feared most. Hurt people hurt people, and I was no exception. I'd been running from pain so long, I didn't notice I was becoming my father—angry, resentful, cold. My voice turned sharp like his. My silence became the kind that filled rooms. I looked in the mirror and saw him smirking back at me — and that terrified me.
When Rose found out about my relapse, she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just looked at me with tired eyes and said, "I know you are trying to fight when you feel like flying. Keep trying." Then she made me a deal: stay clean for six months, and she'd go on a date with me. It was hope — distant, but real. The problem was, I couldn't stay clean for more than a few days, because I needed the drugs. I needed them like the air I breathed. The drugs called me like a siren, promising numbness in exchange for everything else. I kept choosing them, even when I swore I wouldn't.
It wasn't until my eighteenth birthday that I decided to end this cycle of addiction. I received a letter from my late Mum's will, and I wanted to make her proud. It read: "To my Elliot. Even though I am no longer by your side, my love for you will never fade. No matter where you go, know I am always with you, loving you more than words can express. Be better than me and don't repeat the same mistakes I did." That letter hit me like thunder. Her words echoed in places even the drugs couldn't reach. She was like Rose — always cheering on me, the underdog, because she saw herself in the same light. And for the first time, I wanted to be better not out of shame, but out of love.
I went to therapy again, but this time it felt different. They didn't drown me in prescriptions that made me feel like a zombie - they listened. Really listened. They didn't underestimate the weight of the words and bruises I carried. They saw past the addict and into the child who had been screaming for help in all the wrong ways. For once, I wasn't treated like I was broken beyond repair. I was encouraged to build something, to find purpose, and imagine a life beyond survival. They gave me space to speak without interruption, and in those quiet moments, I began to reclaim pieces of myself I thought were lost.
Before Rose, I didn't think love was possible for people like me. I grew up believing the freaks like me would never find someone — someone like Rose — who made me feel like the sun was built just for me in a toolshed. At first, she wasn't in love with me, but she loved me. Maybe that's all I ever wanted — unconditional love and acceptance. Rose helped me mend what I thought was permanently shattered. She didn't just patch my heart — she put a cast on it and signed her name.
When we finally began dating, I learned the temptation and desire for drugs could be replaced with Rose, and she became a joyful motivator to not relapse. Being with her made me feel like I had swallowed the sky, and it was the kind of high that didn't come crashing down. She never tried to fix me. She simply held the broken pieces while I figured out how to glue them back together.
My life before her was a relentless storm, constantly battering me when I was down, treating me like nothing more than an afterthought. Rose reminded me that beauty can bloom in thorn-covered places. In some strange way, she was the version of me I always wished to be — resilient, soft but unyielding, full of grace in a world that demanded grit. I was stemmed from the root planted in the belief that I was only what others called me — a failure, an addict, a waste. Their words were chains. Shackles. Names carved into my skin like warnings.
Now, I no longer hear the echoes of voices shouting, "Names hold no power over me," even though those who were called names believed the opposite — and the memories and names settled in my bones, rotting me from the inside out until they overtook who I saw in the mirror looking back at me. I regretted not getting a better mirror to see my own beauty. I should've stared longer, because something inside me kept fighting, despite everyone else telling me to quit.
I know now that healing doesn't mean forgetting — it means choosing to move forward anyway. My life is a balancing act that has more to do with healing and hope, and less to do with pain and chaos. I'm someone who tried, someone who, against all odds, learned how to love — and be loved in return. For once, that is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough is where real freedom begins.