An Unholy Union
The story of forbidden love is my first and only. I’ve never known an easy love. But anything worth having is worth working for.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. The last ones are what led me to her. I was a hopeless addict, with a laundry list of issues. I ended up attempting suicide four times, and that’s how I got sent to the same treatment center as her, a week after she had arrived. The first time I met her, I thought she was strange. I was placed into the same therapy group as her, where she heard all of my darkest secrets, and I learned hers. I hated opening up to people, so much so I would vomit from anxiety after sharing. But she got into my mind, and I let her wander around.
This treatment center dealt with all sorts of mental illnesses and the addictions that coincide with them. Two of these addictions are sex and love addiction. Naturally they did not allow one-on-one time between clients of the opposite sex. It had to be in groups. I once wrote in my journal, “I can’t face her after letting her read my writing, but I hate everyone else.” I was angry back then. We started spending more time together. Some alone, and some with others. The more alone time we spent together, the more the staff took notice. They’d give us warnings to stop, and tell us to go find a group of friends. But I only wanted company from her, and she felt the same.
We began to get called in to our therapist’s office, on multiple occasions, to discuss our continued alone time. She tried to work with us and give us warnings. But when we didn’t listen, we got called in to the offices of the management. They didn’t want to kick us out, but they have rules for a reason and they needed to enforce them. They had forced others to leave for repeatedly violating this rule, so we knew they were serious. Eventually, we were made to sign a contract dictating that we would not spend any alone time together, and if we were caught alone again, we would not be able to interact at all, not even in groups. We would walk around 100 ft away from each other yelling back and forth. They couldn’t keep us apart.
Throughout this entire process, we insisted that we were merely platonic. We never lied about that. Neither one of us had expressed a desire for more, nor acted on any unvoiced desires. I always knew that I wanted her, but this place was saving my life and I didn’t want to be asked to leave. It was a hard balancing act. The day after we signed that contract, her insurance notified her that they would no longer be covering her, that her current coverage ended in three days, and she had to leave. The contract went out the window. She was already leaving, what more could be done?
We spent every moment together that we could those last three days. I wasn’t ready for her to leave. On her final day, we were sitting on a swing by the river, and I finally kissed her. And I didn’t stop kissing her until the staff came and got us for curfew. But I din’t want that to be the end, and so we planned to meet at 3 AM, at her cabin. Her roommate had just left, and they had yet to place her with another one. Before I went down to see her, I wrote her a long letter, as she was writing one to me. We both wanted a piece of each other’s soul to hold on to when all evidence of physicality had left. At three, I stuffed clothes under my bed to resemble a body, like a teenager sneaking out for his first party. Dressed in all black, I ran down to her cabin, unseen. She let me in, and we made love for the first time. We fell asleep intertwined under the night sky. I woke up just ten minutes before the morning rounds were to begin, and ran all the way back to my cabin. They came knocking five minutes later.
At 7, I walked out to see her off. We were both crying. I couldn’t stand to watch her go. I kissed her goodbye, and off she went, with my heartstrings trapped in her car door. I was inconsolable, crying so hard I was shaking. I sat in a gazebo, armed with her letters and enough cigarettes for an entire platoon. By 9 AM, I had read everything she wrote me, cried myself dry, and smoked through two packs.
I liked the staff there, but I always thought they were against our unholy union. Although on her final night, one of them saw us kissing, and drove off as if they didn’t notice. I was always grateful for that. I was blown away by the support I received from other clients. I had no idea how many people thought that what she and I shared was special. After she left, I learned from a few staff members that I grew close with, that even they were rooting for us, despite the rules they had to enforce. They admired that we never gave up.
They say that a “Rehab Romance” isn’t built to last. That when the collective falls apart, so too will the individuals. But we talked on the phone every day for the additional two months that I stayed. I planned to visit her when I left, and she even came to pick me up. We were from different places, but we remained together long-distance, visiting each other about every three weeks. It was a long road, but love wasn’t made to be easy.
Finally, she moved in with me. My dream come true. We’d made it through hell and were finally together. But she broke my heart and broke our trust. She had said she was sober, but she lied and brought addiction into my house and back into my life. I made a promise to myself and to my therapist that I would never let another person stand in the way of my recovery and my sobriety, because my life depends on it. I’ve cried every day since then, when I told her she had to leave. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and it was only two weeks ago.
I’ve never known a pain this deep. I had been a whore my whole life until she became my first and only love. I gave everything I had, and I don’t regret a thing. Someone said to me, “now you can start to learn about yourself.” But that’s not true. Love is the knife we use to explore ourselves. She is the one that taught me about myself and what happiness means. Love and pain are the only ways to ever truly know that you are alive. Forbidden by staff, by distance, and by addiction. I’m so glad I met her.
I Am A Survivor
You can read my story here:
https://story.projectsemicolon.com/2018/02/04/my-name-is-morgan-olson-and-this-is-my-story-of-survival/
