Page 36 of To Her

Geri

I was heading to my mother and brother, where I would go back to rehab, and I would get my life back in order. I wasn't running away this time; I was heading to a destination.

The two weeks since New Year's had passed in a blur of difficult conversations and painful decisions.

After that morning at Con's apartment—waking up naked and hungover, with no memory of how I'd gotten there—something had finally broken inside me.

Or maybe it had been fixed. Either way, I couldn't keep going as I had been.

We'd talked for hours that day, Con and I.

Really talked, for the first time since I'd walked away from him months ago.

I'd told him everything—about the drugs, the drinking, the meaningless hookups, the blackouts.

About how I'd been spiralling since before I met him, how I'd gotten clean once before but had never addressed the underlying issues that had driven me to use in the first place.

"I think I need help," I'd admitted, my voice small and frightened. "Real help this time."

He hadn't judged me, hadn't lectured me. He'd just nodded, his eyes full of a compassion I didn't deserve, and said, "Then let's get you help."

We'd spent the rest of the day researching options. Con had suggested I go to England, to be near my family while I went through rehab. He'd even offered to come with me, to put his life on hold to support me through this.

"I can't let you do that," I'd told him, touched beyond words but determined not to drag him down with me. "You've got the season in Canada."

"You're more important than a season snowboarding," he'd said simply.

But I'd insisted. This was my mess to clean up, my journey to make. And deep down, I knew I needed to do this on my own—to prove to myself that I could, that I was strong enough.

In the end, we'd compromised. He would go to Canada as planned, and I would go to England for rehab. We would stay in touch—calls, texts, Skype—and see where we stood when we were both back.

"No pressure," he'd said. "Just... don't disappear on me again, okay?"

I'd promised I wouldn't. And for once, I intended to keep that promise.

The next day, I'd called my mother. It had been the hardest phone call of my life—admitting to her that I'd relapsed, that I was in trouble again, that I needed help.

She'd cried, of course. But then she'd rallied, my strong, practical mother, and started making arrangements.

There was a good facility near them, she'd said. They could get me in within two weeks.

"Just come here, Geri," she'd said, her voice thick with tears. "We'll sort this out together."

After that, everything had happened quickly.

I'd given notice at both jobs, packed up my stuff, started the process of detoxing on my own as much as I could before the flight.

Con had helped, staying with me through the worst of the initial withdrawal, holding my hair back as I'd vomited, bringing me water and bland food when I could keep it down, distracting me with bad movies and worse jokes when the cravings got too intense.

And then there had been James. Sweet, loyal James, who'd stuck by me despite how terribly I'd treated him. I'd gone to see him at the restaurant, a week before my flight.

"I'm leaving," I'd told him without preamble, sliding into a booth during his break. "Going to England. To rehab."

He'd looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he'd reached across the table and taken my hand. "I'm proud of you," he'd said simply.

I'd burst into tears then, ugly, heaving sobs that had drawn concerned looks from nearby diners. James had just moved to sit beside me, his arm around my shoulders, letting me cry it out.

"I don't deserve a friend like you," I'd choked out when I could finally speak again. "After everything I've done, the way I've treated you..."

"When you love someone, you love them and their flaws," he'd said, echoing words he'd said to me before.

"I knew you before you were this person.

I know the person you can be, and I loved that person.

And I love this broken version too. Just go get your shit together, and I'll see you in six months. "

He'd insisted on driving me to the airport, helping me check my bags, waiting with me until it was time to go through security. We'd hugged for a long time, neither of us wanting to let go.

"Thank you," I'd whispered against his shoulder. "For not giving up on me."

"Never," he'd replied, his voice fierce. "Now go catch your plane. And text me when you land, okay? Both times."

I'd nodded, wiping away tears, and then forced myself to walk away, through security and toward my gate, not looking back because I knew if I did, I might lose my nerve.

And now here I was, boarding pass in hand, about to embark on a journey that terrified me more than anything I'd ever done. Because this time, I wasn't running away from my problems—I was running straight toward them, with nowhere to hide.

The line moved slowly as passengers filed onto the plane.

I clutched my carry-on tighter, fighting the familiar urge to bolt, to find the nearest bar and drown the anxiety in alcohol.

But I'd made it fourteen days sober now—the longest stretch in months—and I was determined not to break that streak.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Con:

You've got this. Call me when you land in Tokyo. Proud of you.

A lump formed in my throat. He'd been sending me these little messages of encouragement all week, as if he could sense when my resolve was wavering. And somehow, they always came at exactly the right moment.

I typed back a quick:

Thank you. Will do.

Before switching my phone to airplane mode and shuffling forward with the line.

Twenty-three hours is a long time to be trapped with your thoughts. The first leg to Tokyo had been the hardest—thirteen hours of fighting cravings, of replaying every bad decision I'd made over the past year, of wondering if I was strong enough to see this through.

I'd tried to distract myself with movies, with the book Con had given me for the journey, with fitful attempts at sleep. But my mind had kept circling back to the same questions: How had I let things get so bad? Would I ever truly be okay? Was I beyond fixing?

By the time we'd landed in Tokyo, I'd been a jittery mess, my body aching for a drink, for a pill, for anything to take the edge off. I'd called Con from the airport lounge as promised, the sound of his voice a lifeline in the storm of my anxiety.

"How are you holding up?" he'd asked, concern evident even through the patchy connection.

"I'm here," I'd replied, which was the most honest answer I could give. "Not great, but here."

"That's all you need to be right now," he'd said. "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."

After we'd hung up, I'd wandered the terminal, eventually finding a sushi restaurant where I'd ordered without really thinking. The food had looked beautiful, artfully arranged on a wooden board, but after a few bites, my stomach had rebelled.

I'd barely made it to the bathroom in time, heaving into the toilet as my body rejected the meal. But it hadn't just been the sushi—it had been days of this now, waves of nausea and sweating and trembling as my system struggled to adjust to the absence of the chemicals I'd been flooding it with.

Detox. Such a clinical word for such a messy, humiliating process.

I'd rinsed my mouth, splashed water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me had been pale and drawn, dark circles under her eyes, cheekbones too sharp from weeks of barely eating.

But her eyes had been clear for the first time in months, not glazed or dilated or bloodshot.

Progress , I'd told myself. Small, painful progress.

The second leg of the journey had been marginally easier, exhaustion finally winning out over anxiety, allowing me to sleep for a few hours. I'd woken as we'd begun our descent into Heathrow, the landscape of England spread out below us—green and grey and comforting.

My new home for the next six months.

As the plane touched down with a jolt, I thought about what awaited me—my mother's worried face, my brother's cautious support, the sterile halls of the rehab facility where I'd spend the next three months.

It wasn't an appealing prospect. But it was necessary.

It was the consequence of my choices, the price I had to pay for a chance at a better future.

James’s word echoed in my mind, "When you love someone, you love them and their flaws. I knew you before you were this person, I know the person you can be, and I loved that person, and I love this broken version too. Just go get your shit together, and I'll see you in six months."

Maybe he was right. Maybe love wasn't something you earned or deserved—maybe it just was, as fundamental and unquestionable as gravity.

And maybe the people who truly loved you didn't do so despite your flaws, but with full knowledge of them, accepting the whole messy, complicated reality of who you were.

The thought was both comforting and terrifying. Because if that was true—if Con and James and my family loved me not because they were blind to my faults, but because they saw me clearly and loved me anyway—then I had been running from something real and precious. Something worth fighting for.

As the plane taxied to the gate and passengers around me began gathering their belongings, I took a deep breath and made myself a promise.

This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't just go through the motions of recovery, ticking boxes and saying what the counsellors wanted to hear.

This time, I would do the real work—the hard, painful work of facing my demons, of understanding why I kept running, why I kept sabotaging myself, why I was so afraid of being loved.

Because I was tired of running. Tired of hurting people. Tired of hurting myself.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and passengers began standing, retrieving bags from overhead compartments, forming the usual impatient queue in the aisle. I remained seated for a moment longer, gathering my courage.

Then I stood, pulled my carry-on from under the seat in front of me, and joined the line. One step at a time. That's all I could do—all anyone could do, really. And for now, that had to be enough.

As I walked through the jet bridge toward the terminal, toward whatever came next, I felt something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Not happiness, exactly—I was still too raw, too sick, too scared for that. But something adjacent to it. Something that felt, cautiously, like hope.

I wasn't running away this time. I was heading to a destination. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I was facing forward instead of looking back.