Page 38 of To Her

After that, I'd started writing more letters—to Con, to James, to my mother, to myself.

Most of them I burned after writing, the act of destruction somehow as cathartic as the writing itself.

But as the weeks passed and I grew stronger, more stable, I began to consider the possibility of actually sending one.

Not the raw, unfiltered confessions of those first letters. But something honest, something real. Something that acknowledged the past but also looked toward the future.

The idea had come to me during a group session in my eighth week. One of the other patients, a woman named Eliza who was recovering from alcohol addiction, had been talking about her husband.

"I wrote him a letter," she'd said. "Explaining why I drank, what I was trying to escape. Things I could never say to his face. It helped him understand, I think. And it helped me to write it."

I'd thought about Con then, about how much he still didn't know, about how I'd promised to stay in touch but had been sending him only the most superficial updates. And I'd thought about something else too—something Dr. Winters had been pushing me to consider.

That maybe, just maybe, I needed to let him go.

Not because I didn't love him. But because I did. Because he deserved someone who could love him without the baggage I carried, without the damage I was still working to repair.

That night, I'd started two letters. One to Con, telling him everything I should have told him months ago. And one to a woman I'd never meet—the woman Con would love after me, the woman who would give him what I couldn't.

I had written a letter to her while I had been in rehab, a letter to the woman that Con would marry one day.

The woman who would love him and truly adore him.

And I had sent it to him in the post. One for him, telling him how I was going, and the letter addressed to her.

It simply said, "Please give this to the woman you marry one day.

I want her to know how beautiful you are. "

It had taken me days to write them both, draft after draft, trying to find the right words, the right balance between honesty and kindness.

The letter to Con's future wife had been particularly challenging—how do you write to someone you'll never meet, about a man you love but are choosing to let go?

In the end, I'd kept it simple.

In the letter to him, I told him how I was letting him go.

How grateful I was to him. How much I loved him and how I wanted him to be happy.

That I was sorry about it all. I put into that letter my past, what had happened to me, and why I was the way I was.

How I never told people about me because I was scared they would know who I was really inside and didn't like that idea at all.

But I was telling him, because I wanted him to know why I did what I did, and why I was letting him go now, how I would stalk his Facebook account in the future to make sure he was happy and living a life he deserved.

That letter had been harder, more painful to write. Because it wasn't just about telling Con who I was—it was about releasing him from any obligation he might feel toward me, any hope he might still harbor for us.

Dear Constantine,

By the time you read this, I'll be in my final weeks of rehab. The program is three months, and I'm sticking it out to the end this time. Not just going through the motions, but really doing the work. It's the hardest thing I've ever done, but I think it's working. I think I'm getting better.

I've been thinking a lot about us—about what we had, what we could have had if I'd been braver, healthier, less afraid. And I've realized something that I need to tell you.

I love you. I think I've loved you from the beginning, though I was too scared to admit it even to myself. You saw something in me that I couldn't see—something worth loving, worth fighting for. And for a while, you made me believe it might be true.

But the truth is, Con, I'm not ready. I might not be for a long time. The things I'm working through here—they're deep and old and tangled up with who I am in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

I've never told anyone the whole story. Not even my therapist knows everything yet. But I want to tell you, because you deserve to know why I ran, why I kept running.

When I was fifteen, I ,et my first boyfriend...

And then I'd told him. Everything. The secret I'd carried for over a decade, the one that had shaped every relationship I'd had since, the reason I couldn't bear to be truly seen, truly known.

I'd written it all down, my hand shaking but determined, forcing myself to be honest in a way I never had been before.

I'm not telling you this for sympathy, or as an excuse for how I've treated you. There is no excuse for that. I'm telling you because I want you to understand that it wasn't about you—it was never about you. It was about me, and my fear, and my shame.

And that's why I'm letting you go, Con. Not because I don't love you, but because I do. Because you deserve someone whole, someone who can love you without reservation, without fear. Someone better than I can be right now, maybe better than I can ever be.

I know we said we'd stay in touch, see where things stand when we're both back. But I think that was unfair of me—to ask you to wait, to put your life on hold while I try to put myself back together. I can't ask that of you. I won't.

So this is me, releasing you from any promise, any obligation. Go live your life, Con. Be brilliant. Fall in love. Be happy. That's all I want for you now.

I'll be okay. I'm getting stronger every day. And maybe someday, when I'm truly better, truly whole, our paths will cross again. But I won't expect it, and neither should you.

Thank you for everything. For seeing me when I was invisible, for loving me when I was unlovable, for being the kind of man who would sit up all night to make sure a drunk, vomit-covered ex didn't choke in her sleep.

You are the best person I know. And I will always, always love you.

Geri

P.S. I've enclosed another letter, addressed to someone you haven't met yet.

Please keep it, and if the day comes when you find the woman you want to spend your life with, give it to her.

It's nothing bad, I promise. Just something I needed to write, something I hope might help her understand how lucky she is.

I'd sealed both letters in separate envelopes, then placed the one addressed to Con's future wife inside the larger envelope with his letter. I'd given them to my mother to post, not trusting myself not to change my mind if I held onto them any longer.

I was proud of myself for those letters, and I knew I was doing the right thing. Because one day, that man would find the woman he deserved, and she would be beautiful and everything he ever needed.

The day after I'd sent the letters, I'd had a session with Dr. Winters. She'd noticed something different about me immediately.

"You seem lighter today," she'd observed. "Did something happen?"

I'd told her about the letters then, about my decision to let Con go, to give him the freedom to move on without feeling responsible for me.

"That sounds like a significant step," she'd said carefully. "How do you feel about it?"

"Sad," I'd admitted. "But also... I don't know. Like I've done something right for once. Something unselfish."

She'd nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It can be both, you know. You can feel grief for what might have been, and still know you've made the right choice."

"Is it the right choice?" I'd asked, suddenly uncertain. "Letting him go?"

"I can't answer that for you, Geraldine. But I can ask you this: Are you letting him go because you truly believe it's best for him? Or are you pushing him away because you're afraid of what might happen if you let him stay?"

The question had hit me like a physical blow. Was I being selfless, or was this just another form of running? Another way to protect myself from the vulnerability of being loved?

I hadn't had an answer then. I'm not sure I have one now, two weeks later, as I approach the end of my time here.

But I do know this: For the first time in my life, I'm not running from my problems. I'm facing them, one painful therapy session at a time.

I'm building a relationship with my mother that feels real and honest. I'm ninety days sober and counting.

And maybe that's enough for now. Maybe I don't need to have all the answers yet. Maybe it's okay to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, to keep doing the next right thing, and trust that eventually, the path will become clear.

I still don't think I'll continue with therapy once I leave here.

The process of dredging up the past, of examining every painful memory under the harsh light of analysis—it's exhausting, and I'm not convinced it's helping.

But I can't deny that I'm different now than I was when I arrived.

Stronger, maybe. More honest, definitely. Less afraid of being seen.

As I sit at my desk, watching the sunset paint the gardens in gold and shadow, I think about the letter I sent to Con.

I wonder if he's received it yet, if he's read it.

I wonder what he thought, what he felt. If he was relieved to be released, or hurt to be pushed away.

If he understood what I was trying to say, or if I just caused more pain.

I wonder if I did the right thing.

But that's the thing about recovery, I'm learning. There are no guarantees, no certainties. Just choices, made one day at a time, with the best intentions and the clearest mind you can manage. And the hope that somehow, it will be enough.

For now, that has to be enough.