Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

Switzerland Recovery

The memory of that night at Claridge's clung to me like a shadow.

Even as the scenes from that perfect New Year's Eve back home for the first time in years faded. As much as I wanted to hold on to the quiet moment with Florence, to the warmth and hope that kiss had brought, the weight of the past was always there, just beneath the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

After the celebrations, the reality set in. I knew I couldn't keep running, couldn't keep burying the trauma and hoping it would stay hidden. It was time to face it head-on, to deal with the nightmares that haunted my sleep, the panic that threatened to pull me under at any moment. And so, the very next day, Florence and Mum had driven me to LAX, their expressions a mix of concern and support as they saw me off on the flight back to Switzerland.

Switzerland—the rehab center nestled in the serene countryside, far from the chaos of the city, far from the memories of war. The flight had been long, giving me too much time to think, to replay the events that had led me to this point. But as the plane descended over the snow-capped mountains, I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me, as if the very landscape was promising a fresh start.

When I arrived at the center, it was as if the world had hit the pause button. Everything was still, quiet, the air crisp with the scent of pine and fresh snow. The building itself was simple, unassuming, designed to blend into the natural beauty that surrounded it. I was greeted by a kind, soft-spoken staff member who guided me through the check-in process, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned inside me.

After being shown to my room—a small, minimalist space with a view of the mountains—I found myself standing at the window, staring out at the snow-covered landscape. The silence was almost overwhelming, but it was a silence that demanded attention, that forced me to be present, to confront the thoughts I had been trying so hard to avoid.

The transition from the chaos of the holidays to the quiet of this place was jarring, a sharp reminder of why I was here. It wasn't just about healing; it was about survival. The flashbacks, the panic attacks, the memories of that final mission—they weren't going to go away on their own. I had to do the work, had to face the darkness head-on if I ever wanted to move forward.

And so, I began the process. Therapy sessions, both individual and group, walks through the snow-covered gardens, moments of meditation where I tried to silence the noise in my mind. The center was designed for this, for people like me who had seen too much, who carried too much inside. There was no rush here, no pressure to get better faster than I was capable. It was about taking each day as it came, about learning to live with the memories rather than trying to erase them.

But no matter how many sessions I had, how many hours I spent talking about the past, there was one memory that stood out above the rest—the memory of arriving at the penthouse, still covered in dust and blood, and collapsing at Mum's feet. It was the moment everything had changed, the moment I had realized just how close I had come to losing myself completely.

Now, standing in the rehab center, miles away from that night and the chaos that had followed, I realized something important. I was still here. Despite everything, despite the darkness and the pain, I had made it. And maybe, just maybe, that meant I could find a way to keep going, to keep fighting, not just for myself, but for the people who had been there for me—for Mum, for Florence, for the brothers I had lost in the desert.

I glanced out the window again, watching as the first light of dawn began to break over the mountains. The new year had just begun, and with it, a new chapter in my life. It wouldn't be easy, and I knew the road ahead was long and uncertain. But for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, I could find my way through this.

With a deep breath, I turned away from the window and headed to my next session.

I had a session with Dr. Weiss that morning, a no-nonsense therapist with a steely demeanor but an uncanny ability to dig right into the heart of things. I'd grown to respect her in the weeks I'd been here, even if our sessions left me feeling wrung out and raw.

"How did you sleep?" she asked as I sat down, her voice calm but probing.

"Not great," I admitted, rubbing my eyes. "Had a rough night."

She nodded, not needing any more details. "Flashbacks?"

"Yeah."

She leaned back in her chair, studying me. "What triggered it?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "New Year's Eve. The noise, the countdown—it just... brought it all back."

Dr. Weiss didn't respond immediately, giving me the space to continue if I wanted. And for some reason, I did. Maybe it was the fact that I was already raw, that I'd already been dragged through the emotional mud. Or maybe it was because I knew I couldn't carry this alone anymore.

"I keep going back to that night I got back from Syria," I said, my voice quieter. "When I showed up at my mum's hotel. I was a mess—physically, mentally. And I just... collapsed. I hadn't let myself think about it for a long time, but last night, it was like I was there again."

Dr. Weiss nodded again, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "It's understandable. You've been through a lot, Tom. And that was a significant moment for you coming back from the brink from what you have told me you came back from the dead for many people around you, showing up at your mother's door. It's a memory tied to intense emotion, which is why it's still so vivid."

"Yeah," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "It feels like it just happened, like I'm still that guy who dragged himself out of a war zone only to fall apart the moment he got home."

"But you're not that guy anymore," Dr. Weiss said firmly. "You've come a long way since then, even if it doesn't always feel like it. The fact that you're here, talking about this, working through it—that's progress."

I nodded, though it didn't feel like progress. It felt like I was standing in the same place, staring at the same darkness. But maybe that was the point of being here—to realize that standing still wasn't an option anymore.

The rest of the day was a blur of therapy sessions, physical exercises, and forced introspection. I was tired, emotionally drained, but as the sun set and the cold Swiss night settled in, there was a small, quiet part of me that felt a little lighter. The work was hard, but I was doing it. I was moving forward.

That evening, I sat alone in my room, looking out at the snow-covered mountains. The memories still lingered, the ghosts of the past still haunted the edges of my mind, but they didn't feel as overpowering as before. I knew they'd never fully go away, that they'd always be a part of me, but here, in this place, I was learning how to live with them.

As the night grew darker, I allowed myself a small moment of hope. Hope that maybe, with time, I could make peace with the past and truly start to live again. It wasn't going to be easy—nothing about this journey was—but for the first time, I believed it was possible.

And that belief, small as it was, felt like the first step toward something new.