How Being Held by Someone Who Sees You Can Amplify Your Will to Live to the Point Where Suicide No Longer Feels Like the Only Exit
My first husband and I were the same age — two kids who said “I do” before we knew what forever meant. I was ready for marriage in a way he simply wasn’t, but I didn’t see it then. I was faithful, blindly devoted, the kind of loyal that comes from not knowing any better. Other men didn’t exist to me. My world was small, and he was the center of it.
Toward the end, though, something cracked. We were in Europe — he was stationed there with the military — and the silence between us had grown so heavy I could barely breathe. We couldn’t talk anymore. We had stopped trying, both of us, and I was drowning in the quiet.
One night, I went to a club with some girlfriends. I wasn’t looking for anyone. But I met a guy from Ontario — also in the military — and he was… easy. Friendly. Not pushy, not flirtatious, just present. We talked for an hour after the club closed. And then I kept running into him, again and again, until I started to believe the universe was pushing me toward something I wasn’t ready to name.
So I did the sensible thing — the coward’s thing. I “purposely returned” to Canada. I ran. I thought if I put an ocean between us, I could protect what was left of my marriage.
But I couldn’t stay away. Every time my husband and I fought — and we fought often — I called this man. And then he followed me home. He came to Canada. That’s when I knew I was already lost. Emotionally, I was gone. He stayed for months, and that’s when our affair truly began.
When he left to go back abroad, I couldn’t let him go. So I followed him — to South Africa. My husband almost found out. It was close — too close. And only later did I learn that my husband had been having an affair too. That explained everything. The coldness. The distance. The way he’d stopped seeing me, stopped touching me, stopped caring.
I was consumed by my lover. We spoke twice a day, wrote every single day. We built a world out of words and longing, a universe that existed only in phone calls and letters. We planned to marry. He was already divorced; I was hoping to be. But as that future started to feel real, I began to question everything.
Was this love? Or was it gratitude? Had he rescued me from a miserable marriage — or was he truly the one I was meant to be with? I couldn’t tell anymore. He was eleven years older, attentive, supportive. He listened — really listened — and that was something I had never experienced before. He gave me what my husband couldn’t: presence. Validation. The feeling that I mattered.
I wanted children with him. I thought about him constantly. That was the other side — the obsession, the devotion, the way he filled my mind. But I also knew, deep down, that it all started because my husband couldn’t make me happy. And sex? Sex was the least of it. It wasn’t even good with my lover, to be honest. I was drawn to his personality, his mind, the way he cared. My husband and I never had a problem with sex — it was everything else. The talking. The sharing. The being seen. That’s where we failed.
So I convinced myself that this lover gave me what I needed. But then the distance crept in — me in Canada, him in South Africa — and we grew apart, slowly, painfully. We’re still in touch today, but we’re not lovers. We never will be again.
And I know this because I was so unhappy in that marriage that I contemplated suicide. I thought about ending it all — just to escape the weight of being invisible, unheard, unloved. That’s how dark it got.
When I finally divorced my first husband, I became involved with a man who had been “only a friend” for years. We’d never been romantic — not once. And then one day, he was just… there. Beside me. And I had this quiet, sudden thought that he belonged there. One thing led to another. And for a while — a beautiful, fragile while — I was happy. We got married, and I let myself believe I had finally found my way home.
But several months ago, he started coming home later and later. He’s in the military too. He’s also a recovered drug addict, and he comes from a family of men — a father and brothers, no women. His understanding of women is limited. Almost nonexistent. At first, he had excuses. Then promises. Then nothing but silence.
And I was so miserable again — that familiar, crushing misery — that I ended up with a man at work. A brief affair. Because my husband was attached to someone else, and I needed to be held. I needed someone to tell me I was okay. I knew this man wasn’t what I wanted — not really. But if sex was what it took to feel something, to feel seen, then fine. I took what I could get. The sex was all right, but nothing special. I had a decent sex life with my husband — I was deeply in love with him — so this wasn’t about that. It was about survival. I let it end quickly.
Soon after, I became involved with another man. Older. Not a physical attraction, not really. He’s divorced, and I’m getting divorced again. And despite everything — despite the pain — I still love my second husband. But I now know he carried on, and has gotten another woman pregnant. That knowledge cuts deeper than I let on.
That’s why I need so much attention now. So much talking. This new lover listens — and that is the thing I treasure most. He holds me without expecting sex. He genuinely cares. He can see when I’m in pain before I even say a word. We go to movies together. We go places. His attitude is simple: it’s time I was treated right.
But the relationship is new, and my feelings are tangled. I’m not sure where it’s going yet. In the past, I was always the giver — the one who poured out, who sacrificed, who stayed. Next time around, I want someone to give to me. Someone to support me. Someone to catch me when I fall.
Because I’ve been falling for a very long time. And I’m so tired of landing alone.