Absolutely clear: I don’t want a man I have to drag along!
I’m Catherine Newman, living in Kimble, a quaint village in the heart of England. John and I have been together for almost three years, and we’ve been sharing a home this past year. I know his family well, and he’s familiar with mine. Since spring, we’ve both started new jobs, and it filled us with hope, leading to bold plans: talks of marriage, children, and a promising future that seemed so close. But everything shattered in early June, on a day as dark as night, when John’s life fell apart. His mother died—suddenly, mercilessly. She was returning from work, collapsed on the street from a heart attack, and passed away on the way to the hospital. The blow was devastating, the pain, unbearable for all of them.
I never left his side. John is the man I love, the one I’ve chosen to share my life with. I stayed close, sharing his sleepless nights, and wiping away his tears as they ran down his cheeks. I silently endured his grief as he drowned it in whiskey, emptying glass after glass. I held his hand as he spiraled into a pit of despair, a black hole devoid of light. Even when he pushed me away, shouting that he didn’t want me to see his weakness, I remained. I couldn’t abandon him in this hell. He meant everything to me, and I was ready to bear his pain with him.
But as months pass, John remains the same—broken and lost. He’s shut himself in, and shut the world out. He doesn’t meet friends, and often days go by without a word to me. Whatever I suggest—going out, finding distractions, moving forward—he dismisses, staring blankly, silent. He spends his days at home, gazing at nothingness, doing nothing. He’s taken a leave without pay, risking his job entirely. I have no idea how to pull him out of this mire. I understand the enormous loss—losing one’s mother—but it’s as though he died with her. When I try to explain that life goes on, and that we must fight for the living, he retorts, “You’re heartless, cynical!” Perhaps he’s right, but I can’t help thinking about something else.
What if these aren’t the only trials we face? Life is relentless—there are new troubles ahead, new blows. If he breaks down every time disaster strikes, how will we cope? If I always have to be the one carrying the weight, I simply can’t endure it. Nor do I want that kind of fate! I need a man by my side—strong and dependable, with whom we’ll share burdens equally, not someone I have to drag along like a cumbersome load. I’m exhausted from being his crutch, his life preserver, while he flounders in his sea of tears, not even trying to swim ashore.
I’m scared to admit this even to my closest friends. What if they judge me, call me cold-hearted? I can just see the disappointment in my friends’ eyes: “His mother has died, and you’re thinking about yourself!” But I’m not made of stone—I hurt too. I cry at night watching him, the stranger he has become. My John, who laughed with me, made plans, dreamed of our future, is gone. I don’t know if he will ever return. I’m terrified—terrified of losing our love, terrified of staying with him like this, terrified of leaving and regretting it later.
I don’t want to abandon him in his time of need, but I can’t keep being his nursemaid. Every day, I watch him fade, and feel myself fading too. Work, home, his silence—all weigh on me like a ton of bricks. I once dreamed of a family, of happiness, but now it’s just constant sorrow and loneliness between us. How can I save our love? How do I pull him from this swamp? Or maybe it’s time to save myself? I don’t know what to do. My heart is torn between pity for him and the desire to live my own life. Please, give me advice—how can I bring him back to life, or find the strength to leave if he’s no longer the man I loved? I’m at the edge of a precipice, and I need a light to find my way out.
