NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

A Failed Attempt

In the years that followed, I developed an unshakable loneliness that my relationship with her couldn't satisfy. I longed for something deeper. I felt starved for emotional and physical intimacy. Despite the productive team Samantha and I made as we pushed through the baby years, the inadequacy of our relationship caught up with us once the frenzied pace of child-rearing slowed.

The lack of love between us seeped into everything. Our home became more about routines and material comfort than about time spent together. The more we provided, the more quickly it seemed to lose meaning. Appreciation faded fast.

The kids factored into my decision to leave, but not because I wanted to escape responsibility. I believed leaving would be better for them too. They were being raised in a home with a weak foundation—an instability we both contributed to. But more than that, they were missing out on the presence of a mother who was emotionally engaged, who could offer them warmth, patience, and the kind of love they needed.

Samantha wasn't capable of that—not consistently. Her depression kept her withdrawn, short-tempered, and emotionally unavailable. When she was present, it often felt like she was just going through the motions. I worried about what that absence of affection, that lack of real connection, was doing to them. They deserved more than a mother who was simply there. They deserved one who had the energy to nurture them. And no matter how much I tried to compensate, I knew I couldn't fill that gap.

[To be fair, the image of a philandering father doesn't square with the life I had envisioned for us either; still, fulfilling that life felt impossible with her.]

It's hard to blame someone for an illness, but as the years passed, I stopped seeing Samantha as separate from her depression. Eventually, the illness was all I saw. There were good moments, but never enough to outweigh the darkness. Each year, we drifted further apart.

I learned to ignore the undesirable details of our lives and got caught up in keeping up appearances. Early on, the family portraits displayed on our walls represented the life we wanted. Later, they became reminders of how far off track we had gone.

In those final years, we treated each other with coldness and, at times, outright contempt. Those close enough to see the cracks became uncomfortable around us. I can't imagine anyone describing us as loving. It had been years since I found her attractive—she had to have known. And I felt no emotional connection that made up for that loss. In my mind, Samantha and I no longer looked like we belonged together.

[That I felt embarrassed to be seen with her in public reveals a level of shallowness I wish I didn't possess.]

Eventually, I crossed the line again—pulled outside the marriage for the second time, this time not out of confusion or escape, but out of a deeper need I could no longer ignore.

With Nina, it was different. People noticed her. They stopped to talk, to smile, to soak in her presence. Being with someone beautiful and charismatic again was intoxicating, and feeling the effect she had on others only made it more so.

My parents and siblings never fell under Nina's spell. After our relationship became public, their disapproval was obvious. As for my marriage, they may have privately questioned its state, but publicly, they were content to accept the lie as long as we kept offering it. From their perspective, I assume, a shiny house, an intact marriage, and a seemingly happy family—things could be worse.

But they were worse. We were two unhappy parents trying to hold it all together and failing.

I felt unappreciated. I worked hard to provide a nice home, but no amount of effort could compensate for the emptiness, and no amount of window dressing could hide it.

Samantha worked hard too, but she was weighed down by her depression. It worsened over time, sapping her of the energy and motivation needed to raise four kids and keep a household running.

Years later, her diagnosis shifted from depression to bipolar disorder, then to severe depression. By then, she no longer resembled the happy, attractive person I'd met years earlier, and I could no longer separate her from her illness.

Long before the suicide attempts and the 51-50 holds—the mandatory 72-hour psychiatric evaluations that began shortly before our final separation—she had stopped caring about nearly everything. And after years of trying, I had long since stopped offering any real support. At that point, I was little more than an enabler.

This was the secret in our marriage, hidden for years. It would be unfair to say it was all bad—there were good moments, too. But elements of her depression were always there. It's hard to pinpoint when it became undeniable or when, for me, it became intolerable.

Her depression didn't always look like sadness. More often, it was impatience, short-tempered outbursts, a quickness to feel criticized.

Over the years, she withdrew more and more, spending most of her free time in bed. Eventually, it became easier to just let her.

She missed work—more than covered by vacation and sick leave—and self-medicated. Alcohol, Vicodin, and sleep became her escapes.

I got good at hiding my feelings, at keeping up the act. But by then, I had my own unspoken plan. And I took comfort in knowing that someday, I would be free of her.

That freedom, I would learn, came with its own cost.