12 - Not all that glitters is gold

… sometimes it is tears.

If you thought an open marriage was nothing but a string of more or less successful sexual adventures, you forgot one crucial variable in the equation: the human factor. And humans don’t just feel sexual desire—they also feel fear. The closer you are to someone, the closer you stand to the edge of their abyss.

By now you’ve probably guessed that I share a profound bond with the charming Swiss—despite all the complications: the language barrier, the age difference, his relationship status, his dolce vita versus my German efficiency—and then there was the knee surgery. That changed the dynamic of our relationship completely—and him as well.

In a short span of time, we’d grown quite close through words and music. Beyond one kiss and a few tentative touches, nothing had happened; it felt as though we had truly seen each other—unfiltered, unguarded, just as we were. But with the surgery came chronic pain, and with the pain came sleepless nights. The man I had slowly begun to fall for seemed to disappear, little by little. It was hard to bear and required immense patience from me. And honestly? My patience was sometimes thinner than nylon tights. More than once, I stood so long at the edge of his abyss that I started to feel dizzy myself.

That his libido had shut down for energy-saving reasons—I could understand and accept. We weren’t in a rush. Which is why I was stunned when, out of nowhere, he took the initiative one Monday afternoon and we became intimate on my couch. When I say “stunned,” I mean only me—because both the BFF and the mister had predicted exactly that, ever since he was back behind the wheel and able to visit me. Just in case they were right, I’d skipped underwear and chosen a pair of tights with a strategically placed opening. Despite this choice of clothing, I was surprised. Everyone else wasn't. But I let myself get swept away, hoping this was a turning point.

It wasn’t. And yet, not even the tights had prepared me for the crash that followed. The next time we saw each other in Paris, he practically blocked every form of sensual closeness. The man who used to hold my hand for hours on our walks suddenly felt cold, distant, and sad. I could see his pain etched on his face, but I couldn’t reach him anymore.

He had fallen into his black hole—and let go of my hand.

Of course, I had noticed the signs before. But I’d naively believed things would realign themselves on their own. That day in Paris made me realize they wouldn’t. So I spoke to him about depression.

Coming back afterward and soaking up the warmth and safety of my family drove home how precious relationship networks really are. Here, love doesn’t just flow back and forth between two people. It’s a net, woven from many threads of affection. Whoever needs more than they can give at the moment can draw from it. The love my husband gives me makes it possible to carry more in this other relationship than I could alone.

And that, for me, is the real heart of an open marriage: weaving a network of love strong enough to hold you—even when you stumble, even when you fall.