The Call That Didn’t Help

She couldn’t save me. But somehow, I lived...and now I hope she’s okay.

When I was at my lowest point, when my ex-wife had dumped me, cheated on me, convinced my family I had abused her, had my daughter completely bamboozled with her gaslighting, and it looked like I’d never see her again, I almost killed myself.

Instead, I called the suicide hotline.

A young woman answered. Probably a volunteer. She was completely out of her depth. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t even comprehend the scope of my pain. She didn’t have anything helpful, or comforting, or wise.

And I lost it on her.

Told her she was useless.

Hung up on her.

Somehow I made it through that night. And all the nights after.

I have my daughter back now. I made it. I survived.

But I still think about that girl.

She was doing the best she could in a moment that was far bigger than her. I hope she’s okay. I hope she learned something from that night, not about failure, but about what it means to try to be there for someone who’s breaking.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth of it: we don’t always save each other.
Sometimes we just bear witness to someone surviving themselves.