I don’t think I’m a very fun person at the moment, let’s start there. I used to be this irritatingly bouncy, joy-filled fucker who skipped from social event to social event with the words “isn’t this BRILLIANT” on my lips. I loved my friends, found pleasure in so many little things, and although life was often underscored by a pulsing beat of anxiety, usually I could keep that at bay with the promise of a pint in the sunshine and a decent playlist in my headphones as I stomped down the street to reach it.
Now, though, I find myself constantly on the verge of breaking down. Drinks in the pub too often devolve into self-pity. A simple question about how I am can cause me to burst into tears. A lovely gig makes me weep gently at the back of the room, and I slip out before the headliner ends, without even saying goodbye.
When I’m alone, I fluctuate wildly between excitement about the future (I’m making plans) and horror about the past (what happened to my life?!).
No matter, though! As I say, I’m busy! I’m doing loads of STUFF. I have plenty of dates, even a couple of promising first ones that smoothly transition into seconds. There are good men out there, I’ve met some of them. One has such perfect taste in music I’m surprised we haven’t already crossed paths at a gig. He asks me questions. He’s curious. It turns out he’s not a good fit for me, but I like him and that gives me hope.
In between dates, I’m riding my bike. For miles and miles and miles. Hitting my targets, building my confidence. When I look down at my thighs I feel a vaguely-horny pride. I look hot and I feel hot and it’s a shame there isn’t anyone around to appreciate… oh for fuck’s sake why am I crying?
I go speed dating. Bucket list item ticked off! It’s genuinely incredibly fun – sod the naysayers, speed dating’s great. It’s certainly better than OK fucking Cupid. I meet a few men who are decent, and we stay in the bar till it closes, drinking and chatting and swapping numbers in defiance of the rigid tickbox system.
I wake up the morning after to a few texts and chest-heaves of self-loathing. When each message pings in, I itch. This should bring me joy, but it doesn’t. Where’s my joy gone?
In search of it, I go on a trip. It’s only five days, but I cross borders seven times. Every morning I pack up my bags, get on my bike and ride. The roads are beautiful and calm and clear, and the scenery’s immense. I’m on my own and I’m free and I’m happy and my muscles ache in that good-good way: I feel powerful. I force myself to speak a little German. I take a cable car to the top of a mountain then ride all the way down it and I do not die.
I wake up each morning weeping and afraid. I wander the streets in the evenings, daring myself to go in to a restaurant alone and order dinner. I succeed twice, fail three times. Call my big sister who calms me while I heave choking sobs down the phone.
When I return, I try to make good on those dates: chatting to the sweet men who’ve messaged me questions and curiosity. But I’m itching, still. One of them texts me far too fucking much. Another is too serious, lacking the playfulness I crave. I feel like Goldilocks tasting porridge, determining every portion is far too hot or too cold.
A couple of friends step forward with offers of playful sex, and it triggers a kind of panic. No no, not that, not you. I say it’s because I’m not looking for casual, but maybe it’s more than that. I’m just so fucking empty. Cold. Lost.
I hang out with a mate who is loved-up and happy. In the past I’d have found so much joy in this, but right now I struggle to summon it. Where the fuck is my fucking joy? I feel like I’m trying to start an engine that’s just spluttering and dying every time.
I see other people’s happiness through a haze of my own despair, and I despise myself for feeling like I’m ten miles away from my closest friends, even when we’re hugging. The pulsing beat of misery is turning me into a person I don’t recognise or like.
And somewhere at the heart of it, there’s disgust. Bitterness. Bile. He turned me into this person, and I hate her. I cannot use the word ‘hate’ for him, because it feels like crossing the threshold to a dark place I don’t want to go. But I use it for myself because that feels safe. The ugly things I feel about him, I turn inwards instead. Hurting myself over and over to try and keep from lashing out.
The cutest guy I’ve met on the apps messages me once a day. Friendly, chatty, interested. I’m frustrated with him for being so nice, though – if you’re this good then how the fuck do I reject you?
I am not a very fun person right now.
And I definitely shouldn’t be dating.
When did you spot it?
I’m embarrassed by how long it’s taken me to realise this. How many false starts it took to see that I should stop. I hope you realised it way sooner in this post than I did in real life.
If you shouldn’t date when you’re still in love with your ex, you definitely shouldn’t date while you feel how I feel either. I’m past the point they call ‘crisis’, I think, but the rage and disgust and shock still colours every day.
The energy I’m bringing to dating right now is the same that I’m bringing to the rest of my life: a manic, frantic, volatile hunt for joy. And hot on its heels is an aching despair that perhaps my capacity to feel joy has been altered for good.
I act as if I need a new boyfriend, to take away the disgusting taste of the old one, but I’m suspicious of new men in case they’re like the last. In any case, the times in my life when I’ve been happiest have been periods of singledom and… fuck’s sake, why am I crying again?
I’m filling my life to distract me from the horror, and in the process I am treating others badly. Or at least, not with the level of kindness I aspire to bring. I try to be open with the men I am dating, but I’ve failed because I’m not being honest with myself. The only responsible conclusion right now is that I’m nowhere near ready to date.
If I put myself out there while I’m feeling like this, there are two possible outcomes:
- I will meet an amazing person, and I won’t be able to recognise their strengths because the darkness will have me mistrusting and suspicious and looking for flaws.
- I will meet a manipulative person, and let them into my heart because I’m too eager for someone to fill it quickly.
The first would hurt like fuck, but I’d live with it.
The second, I can’t survive twice.
Apologies to the nice men I’ve dicked around on the dating scene. It’s not you, it’s me. And although some of you are bellends who don’t ask me questions, or rate me out of ten, or get drunk and send increasingly sexually aggressive messages at four in the fucking morning… most of you don’t deserve this. I don’t want to inflict this on anyone anyway. I am capable of far, far better.