Starting Over, Again
I tried to ignore anything that didn’t fit the narrative of this future I so fiercely wanted.
I never do this, I say. I’ve had three cocktails, and nothing to eat. I am tipsy, teetering into drunk. All I want is to make out with him, and we do, first on the street corner (the rain, your hair, he says, pushing it out of my face) and then against a brick wall, the glow of a subway entrance just a few feet away. Replaying it in my head on my way home, I miss my stop and have to backtrack, giddy. That was super hot, he texts me. You are unbelievably sexy. I get myself off to what sex with him might be like, fall asleep, wake up hungover. In the morning I realize — this is exactly what I do, what I’ve been doing since my nine year relationship collapsed a few months prior.
My ex-fiance and I met on OKCupid, when it still felt a little sketchy to say you had met someone through an app; at first, we told everyone we’d met at MOMA, where we’d had our first date. I was 22, still in college, on a campus that veered heavily female, and where most of the few straight men had what we referred to as “golden cock” syndrome — they cycled their way through us because they could; the numbers were always in their favor. My dating experience up to that point was negligible — a high school summer fling, a number of hookups — and laced with trauma; I’d been assaulted on my 19th birthday, by two guys I knew. I was wary of men, and also desperate for an actual relationship. Adam* and I chatted for a week or two before we met up; he was the only match I agreed to meet in person. I liked his irreverent profile; his list of date ideas; his openness.
He had freckles and strawberry blond hair; he was wearing sunglasses and his dad’s old leather jacket. In his pocket, he had a list of restaurants of every possible cuisine I could want. We went to a wine bar near the museum; it seemed like such an adult thing to do. He was 26; he had a real job, working for his dad’s commercial real estate firm, and his own apartment. I drank too much wine, picked at the cheese plate, talked a lot. He kissed me outside the restaurant; we went to another bar, I had another drink, slid his hands under my shirt. I thought you were wild, he told me years later, with disdain. But you’re not like that at all.
The abuse happened slowly, as it so often does, interspersed between all our domestic rituals and inside jokes, countless meals cooked and trips planned and evenings spent sprawled on the couch, my head in his lap.
And I wasn’t, at least not beyond first dates, when drinking slightly more than I should eased my sometimes paralyzing self-consciousness. Most of the time I preferred movie nights at home, tea, a reasonable bedtime. But immediately after the breakup, I downloaded a number of dating apps and threw myself into meeting people, despite the fact that most mornings I still woke up in disbelief at what had happened to my life.
The relationship had been abusive for years, exacerbated by Adam’s severe mental health issues and my own unwillingness to leave, especially once we were engaged. I was determined not to dismantle the world we’d built together; I was terrified I might never have one like it again. And the abuse happened slowly, as it so often does, interspersed between all our domestic rituals and inside jokes, countless meals cooked and trips planned and evenings spent sprawled on the couch, my head in his lap. He would rub my back for hours to soothe my crippling migraines; wrote me birthday cards from our cats. Proposed to me in my favorite bookstore, with a book that he’d spent months making; we’ll read it to our kids, he said. I loved him.
So I tried to ignore anything that didn’t fit the narrative of this future I so fiercely wanted. All the seemingly small slights, like telling me (5’2 to his 6’) that I was always physically in his way; that I had no spatial awareness; that people would give me dirty looks for almost bumping into them on the street (Is that true, I’d wonder; do I do that?), and the larger ones, like the time we’re on vacation with my mother, and Adam is yelling at me (you always have to instigate me, he says) and my mother asks if he does this often, and if he ever apologizes, and I say nothing, because there is no truthful answer I can give that will please her. I apologize to him instead, over and over, until it becomes a reflex that I’m not even aware of. At work one day, my boss asks me to do something and I instinctually preface my response with I’m sorry. How would you have possibly known to do this, she says. Why are you apologizing?
It finally ended in couple’s therapy — Adam had warned me that if I brought up anything related to his mental health, he would walk. It doesn’t concern you, he said. But that weekend he’d told me his fantasy of shooting himself on my wedding dress, in front of all our guests, and insinuated he’d gotten back his gun. I couldn’t keep holding these things on my own. I told our therapist; Adam stood up and walked out. Have a nice life, he said.
Now I was desperate to fill my time, find anything that would keep me tethered to the world outside and not just my new bed in my new apartment, with two roommates and the LIRR rumbling outside my window. I would schedule multiple dates a week, meet for drinks, dodge questions about my life — I wasn’t sure what I could say that wouldn’t send people running, and in any case, I didn’t want to talk about it. I gave the barest of details — I was engaged; it ended badly; I’m new to the neighborhood; it’s been awhile since I’ve dated. Most of them, I’d see a few times, and then break it off. One was too intense — after three dates, he sent flowers to my office; I hadn’t even given him the address. I invited another guy home with me, though I told him we weren’t going to have sex. That’s fine, he said. He went down on me, then as we were making out, asked if we couldn’t just fuck a little. What does that mean, I thought. Um, no, I said. I still let him spend the night; I didn’t know how to ask him to leave. Sleep was impossible. I couldn’t relax with a stranger next to me. I hadn’t slept next to anyone since Adam. After that, I stopped swiping almost entirely; I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for it; couldn’t summon the energy to be bubbly and make small talk, when, as one friend put it, trauma was still thick around me.
Sex always felt like something I had to endure; tolerable at best, painful at worst. When we did have sex, a week later, it felt like a revelation — I get it now, I thought, after. It’s supposed to feel like this.
But I liked this guy’s profile; he said he was looking for an actual relationship; he seemed funny and creative. I didn’t respond to his message for over a week; almost didn’t respond at all. I will go into this with no expectations, I thought. But once we were chatting, the messages felt easy; our first date even easier. I saw him again two days later, brought him home with me after dinner. Do you have a condom, he asked, and I didn’t; not only hadn’t I slept next to anyone since Adam, I hadn’t had sex with anyone either. But that is yet another thing I didn’t feel ready to say. I noticed, though, that I wanted to have sex with him, that I felt comfortable with him in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. Sex always felt like something I had to endure; tolerable at best, painful at worst. When we did have sex, a week later, it felt like a revelation — I get it now, I thought, after. It’s supposed to feel like this. We had sex twice more that day, and I texted my closest friends, enthralled and in disbelief that this deep-seated narrative I’d held most of my life — that there was something wrong with me, that I was too traumatized to have good sex — was actually wrong.
When he ended things weeks later, it felt like a physical shock. I had gotten used to texting with him; was trying to figure out the balance between being guarded and revealing too much; to feel out the shape of what a potential new relationship could look like. When I started to wonder at the disconnect between how often we saw each other and how often we texted, or noticed that I was initiating more and more of those texts, I tried to dismiss it as merely anxiety, even though trauma sharpens your instincts; attunes you to the slightest changes in another person’s behavior. I could sense that he was pulling away. What happened, I thought. When he told me that he needed someone who wouldn’t let him emotionally retreat, which is how he’s wired, I wanted to say that’s the responsibility of a therapist, not a partner. I didn’t.
Later that night my roommate found me curled on the couch, stunned. Oh honey, she said. Remember when you told me it had been a long time since he’d dated anyone for more than three months, and I said, well, let’s see where you end up? That’s because it sounded like a pattern. You can’t change someone’s patterns. And so often, I feel like when people are dating, they’re both having conversations with the other person in their heads, but they never actually say any of it. And then they’re shocked that you didn’t read their mind. You are going to be okay. Go take a shower and a sleeping pill.
This feels so terrible because it’s a new loss compounding all the other losses you’ve had in such a short time. But look at what you learned about yourself in just a couple weeks.
Instead, I lay awake the entire night, and all the next day. When it hit hour forty and I felt myself unraveling completely, one of my friends texted me, This feels so terrible because it’s a new loss compounding all the other losses you’ve had in such a short time. But look at what you learned about yourself in just a couple weeks. And there are so many ways to have good sex. This guy was just the first who made you feel at ease. You are going to have even better sex, I promise. When you’re ready.
When I woke up the next morning, having finally slept, I thought, right, I’m still stitching myself together. A few months ago, I couldn’t imagine even liking someone, let alone wanting to have sex with them. All I could see was emptiness. Eventually, there will be someone else. When I’m ready.
- Name has been changed
This essay is part of a series about relationships, dating, and friendship, sponsored by Chorus, the matchmaking app where friends swipe for friends.
