Dating as a Survivor
The first night wasn’t terrible. I sat on the floor, wearing nothing but my underwear in front of the full-length mirror. The fly-aways and frizz of my hair; the butterfly tattoo that matched my mother’s; the visible slump of my shoulders. I was taking in every detail as if for the first time. Finally, my eyes, tear-soaked and red. I remember thinking they were pretty.
The first morning was hard. I had a dream that his arms were around me again, and though I was aware of the previous night, everything felt the same. I felt loved and safe. When I woke up, I was sweating. His sweatshirt hung neatly in the closet. His toothbrush on the bathroom sink.
We had broken up. To be honest, we had only dated for a few months and we never bothered to label it. I wasn’t entirely heartbroken. It only took me a few days to schedule dates with potential suitors throughout the next few weeks. After a few days, I stopped letting myself cry for him and poured myself into my friends, family, and work. This is healthy, I thought to myself. Maybe I don’t need him. Or his company. Or his… protection.
To every date, party, and club, something followed. I should have felt refreshed, even comforted. Still, a thought asserted itself in the back of my mind, dark and overpowering, as if it had always been there. And late at night, all alone, the thought manifested into a voice.
What if I never find someone like him again? A normal thought.
Someone who won’t force himself on me? Who won’t physically restrain me? Who won’t leave me with bruised thighs and bloody lips and handprints on my throat and –
A less-normal thought.
Dating as a college student in an unfamiliar city is a harrowing experience. The people you meet are just as scared and nervous as you are; still figuring out who they are and what they want. Break-ups happen, and you will still catch someone’s eye on your way to class, ask them to coffee. You will dance with a stranger, get their number, and enjoy your breakfast date the next day. You will get a text from a high school crush and meet them when you go home for the summer. You will move on.
Dating as a survivor is different. This is my story.
I am a self-professed slut. This is a label I’ve always worn proudly. I’d grown up in a tiny mid-western town, and college presented a new opportunity to have the social life I’d always craved. As a freshman, I went on several ‘dates’—if that’s what you’d call them. Most of these I had agreed to with the mutual unspoken expectation of having no-strings-attached sex. He’d pick me up from my dorm, entertain me with mediocre conversation, take me somewhere, call me an Uber, and that was that. I was also wildly open about my experiences. Friends would watch me, slack-jawed and giggling, and marvel at the stories I’d tell them about hook-ups in public places, awkward encounters with older men, and light-hearted embarrassments.
Like any college freshman, I struggled with my identity and self-esteem. Suddenly thrown into a home filled with inexperienced teenagers, no longer responsible for my family or housing, I quickly learned how to let go. Almost too well. Movie nights with boxed wine and Saturday benders with friends gave way to sipping vodka out of a teacup at 10 AM, all alone in my room, staring at the same two paragraphs of a chemistry textbook for hours as midterms approached… knowing I didn’t know a damn thing that would be on the exam.
I’ve always struggled with my mental health, and during that time the fight became overwhelming. I couldn’t keep up academically, I hated myself for drinking, and my mom and I hadn’t spoken in weeks. Out of habit, I turned to the one thing I knew would bring me immediate relief: male attention. And in this supposedly progressive university environment, it is still true that the easiest way for a woman to gain acceptance is through being sexually desirable. Another skill I knew all too well.
Growing up as a woman, especially a poor one, one of the first things you learn is that to mean anything to anyone, you must serve a purpose. To mean something to a man, you can really only serve as something to be possessed and enjoyed: either as a family member or a sexual object. I was disillusioned as a child into thinking I could just be a friend. One boy I considered closest to me would use phrases like “you’re like a sister to me,” a sentiment that seemed innocent enough until he locked his truck doors with me inside after Wednesday night youth group and announced he wouldn’t let me out until I touched him. On that cool, sweaty September evening, under the only street light in the high school parking lot, I learned that indeed, I was expected to serve a purpose.
So I moved on with my alcoholism and broken resolve to a series of men who presented me with varying degrees of danger. The most innocent, the ones I never really thought of as unsafe, would do me the gentlemanly favor of buying my coffee before taking me. Some even offered to give oral before requesting I do the same. No one ever asked me if I wanted to wear a condom, despite the fact I always brought my own. They either pushed inside of me without warning or unwrapped the condom wordlessly, using it for their own protection rather than my comfort. The dangerous ones, however, left me with an unshakeable fear and distrust of men, especially those that are bigger and stronger.
After one encounter left me bruised and shaking, I decided it was best to handle my insecurities and loneliness alone. Despite calling off romantic relationships, I still acknowledged the need for the presence of a man. Just going to the grocery store alone would elicit unwanted advances and harassment from strangers. The campus that had once seemed awe-inspiring and promiseful now only served as a reminder that the men around me still expected me to serve my purpose. No longer did I admire the Ginkgo trees and tulips on my way to class; instead, I looked over my shoulder and avoided the crowd. I stopped leaving my home. I was isolating myself.
And then I met him.
And in an unimportant yet touching series of thoughtful dates, shared cigarettes, and 4 AM conversations, I let myself fall for him. He was the first person that had ever taken the time to know me before having sex with me. He was the first person to demonstrate for me what truly consensual sex is: constant conversation, mutual trust, and gentleness. He made me feel neither like I was owned or that I owed him. But, what really got me was how safe he made me feel. How the flashbacks and intrusive thoughts paused in his presence, the recurring nightmares were less frequent, and how even when I was alone I had the feeling of confidence that only came from knowing that there was at least one person in the world who wanted me even when I was fully clothed. One person who never just saw a naked woman, but one that saw me. How could I not want him to stay forever?
And like all things do when you’re twenty and you start thinking of the future, it falls apart. I hold no ill-will still, though I’ll admit I was devastated. I’ll admit I cried in my lab coat after listening to my coworker tell me about her relationship, letting my goggles fog. I’ll admit that I cried before telling my mother, who has lived my story and wants nothing but for me to be safe, that I was no longer seeing the man who never, ever yelled. And I’ll admit that I cried before throwing away his toothbrush, remembering the mornings we’d stand in front of the sink together. Lastly, I’ll admit I’m still devastated. I really, really wanted this to work out.
And while what we had was great, I know now that it was never him. He was never the secret to curing my PTSD, or the only man I’d ever be able to explore Chicago with, or the best lover I’d ever have. He was just a boy who read the Instagram consent infographics instead of skipping through. A boy who listened to his previous girlfriends when they told him what they wanted. A boy with the basic human decency to know never to hit, yell, or force. Anyone else could have made me feel the same way, just by doing the bare-minimum. I’d spent so long surviving, I wasn’t willing to give up on the thought of thriving with someone by my side. So unwilling, in fact, I mistook the feeling for love.
Unfortunately, I haven’t found an adequate replacement yet, so I can’t end my story with “Don’t worry though! There’s someone for everyone :).” I am still plagued by nights alone with that voice. Half of my dates I cancel, out of fear or exhaustion. Coupled with the usual, recurring nightmares, I still dream that I’m in his arms. Those mornings never get easier. But his toothbrush is gone, and now I brush my teeth holding my cat in one arm, dancing in the mirror, and singing along to old jazz music he wouldn’t know.
Dating as a survivor is different. It comes with embarrassing quirks that are difficult to say out loud. It comes with a different set of expectations. I’ll probably never date someone without thinking of him, and the dozens of men before him. I definitely won’t date someone without first sizing them up in an attempt to estimate the danger. But, I know now what I need to feel secure in a relationship, even if I am a little ashamed to say it’s just safety and reassurance (lame, right?). I hesitate to end with a reminder to love yourself first, because I can’t necessarily say that I do. I still feel the pull of the readily accessible comfort of a man. However, I can say I am comfortable being alone if it means that I’m not sacrificing my needs just for an escape. From one survivor to another: we are different, but we are not difficult.
We will move on.
