Identity crisis
I started going on dates again is because I knew I had to face my fears and uncertainty about meeting people and introducing myself with this new identity.
While I do hate answering the dating prompts (how the hell are you supposed to communicate the entirety of your being in 240 characters?), I usually describe myself as an avid hiker, a runner, an outdoor enthusiast. My dating profile photos and prompts will usually reflect that in some way, whether that’s cheekily humble bragging about my athletic prowess (I once ran a half marathon in 30 minutes) or sharing a photo of me sweaty and exhilarated on top of a snow-capped mountain.
In turn I also screen peope by keeping an eye out for men who are also seemingly (you can never be too sure online) athletic and have a similar mindset around physical activity. I scroll through assessing their photos: fishing does not count as a sport (fish photos are an automatic no), I’m not too impressed with golfing skills (potential swipe left), hey that’s a sporty photo (let’s swipe right and see what happens). Because at the end of the day, no matter what my dating goals are, I want to spend time with someone who shares similar values, even if it’s just for one night.
But now I’m not quite sure who am I - I’m still figuring out who I am without the core part of me. Being athletic and very intensely physically active has been a huge core part of my life. The friends I’ve made this past year only know me as someone who’s physically moving her body all the time. Moving my body every day, actively hiking and running and moving, has kept me sane, so much so that I no longer needed to meet with my therapist (win!). As I updated my profile I had to reconsider what I put online: can I still describe myself as a runner if I can’t run anymore? Am I still an athlete if I can’t exercise in the same way anymore? Am I catfishing if I call myself an athlete but can no longer participate in athletics?
And there’s the flip side, of flipping through profiles that explicitly state that they want to meet someone who wants to also live an active lifestyle - someone who can join them on Sunday morning runs, be gym buddies, and go on crazy multi-day hiking adventures. And the thing is I was that woman. and that’s what makes it a little bit more painful, is that in another world I could be that woman. I know I need to adjust to this new version of me because this is my life now and it’ll look very different from what I had originally imagined. I can go on Sunday morning walks, do some light resistance training, and still go on crazy multi-day hiking adventures, just a bit (okay a lot) slower and less intense than what I’d prefer and what I’d used to. That’s when I feel a twinge of sadness and then shut it down. I’m here, I’m alive. I can still move my body and engage in some physical activity — not everything has been taken away.
What’s been difficult / a bit of an adjustment period, what I was nervous about in going on dates again, or even meeting up with friends who are unaware of this illness, is talking about things that used to bring me joy thatn now bring a bit of sadness beause of the knowledge of knowing that I am no longer able to am choosing not to run and work out. On dates it’s weird to talk about running, especially because it was/is such a big part of my life, to talk about it with the knowledge that I’m choosing to no longer participate in these activities, and a pang of sadness in realizing that I’ll never I am currently not and will be unable to for the foreseeable future, be able to participate in these joys - running along the West Side Highway, cathing up with friends over a running, running with my partner and sharing our mutual appreciation for the glorious sunrise and athleticism. It’s mourning for the permutations of lives and futures that could have been and now will not be. But then I can’t think about that because I’ve got to concentrate on this date and I don’t want to ruin a first impression by bursting out in tears and sobbing in the bar.