Ok, Fine, Let’s Talk About Dating

I’ve had a near-complete mental block on writing for months. The months prior were a slow closure of the door to my thoughts, creaking ominously, rather than a sudden slam; I could write, then I could write occasionally, then I could sort of write, and then I could barely write at all. I tend to blame it on the Wellbutrin. Sometimes directly — the medicine that keeps me from wanting to walk endlessly into the Gulf of Mexico is also taking away my passion. Other times, I feel it is an indirect side effect of the main point of the drug – it makes me not depressed, and we all know that writers only write when the tell-tale heart is being knocked upon by the black thing with feathers that will not stop for death.

I considered rereading The Bell Jar a few hundred times, but my oven is electric and it’s not like my kids give me time to read, anyhow. So what, then? Should I just accept the end of this particular era? Walk away from writing entirely, only to occasionally reminisce about that period of time where I had something resembling a talent? Leave it all behind? Or is it possible to listen to my own advice – my own introspection – and just take things as they come? I went back to my post “Thoughts on Skinny Dipping, Identity, and Taking My Kid to a Rock Show” and realized I was being very black and white about the whole thing — full-throttle or parked in a sad junkyard of pastimes past. Finally, I began to accept that this is the phase I am in and there is no way to know what the future will bring and no reason to beat myself up about it.

Remember in college when every good story began, “man, we were so drunk and…”?

Now they all begin, “So I was talking to my therapist…”

Then, yesterday, with about 30 seconds left of therapy I blurted out, “I need to write about dating.”

I’ve written several times about my current struggles with authenticity in writing, because I have felt unable to write about certain topics, but until now my answer has been “find something else to write about.” How’s that working out for ya, Rhiannon? Let me tell me — it has left me with lots of meaningful blog posts about the exact. same. thing. over. and. over. again.

Dating is one of several topics I have barely been able to touch with a ten-foot pole.

via GIPHY

I suddenly realized that I had been setting up roadblocks around my brain to the point that it just didn’t want to try anymore. Dating was a big chasm with do not enter signs blocking a main highway.

It’s difficult to explain why, exactly.

I suppose, at first, it felt as though people might judge me. Everyone has their own opinions on when it is “appropriate” to begin dating after the end of a marriage and I did not want to appear  callous or cruel to my ex, since I was the one who left. Talking openly about dating before the divorce is final just seemed untouchable. Then I remembered that I live in North Fucking Carolina, where you have to wait a year and a day after you separate before you can even file for divorce. In nearly every other state, I would have been long divorced by the time I waded into the waters of online dating.

Once I got out of that sand trap, I felt like it was somehow wrong to write about dating, because there are people at the other end of the dates. This was another bullshit excuse, because I have spent ample time writing about my own feelings without trampling on the feelings or privacy of others. There are a million ways to write about a thing. I’m not writing about them, I’m writing about me. As long as someone isn’t egregiously crossing boundaries from the first message, I’m not going to air their private life on the internet. At least not publicly.

But, when they do, we shall have fun without remorse.

There is, as is so often the case, some shame and insecurity lurking below the surface waiting to be teased apart that, If I’m honest with myself, became the final hurdle to the topic. And because I do try to be honest with myself, I have to say — screw that. When those two feelings stand in my way, it’s a damn good sign to elbow my way right on past. I’ve written candidly about mental health for major outlets. I once wrote about my boobs for WaPo. I recently wrote a piece about abortion (the only thing I’ve written in months). I cannot let the fear of this new territory hamstring me.

So here we are. Online dating satirical profile photo and all.

It’s a strange, strange land, and I’m here to tell you all about it.

Next time….