Online Dating and Intimate Disclosures
I found myself on Tinder a few weeks ago, after swearing to my friends and family that I would never date again. Truthfully, I felt like I made an account as anthropological research. As a recovering hopeless romantic, the idea of swiping through a bunch of people based on a picture felt … well … gross. I mean, shouldn’t I meet the love of my life in a more organic way?
Logic lost, I found myself swiping left on about 100 guys who had gym selfies. I wouldn’t say many other people on Tinder wanted the same kind of relationship I am chasing. Perhaps I needed something more serious, like a paid eHarmony account, but I didn’t feel ready for that, either.
As much as I would like to have a serious relationship, settle down, and find “the one,” I can’t help but worry whether I will find my albatross, condor, or penguin (yes, even some birds have soul mates!). PH took away my ability to make certain choices about my life that tend to be pretty important in relationships. Because of this, PH will also dictate whom I date. I feel stuck between two worlds, often longing for the things I thought I deserved pre-diagnosis.
I decided to put a disclaimer about having PH right in my dating profile. That is one of the nice things about online dating — you can get awkward conversations out of the way before you even meet. I thought that the disclaimer in my profile would help weed out guys who were afraid of a little figurative blood.
I didn’t expect to hear back from many people after stating that I have PH in my profile, but that wasn’t the case. Some of the guys I heard back from told me that they also had heart conditions. Another person actually used PH as a pickup line! Online dating still felt weird, but I have to admit that it felt nice to be noticed after feeling invisible for so long. It also showed me that PH doesn’t have to be a big deal, and I could choose to explain the severity of the disease in a way that felt most applicable to me.
I eventually went on my first Tinder date. The person I was meeting said he wanted to get to know me and didn’t want to know about a bad thing that happened to me over which I had no control. So, we didn’t talk about PH at all. If a question overlapped with it, I just referred to it as the thing that happened four years ago.
Halfway through our date, he dropped a bombshell about something that happened to him as a teen. It was then that I realized that I probably won’t be the only person in a relationship who feels as if there is something to hide. Most of us have something about us in our pasts that we try to keep covered under our thumbs for as long as possible. We usually hide these things until the other people get to know us, hoping that they will be more open to accepting our flaws, mistakes, and tragedies once more feelings are involved.
Honesty is the best policy, but how soon do you have to disclose everything?
I had another person tell me something about himself a few weeks after we had met. Admittedly, what he told me probably would have been a deal-breaker for me early on — and maybe it shouldn’t have been. Because I got the chance to know him. I realized I didn’t care as much as I would have had I not had the chance to get to really know him. Perhaps, that grace period of allowing someone to get to know us beyond circumstances is needed before removing our thumb from the baggage or hardships we try to hide.
Maybe I should start giving others that grace period to get to know me before I disclose my diagnosis. I wonder how many people would be able to tell that I am ill, or if my diagnosis would impact how they feel about me? (Once they got to know me, of course.) It is difficult to know when the time is right to disclose a diagnosis. I want someone to like me for me, but I also know that my limitations might be a deal-breaker for others.
At the end of the day, I am just looking for someone who can see past the fire (or at least doesn’t mind dancing in it with me to “Harvest Moon.”) But, for the right person, I would settle for low-sodium tacos, sweatpants, and watching awful horror movies together.
I’ve also learned that I am not scared of a little blood or fire, either. *** This originally appeared on Pulmonary Hypertension News.
