Why Dating Destroys Your Mental Health

The word brutal may sound a little hyperbolic

and self-pittitying when applied to an activity

whose chief outward requirements

involve attending romantic restaurants,

ordering olives, sharing small plates,

and at points perhaps

exchanging kisses near the bus stop.

Those in couples, and especially those who've been in them a long time,

can be forgiven for wondering what on earth the fuss might be about.

However, for those of us who know the activity from the inside,

who suffer from despondency

and fury and may have found themselves bursting into tears after yet another disappointment,

the word brutal, when applied to dating,

may be an understatement.

The reasons are multiple.

Firstly, this isn't just about one evening.

What's at stake extends far beyond a single encounter.

This isn't about the quest for an interesting conversational

list or a new sexual partner.

It's generally about the very long-term

future, the acute question of who will be there when our heart spasms,

when we're too frail to make it across the living room unaded,

and when we can barely remember our names.

The evening, so innocuous

in its outward form,

so enlivened by the arrival of a smiling waiter,

is in essence a referendum

on whether or not we must die alone.

Beneath the outward lightness of the occasion

lies a piercing existential cry.

When will I find a home?

Secondly, the rise and fall of hope.

We would never arrange a date without the thought that perhaps,

just perhaps, we may now

finally have stumbled on the answer.

We know, at least the sensible part of us does, that the odds are extremely slim.

This exercise has probably been going on for months, maybe years.

On so many occasions,

we've set out into the night in our smart yet demure

outfits, only to find within a few minutes of the candidates's arrival that of

course the photos were again

deceptive, that the manner was very strange, the views on astrology

maddening, the curiosity non-existent,

and therefore that the next 40 minutes or 3 hours would be a polite

hell haunted by the spectre of eternal

Thirdly, the million ways

in which someone can be wrong.

Of course, we don't want to be fussy.

It's obviously not in our interest to keep spotting issues.

But nor can we magically

erase the doubts or the sexual or mental incompatibilities.

It's hell because an urgent need for love collides with absurdly

non-negotiable criteria for acceptance

and an erratic flow of viable candidates.

despite our university degree

and outward philosophical manner

end up on the bathroom floor in the fetal position

screaming in incandescent sorrow

to a non-existent god. Fourthly, our powerlessness.

On the very rare occasions when we do find that we like them quite

a lot, then the problems really start.

They like us a lot too. Really, they do.

They enjoy the evening so much.

It's just that they are in a different place right now.

They're still finding their feet after the breakup.

Their children need extra attention.

They may be thinking that polyamory

might be for them at this point.

And of course, we're so understanding.

It would be such an honor to be their friend or occasional sexual playmate.

But can we really be condemned

if after the 20th time of this, we were to push back our chair,

fall to our knees, smear ourselves in a plate of tahini or garlic mayonnaise,

and attempt to impale ourselves on the bread knife in front of our stunned

fellow diners and the puzzle waiting staff.

Fifthly, it's every rejection you've ever had.

It may seem to be only about Abda from Mumbai or Sophie from Peekom,

but deep down it's also about our awful mother who was never there,

our father who bullied us, the people who hated us at school, and the

partner who left us ambiguously

after a 5-year relationship

we did everything to save.

Everyone tells us it's not personal,

but our unconscious knows better.

It couldn't be more personal.

This is the universe reconfirming

its fundamental verdict on us.

We're a piece of vermin and the gods are vengefully

urinating on us from on high.

Sixthly, rejecting is as bad as being rejected.

Worse still, we can't comfortably play the victim for long.

Because even as we process our rejections,

we're called upon to perform an equal or greater number of our own assassinations,

talking sweetly to unsuitable

suitors about our busyiness

and hopes for warm friendships.

We can't in the midst of our orals

even think of ourselves as particularly nice.

Finally, We're so tired,

although stensibly we haven't done very much at all.

We're tired of our uncertain

destinies, of repeated encounters with our unbudgetable

fussiness, of the wrongness of everyone, of our mental instability,

of the hours lost of swiping,

and of the continuous cycles of felling and being felled.

What is so awful about us?

Who did we kill in a previous life?

Why is everyone either unavailable or unappealing?

Why is this so hard? Where are they?

How can we find the strength to keep going?

We're two bad dates away from the locked ward.

We haven't just been out for dinner.

We haven't just met someone for a chat.

We've once again attempted to find a restbite

from cosmic alienation and failed.

We deserve a lot of understanding.

And ideally before much longer when they finally stop laughing up there in Mount

Olympus, some sort of a lucky break.