by Cathy Kozlowicz
Whenever I tell people I haven’t had a date this century, there is a stunned silence—followed by, why?
“My career,” I reply.
The last time I had a date was in 1994—the year my college boyfriend of three years broke up with me. This was a relationship where he acted like I was a project to fix. He gave me study tips. Unsolicited. He advised me on exercising and attaining college internships. Also, unsolicited. We were not a good match.
But he broke my heart.
I remember crying every night at my mid-size liberal arts Wisconsin college. This hurt was enough to make a declaration—at age twenty-two—I would never get close to anyone again. You spill your heart to someone—even in a dysfunctional relationship—and then it is over, and you never talk again.
I did not need a relationship. Of any kind, I told myself.
Instead, I was determined to make something of myself. I became involved in nearly every college activity while working a forty-hour-a-week graveyard job and remaining a full-time student.
And I kept this work-a-holic routine up well after my college years.
Years later, I worked a sixty-hour-a-week professional job, completed two graduate degrees, taught online, worked another graveyard job, and wrote for six different newspapers. All at the same time.
I had no concept of leisure time. I once requested a vacation day on a weekend, forgetting that my job was Monday through Friday. I accidentally worked on one Thanksgiving. Because everything was closed, I forgot it was a national holiday and spent the day emailing volunteers.
I also considered vacations a way of getting more work done. Isn’t it fun to be in the mountains working on a report?
Needless to say, I never came close to going on a date—romantic or otherwise.
People, of course, have asked me what kind of career I have. What prevented me from dating in the last twenty-six years? Was I a research scientist? CEO of a company?
Well, the awkward truth is: at age forty-eight, I have not quite figured out my career. Most of my “career” jobs were ones everyone said were stepping-stone jobs, at best. And now, I am starting to get nightmares where I wake up in a panic wondering, will I have a career by retirement?
When COVID-19 took me away from my usual activities, I became strangely reflective. It was like we—everyone in the world—needed to relearn how to relate to each other. Through the social isolation of the pandemic, I had tons in common with absolute strangers.
And, inexplicably, the effects of the pandemic made me become more emotional. For instance, when I received an email with the subject line saying, We care about you, Cathy, I cried. It was an email from a shoe company detailing their latest sales. But I still cried.
I had nothing else to do to take my mind off my thoughts: sports were canceled, online shopping seemed useless, and I could not watch any more Netflix. And then, questions circulated in my head.
Is this how I want to live my life? Being overworked at my jobs, but not making enough? Do I even still want to be single?
A few days later, I was taking out the garbage at one a.m. My next-door neighbor was outside getting fresh air. I knew of him, but we never talked. He just seemed like an all-around nice guy. It was his tone of voice that always got to me. It was sweet, professional, and one that indicated he wanted to know me. That made me want to talk to him.
Since everyone is experiencing COVID-19 stress, it seemed safe to ask him how he was dealing with the pandemic. It was an easy way to talk to someone.
He hated everything about Wisconsin’s safer-at-home order while I loved social distancing. He needs in-person interaction and gets his energy from others. He said he missed taking breaks with his coworkers. I told him my boss wanted me to take more breaks.
“Let’s take breaks together,” he said.
The next day we had lunch together. And dinner. And work breaks throughout the day. I was nervous but oddly excited about this. I would tense up before we met, but would be okay after. Still, it hurt just thinking about letting people get close to me.
But COVID-19 just made conversation easy.
If I didn’t know what to say, I could always tell relatable COVID-19 jokes or summarize a COVID-19 YouTube parody.
I knew nothing about him, not even his name. Only that he held a management job in the Milwaukee suburbs.
What was weird, however, is that we had a great banter with each other. He made fun of my obsession with social media, while I could not understand why he missed his coworkers. Doesn’t he talk to them on Zoom?
A week later, we spent the entire night talking. Sitting out on our patios next to each other—more than six feet a part.
At around two a.m. that night, he said he had a space heater I could hook up to my patio. “But if I could,” he said, “I would invite you in so you would not be as cold.”
I froze.
I felt a terror I had not experienced in decades. No, I thought. I should be over this. I am over this. I don’t have nightmares anymore. Nor is it something I think about much.
Twenty-seven years ago, when I thought I was simply going into a guy’s room to study, he raped me. I never told anyone, until I told a therapist 11 years later. I was still with my toxic boyfriend for a year after it happened. It was a horrific year where I gained about 100 pounds and had no low self-esteem or self-confidence.
While my relationship with my then-boyfriend was not perfect, I am wondering if I would have handled my breakup better if I was never raped. Maybe I would have moved on or had enough confidence to find someone better. Instead, I isolated myself from everyone.
Perhaps I am not over being raped. What if I can’t be protected by social distancing anymore and someone wants to hug or hold me? Or if I decide to get in a relationship, would I need to tell them that I was raped?
“Friendly cat,” my neighbor said, gesturing to my cat and interrupting my thoughts.
Huh? When I got him from the animal shelter, he was an abused cat, afraid of everyone. He hid from me for the first two years that I had him. But there Prancer was sniffing my neighbor, trying to rub him through the screen. Prancer’s eyes were closing and opening… as if he was purring?
Did I mention Prancer is afraid of all people? When my family or a maintenance person visited me, Prancer sensed they were coming, and hid in the cabinet before they arrived. Every single time.
I always thought his instincts were amazing. Should I trust my cat on this one?
My neighbor and I talked some more, and our conversation flowed. My guard was down. We joked. We sat in silence. We took turns getting emotional.
The next day, I went out when he was in my patio doorway, waving cooking tongs and said, “Let’s grill s’mores!” Due to our COVID-19 bare cupboards, he had rock-hard marshmallows. I donated saltines to use instead of graham crackers, and found some chocolate kisses—the generic kind.
“Should we see if these have expiration dates?” I asked. Nah, he said. He worked busily on the grill while I went on Facebook.
“You are on Facebook?” he exclaimed. “But if you are on Facebook, we cannot talk.” Does that mean he likes talking too?
Two days later, the Wisconsin Supreme Court overruled the safer-at-home order and people started going out. I figured he was doing his normal activities because I had not seen him since we “roasted” marshmallows. I was craving at least one more patio talk. I kept looking for him on his patio, but he never came out.
About two weeks later, there were people outside his apartment. As I ventured toward them, a man came out—an older looking version of my neighbor.
“He died,” he said to me.
I spoke to my landlord and found out he drowned while boating. It would have happened two days after we spent the night talking together. Without knowing any searchable information about him, I couldn’t find any more information.
I did not ask his dad for details because I couldn’t stop crying. I drove around, parked my car, and just sobbed. I reached out to a Facebook friend who knew I met this neighbor—trying to get answers to why I was so upset. I mean, I only knew him for a week. All she said was, “You are heartbroken. And that is okay.” That was all I needed to hear.
I let myself cry in the weeks afterward. My thoughts were all jumbled around and made no sense. If I took out my garbage, I cried passing his door. Sometimes, I would have random thoughts of him. I cried. I planted spring flowers on my patio. I sobbed. And then, for some inexplicable reason, my thoughts seemed to make more sense: I was healing.
Because if it was not for COVID-19, I would have found an easy way to distract myself, so I would not have to think, grieve, and eventually heal. My neighbor’s death taught me the importance of grieving.
What I learned in this pandemic is that any relationship can result in loss. You get hurt. But it is important to grieve, and reach out.
Thanks to the slow-down caused by COVID-19, I reached out to a therapist again. And to a few other people whom I have known on Facebook for years. And when the pandemic ends and people are able to gather again, I will join them.
And hopefully, I’ll be ready to try another relationship.
Cathy Kozlowicz was born and raised in Wisconsin. She is a full-time newspaper reporter, and has a B.A. in Psychology and an M.A. in Organizational Management and in International Psychology. Kozlowicz has a background in working with literacy organizations and started her own literacy nonprofit – Literacy for All. She also directed a YWCA in Eugene, Oregon, where she lived for three years. She currently lives near Milwaukee, Wisconsin with her one cat, Dancer and fondly remembers Prancer, who passed in August 2020.