A Cat Got Me Ready to Date Again
Facing my fear of intimacy and commitment one animal at a time
“Have there been any other offers for Remi-cat?” I texted my sweet, freckled friend Remi—aka Glitter Daddy—aka their cat’s namesake.
Remi Sr. was still living in their disco-lit one bedroom in the Castro but making preparations for an eight month trek around Europe, a long-standing dream of theirs finally coming to fruition. Part of planning meant finding care for their gray-haired cat-daughter, Remi Jr. I’d met her a handful of times but could never seem to pin down her vibe or how to interact with her. Usually I’d come into their apartment, take a seat on the couch and avoid prolonged eye contact as she stared at me from across the room, raising her tail against the door frame, ready to bolt at any minute. We’d never had any negative interaction, but still it was hard for me to feel at rest around her, or around most cats. I didn’t grow up with animals and knew cats could be particular, discerning in their choice of company, and expressive about their sensitivities—all qualities I might hope to embody myself.
Remi-cat’s usual demeanor could be read as skeptical or unamused, her matcha-green eyes darting in various directions, scanning me and the room for potential threats. I too could inhabit a Resting Bitch Face while feeling overstimulated or quietly observing new social situations. If I put a hand out for her to sniff, she’d inch her nose towards me for a second before walking off in the other direction. She seemed uninterested in closeness until she saw it: my hair. Especially if my curls were worn down, it wouldn’t take long for Remi-cat to begin strutting my way, climbing up the arm and back of the couch to position herself behind my head. I’d sit frozen, a contained shiver flowing down my spine with the light touch of her body brushed against me. In a state of incredible vulnerability, I was now at the whim of an animal I couldn’t see. Soon I’d hear her huffing in the scent of my ringlets—like poppers for a Domestic Shorthair—before rubbing her whole face against the back of my head, purring and burrowing herself in while I shrieked and laughed, tickled by the sensation but also by her weirdness, too afraid to move or shoo her off of me. I know cats are categorically weird but I thought this cat was really weird. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to live with her.
“No other offers for Remi-cat yet. But if you can’t take her I can leave her with my parents. I’d rather find someone around here who will be open to cuddling with her though. Plus, you’re one of the only people she likes.”
“Awww, I am?” This took me by surprise. We hadn’t had much time together and I never read her as particularly interested in me, only my hair products.
I’d recently begun considering the companionship of an animal friend but thought not for another year or two. I’m too young to be a parent! Despite the fact that I’m a single, childless queer woman over the age of 35—the expected demographic for multi-cat ownership—I just didn’t feel ready. I also didn’t feel ready to have a roommate in a month, but maybe I never would.
“Let’s plan to have a test period soon to get an idea of what it’s like,” Remi-human suggested.
“Sounds good! Thanks for understanding my ambivalence and concerns. My sister told me it could take a couple weeks for her to get used to my place, so I’m glad we can give it some time before you go.”
“Of course! And really no hard feelings if it’s not a good fit. I want to make sure everyone's happy. I think it could be a fun opportunity for you, too,” they said with expected Libra compassion, keenly aware of my hangups and just how to reassure them.
“I appreciate that! Eight months feels long-term for someone with commitment issues…”
It wasn’t lost on me that the opportunity was presenting itself at the same time I’d concluded my year of dating abstinence and had begun creating a dating plan with my sponsor. No matter how thoroughly I might plan to date, no Google Doc could take the place of actually dating again—meeting new people, beginning the process of assessing for safety and compatibility, learning to honor and soothe a nervous system that would surely be activated. It already was.
With dating on the horizon, I started to share at my home S.L.A.A. meeting, tearful and shaky, about how scared I was to put myself out there, like a child afraid to go to school in the morning. What if I hate everyone I meet? What if I can’t tolerate the discomfort of getting to know someone? What if I only see the flaws? What if I get close to someone and don’t know how to set boundaries? What if I lose myself in fantasy and ruin my life again? I don’t even want a partner! I was filled with dread, my stomach in knots, over an experience that was meant to help me grow and experience more joy. The last year had brought me so much good: sobriety and step work, expanded community, repaired relationships, travel, art, and peace of fucking mind. Why would I jeopardize that?
One of the S.L.A.A characteristics states: To avoid feeling vulnerable, we may retreat from all intimate involvement, mistaking sexual and emotional anorexia for recovery.
Although periods of abstinence are invaluable, especially at the start of S.L.A.A. recovery, our recovery cannot end there—nor can we find safety forever in our relational avoidance. Once we are restored to sanity from our addiction, many of us must re-explore sexual and romantic connections not just to fulfill our needs and desires, but to practice our capacity for healthy intimacy and commitment. (Ew.) (I mean, yay.)
Fortunately I had already been expanding my network of furry friends over the last few years. On the west coast, where nearly all of my friends have pets, I’m blessed to play auntie to many: enjoying fart-filled cuddles with 19 year-old Boston Terrier, Zipper; rough-housing with Sagittarian puppy, Waffles; cat-sitting and snack patrol for Lilly’s mama’s boy, Otto; walks to the dog park with my shaggy, bright-eyed neighbor, a Samoyed-Husky beauty named Zola; anxiety-management for lap-hopping Luka; and of course, cozy sleepovers with my auburn-and-white angel-niece, Goose. Handing back poop-bags and medications to her mother the next morning, I would return to a life of autonomy with no one’s hair to vacuum but my own. Who needs affection when I have my independence?
Of course, cats are relatively self-sufficient but any responsibility can feel like a lot for someone with ADHD and a history of disorganized attachment.
My first real relationship with a cat was with Samo, my ex’s black-and-white tuxedo, who I lived with once I moved to California. She was gentle and easy to bond with, forthcoming with affection towards most people, including me. Soon, the top right corner of the bed was reserved for her, curled up every single night an inch from my head. Although she died only a few months after we started living together, she was a staple during this adjustment period—a loyal companion amidst homesickness and uncertainty.
But here was a unique situation: access to a cat who would only be with me temporarily, whose primary owner would drop anything to support her as needed and would still be around for the first few months of acclimation. If ever there was a safe time to try, it was now.
The same was true for me with dating. For the first time in my life, I would be approaching sexual and romantic intimacy with a clear but amendable roadmap. I had a process of dating checks and balances that would ensure my continued safety and support: S.L.A.A meetings. Sponsorship. Outreach calls. Connecting with my Higher Power. Remembering I am not alone in this journey, no matter what happens.
Finally, Remi Sr. came over with Remi Jr. and released her from her carrier. A stereotypical Taurus, she crept around the apartment with trepidation, taking a little time before finding her way to the new location of her food bowl, soothing her transitional anxiety with kibble and butt scratches.
“She really likes to be patted when she eats,” Remi told me, massaging her shoulders and torso as she crunched away, unnoticing her surroundings. Okay. Once again, very weird. “I’m surprised she’s already out and about! Usually she hides as soon as she gets to a new place,” they said. “I told you she likes you!”
“Ha ha… okay, that’s good,” I said, unconvinced. “And you’ll be able to stay for an hour or two?”
“Yeah, I can stay for dinner to make sure you’re both feeling settled! Next time I come I’ll show you how to clip her nails.” Fuck. I am in way over my head.
Eventually Remi-human left for the night. All was quiet between me and the cat. She watched me from the living room as I got ready for bed, tucking myself in and turning the light off, leaving the door open so she’d know she was welcome—in case she had a nightmare or something. Despite the mysterious creature roaming around my apartment, I began to drift off.
“Meoooooooowwwwwww!!!!” I heard from the hallway, followed by a rumble of footsteps. I shot up from bed to find Remi-cat dashing between the living room and kitchen and back again.
“Meooooooooowwwwww!!!!” she cried again, this time louder, like a cat yelling and gargling water all at once—into a loudspeaker. What have I done?
Of course, I knew she needed time to adjust. She crooned on and on until, eventually, she curled up on the living room couch and fell asleep for a few hours, or at least fell silent before waking me again at 5am with the same guttural cries. I knew they were the call for a primary attachment figure gone missing.
“Remiiiii. Shh. It’s okay, kitty,” I cooed while she sat in my doorway, staring back at me before howling again.
“Meooooowwwww!” We went back and forth in this conversation for 30 more minutes.
“Okay! Okay! I’m up.” I rolled out of bed and walked towards the kitchen for coffee, half-asleep as I tripped over the ball of fur now racing across my hallway.
“Meow!!!!”
“Oh my god! Sorry! That was an accident.” Ughhh. “But like, maybe don’t run in front of me?” I mumbled and rolled my eyes, heavy from lack of sleep, then turned on the sink to refill my water jug. Pounce! I jumped back, my heart pounding from the surprise of seeing a cat leap onto the kitchen counter. This was going to be a transition.
Our hectic night-morning routine continued for the next two weeks and also included moments of afternoon angst: wondering where I’d lost Remi-cat only to find she’d crawled under the couch and gotten stuck, pushing herself further under the couch with each panicked swat of her claws into the fabric.
“I don’t know if I can do this. What if she’s stuck under there forever?!” I texted Nina and Steph, my oldest sister and honorary Stephsister, respectively, both formidable Crazy Cat Ladies.
“I’m sorry, Lo! They usually get themselves out on their own. Cats just do this stuff.”
In the coming weeks, a calm washed over the apartment. With the permission of my friend, I began to call Remi-cat Romi. (They said I could call her whatever I wanted and it was getting a little weird to baby-talk my friend’s name at all hours of the night.) Even though she wouldn’t dare step into my bedroom, the late-night yowls had stopped. Instead, each night Romi would fall asleep on the chaise of my couch, curled into a fluffy gray ball. I’d brush my teeth then come in to give her a pet and tell her goodnight.
And so our peaceful cohabitation continued. Romi was often splayed on the floor or atop a couch cushion looking out the window. I remember the first day she climbed onto my chest. I was laying in my usual position, feet extended along my turquoise couch, a TV filled with Real Housewives before me. I lay still as Romi stepped her little feet onto my sternum, which felt like heaven as she nestled herself onto me.
I started to really like having her around: the way she’d stand guard when I went to the bathroom; how she sat in the corner of the bathtub waiting for me to run the water for her (only in dribbles—I live in California). I loved observing her and her weirdness, her shifty eyes, her relatable ambivalence about being touched, the way she wanted to get close and run away all at once.
One night, visiting her in the living room, stroking her back before bed, I smiled, feeling the warmth in my chest before I said: “I love you, Romi.” Maybe it was easier to share this intimacy because she didn’t understand English.
Now that I’d dropped the L word, I was ready to take things to the next level. I was ready to sleep together.
Up until now Romi had only stepped a few feet into my bedroom. Even when she would stare directly at me from the floor, she wouldn’t dare touch the bed, or even venture past the rug that surrounded it. I didn’t know if she needed my permission but I decided to give it to her. One afternoon, I picked her up and placed her on the bed.
“Meowwwwww!” she whined and hopped off immediately, scurrying into the next room.
“Oops! My bad!” I guess that’s where the line is. I accepted that we would remain separate beings sharing space at a distance—one, a middle aged cat with a chronic sinus infection, the other, a hypersensitive Millennial too afraid to start dating.
That night, I lay down to sleep and closed my eyes. A few minutes later, I heard: Thump! She was on the bed, standing over me, purring as she bent her head down to sniff me—like old times—while I lay like a rock. I wouldn’t dare ruin the moment. She searched around the bed for a minute before cozying herself up in a ball against my legs. My heart filled to the brim and then some. It took six weeks before we slept together and, as it turns out, it really does mean something when you wait.
In another six weeks, she could be found where Samo used to lay, next to me on the upper right-hand corner of the bed, an inch from my head. Romi was not the cat I would’ve imagined for myself and I’m so glad I was willing to give her a try.
Our beautifully imperfect union is fulfilling in all the ways that it’s been unexpected; Romi’s bizarre idiosyncrasies are a comfort to me now, sweet quirks I easily accept and love the way I might hope to do with future mates. At least weekly, I clean her eye boogers and she has to watch me dance to Beyoncé. I am frustrated but tolerant when she insists on poking holes in my linen bedspread. Sometimes I even take pleasure in cleaning her litter box—because she deserves a clean place to shit! And nothing is quite like reuniting after I’ve been away on a trip and the way I’m completely unsafe to walk around my apartment for the first 24 hours because this cat is incapable of detaching herself from my ankles.
So my takeaway as a pseudo cat parent and new dater: Growing a close, intimate connection maybe won’t go as I thought it would. With Romi, there was no love at first sight. No *gut* feeling. It took time to understand one another, to invite the other in. And even when we annoy each other on a regular basis, we still keep meeting back at my pillow on most nights, hearts and sleep cycles (mostly) in sync, for however long we have together.
💓💓💓
more cat content plz