Recovery Update: The Scabs Are Leaving, the Scar Is Staying

Healing apparently has stages.

First, everything looks terrible.

Then it somehow looks even worse.

Then one day I look at it and realize, “Wait… that actually looks a lot better.”

That’s where I seem to be today.

👁️ The Eye: Boring Is Still Beautiful

My eye continues to look better. There’s still some redness, but compared with where this adventure started after the silicone oil removal, I'll take it.

More importantly, the visual effects are still gone.

No dot. No bubble. No floaters. No horizon. No eclipse.

I never thought I’d be this excited about seeing absolutely nothing unusual.

I'm continuing the drops and watching the eye, but boredom remains my favorite development.

💪 The Scraped Arm: Crust City Is Being Demolished

Now for the arm.

Look at the difference.

Most of that giant, nasty scab that has been starring in these updates is finally gone. What’s underneath is pink, fresh-looking skin with one stubborn darker area hanging around.

And I think we can officially call this one:

I'm going to have a scar.

Considering what this thing looked like immediately after the fall—and then during its glorious Crust City phase—a scar seems like a pretty reasonable souvenir.

I suppose I could make up an impressive story about how I got it.

Shark attack?

Bar fight in Singapore?

Saving a family from a burning building?

Nope.

I fell.

Sometimes reality just doesn't cooperate with the legend.

🩸 The Fistula Arm: Where Did the Stitch Go?

Meanwhile, the fistulagram site keeps healing, too.

The dissolvable stitch appears to be doing exactly what the name advertised. The area is still visible and there’s some discoloration, but it looks considerably less dramatic.

Still waiting on that Hello Kitty Band-Aid upgrade. 🎀

I haven't forgotten.

Three Different Parts. Same Direction.

So today's recovery report is considerably less disgusting than some of the previous editions:

Eye: less red, no dots or floaters.
Scraped arm: most of the scab is gone, new skin is showing—and yes, there will be a scar.
Fistula arm: healing nicely after fistulagram #4.

The scar on my arm will probably stick around long after I've stopped writing these daily updates.

That's okay.

Scars are just receipts proving my body paid the bill and kept going.

And this particular receipt comes with a very simple description:

Fell down. Got back up.

“Don’t You Meet Single Women at Recovery Meetings?”

As I've continued documenting The Hinge Experiment™, I've had a thought that I'm sure some people reading along have had too:

“Niel, don't you meet single women at recovery meetings?”

Well...

Yes.

There are women at recovery meetings.

Some very smart, incredibly funny, interesting, and great-looking women are at the meetings I attend.

But there's a pretty significant difference between noticing that someone is attractive and treating a recovery meeting like Hinge with folding chairs and bad coffee.

And I'm very intentional about that.

There's This Thing Called the “13th Step”

If you're unfamiliar with recovery culture, you may have heard of the 12 Steps.

There is no official Step 13.

The “13th Step” is a slang term commonly used when someone—particularly someone with more time in recovery—pursues a romantic or sexual relationship with someone who may be new or vulnerable in recovery.

That's something I have zero interest in doing.

I'm not going to a meeting looking for dates.

I'm not scanning the room thinking:

Single? Married? Divorced? Hinge? Tinder? Is it complicated?

That's not why I'm there.

People walk into recovery meetings dealing with all kinds of things. Some are having fantastic days. Others may be having one of the worst days of their lives.

The last thing I want is for a woman to wonder whether I'm being friendly because I'm genuinely welcoming her or because I'm trying to get her phone number.

I don't want to be that guy.

I Don't Even Know Who's Single

There's also one tiny problem with the theory that I should simply meet someone at a meeting:

I have absolutely no idea who is available.

I don't ask.

Someone could be married.

Dating.

Engaged.

Recently divorced.

Separated.

Happily single.

Not interested in men.

Not interested in dating.

Or perhaps interested in dating, just very specifically not interested in me.

All perfectly legitimate possibilities.

Unlike Hinge, nobody arrives at a meeting with a little sign above her head saying:

“Single. Looking for long-term relationship. Likes dogs, tacos and communication.”

And I'm certainly not walking around afterward conducting a relationship census.

“Hi, great share tonight. By the way, are you seeing anybody?”

No.

Absolutely not.

I'd like to continue being welcomed back.

But Yes, I Notice

Now, I'm also not going to pretend I've suddenly lost the ability to see.

There are women I've met through recovery who are smart, funny, attractive, interesting and genuinely enjoyable to talk to.

Of course I notice.

I'm sober.

I'm not dead.

Sometimes you meet someone and think:

Wow, she's really funny.

Or:

She's incredibly smart.

Or, yes:

She's really attractive.

And then I do something truly revolutionary:

I go to the meeting.

Because there's a time and place for everything.

Then There's One Other Minor Problem

I'm shy.

Yes.

Me.

The guy who writes about his dating life on the internet.

The guy who publicly chronicles getting ghosted.

The guy who invented an imaginary iguana named Steve as an alternative dating strategy.

Shy.

Put me behind a keyboard, and apparently I'll tell the internet everything.

Put an attractive woman six feet away from me and suddenly my brain starts buffering.

Loading...

Loading...

Still loading...

Eventually:

“Hey.”

Outstanding work, Niel.

Absolutely crushed it.

Maybe that's part of why dating apps appealed to me in the first place. There's an obvious context.

We're both on Hinge.

We matched.

Presumably, there is at least some mutual interest.

At a recovery meeting, none of that information exists.

And I don't want to make assumptions.

Could I Ever Date Someone I Met in Recovery?

Sure.

I'm not saying I have some absolute rule that I could never date anyone I've met through recovery.

Life isn't that black and white.

If two people have established recovery, get to know each other naturally, discover they're both available, and there's genuine mutual interest, that's entirely different from going to meetings hunting for dates.

Intention matters to me.

I want women to feel comfortable around me at meetings.

I want someone to be able to talk to me without wondering whether I'm interpreting basic friendliness as romantic interest.

And I especially never want someone who's vulnerable or early in recovery to feel like I'm circling.

That's a boundary I'm comfortable having.

So Back to Hinge We Go...

Which brings us back to my current dating situation.

Hinge isn't exactly setting the world on fire.

Gina has gone silent.

The new matches have dried up.

The dates remain theoretical.

But at least on Hinge, there's one thing everyone has presumably agreed upon:

We're there to meet somebody.

At recovery meetings, I'm there for recovery.

And if someday I naturally connect with someone through that community and something develops outside the rooms?

Wonderful.

Until then, I'm not turning a meeting into singles night.

Besides, my shyness would probably ruin the entire plan anyway.

And if Hinge continues at its current pace...

There's always Steve.

The iguana has no problem approaching strangers. 🦎