Right, it’s been a few months since I last wrote one of these. I’ll save filling you in on these interim months for my end of year dating unwrapped because, the way this year has gone, I’ll have nothing left to write otherwise. Instead, I’m going to tell you about how I rewatched When Harry Met Sally last night and I’m currently stuck in my feels.

My holy trinity of festive adjacent romcoms for this time of year are When Harry Met Sally, Bridget Jones Diary and While You Were Sleeping – I watch all three every year. For various reasons, I was going to put off WHMS this year – one of them being that this time last year, I was all a-tingle in my first ever ‘real’ (what felt it at the time anyway) relationship that felt like it was going somewhere. I was stupidly happy and happily stupid, oblivious to the fact I would soon be dumped via text by that man whilst I was on a flight before he then totally disappeared.

Watching WHMS usually gives me a top-up of romantic hope, a reminder of not knowing what’s round the corner and what could await. It didn’t really happen this time because it turns out it’s impossible to top-up a depleted supply.

We joke about ‘cuffing season’ and how this time of year induces the compulsion to lock-in for winter to the nearest warm body. But I can only partially blame that for how I’m feeling at the moment. Because, ultimately, I’m weary and fed up by it all and, as it currently stands, I don’t have any resources left to revitalise my hope levels on my own.

Having spent the last week in Norway on a solo adventure, of which I am beyond proud of myself for, I had a lot of time to tune-in and check-in on myself. Considering I had a therapy appointment a couple of weeks ago where the question, ‘Charlotte, are you happy?’ triggered an existential crisis and a lot of weeping accompanied by the admission of ‘No’, it was a timely yet daunting prospect.

My trip made me realise two things. 1) I’m pretty bloody awesome but 2) That almost makes it harder that I’m still yet to have a reciprocal romantic relationship. Having spent the week on my own, marvelling at all that I achieved and the person I have become, has had the bizarre repercussion of making me sad about it all. I have never been more certain at what a catch I am, how great a partner I could be and the joy I could bring to someone’s life. But why isn’t there anyone around who wants that/me?

On a walk last week I thought about all the gestures I have done for people I have dated – making personalised notebooks, a get well soon hamper, a working-notes document of their favourite things. I then added to the other scale the romantic gestures I have received in return and could only come up with ‘He asked if I wanted to pop in Tesco on the way back to his’.

I cannot convey how infuriating it is to be a self-identifying hopeless romantic who is heavy on the hopeless with none of the romance.

This is the year I have ‘tried’ the most when it comes to dating. Maybe as a consequence of last year’s shit-u-ationship, and finally getting to experience the baby steps of dating that most of my peers experienced over a decade earlier, has fuelled my want to have that again in my life. Because, before it got bad with him, it was also really bloody lovely. Having someone to text about the exciting things, to talk about the bad and sad things with, the in-jokes and recurring gags, sharing life with and to be someone’s first priority for an all-too brief flicker of time. My want for having that again echoes in my bones. In fact, on a journey from home work a few weeks ago (the same week as that therapy appointment) I thought I was going to splinter at the seams from how intimacy deprived I felt. How alone and adrift and invisible I felt.

Feel.

This year I’ve been on more dates, tried new apps and in-person dating events. I’ve alternated between trying and trusting the process. I have been more vulnerable and open than ever, but to no avail in getting closer to finding my person. And it’s so hard not to take any of the knockbacks personally, for every unmatching & disappearing act & lack of questions & sleazy comment & bad date to not feel like a reflection of me. Rejection is redirection, but only if you’re able to maintain belief that the path will finally arrive at a destination.

Instead I’m stuck in a forest full of ghosts and zombies and breadcrumbs.

I don’t need a Prince Charming to come and rescue me, I can do that myself, but I could really do with some reassurance that I’m not cursed or monstrous and that my partner in adventure is out there, looking for me too.