Charlotte Sometimes

Oh chums. I didn’t forsee myself writing here again so soon. After my proclamations on Sunday evening, I was so sure my next piece would be about how I’d ridden the wave, had an amazing time at all the events I had booked in and was back on form. A-new and shiny once more.

HA. Sweet naive me of 72ish hours ago.

Remember how I said I was looking forward to two first dates this week? Well, one cancelled within two hours of my blogpost (unrelated to said blogpost, and it was via Breeze so we’d never messaged). Apparently he had ‘family issues’ and ‘can’t date right now’. Then, 48 hours later, a match I’d made on Saturday, and was actually a little excited about (a whiskey drinking carpenter, be still my beating heart/vagina) cancelled our date (that was 3 weeks in the future) because he’s ‘going out the country for a while’. (My mum’s response, ‘Is he a convict then?’ provided some joy).

I felt genuine, mortifying and profound rejection at these cancellations (made by men I’d never actually met or spoken to). The term ‘triggered’ can at times be overutilized and weaponised, but that’s the only way to describe how both those cancellations made me feel. My most profoundest fear, rooted at my very core like a throbbing thorn, is the fear that I am unlovable. That no-one wants me, I am doomed to die alone and will never experience reciprocated romantic love because there is evidently something repellent and undesirable about me. These two men clearly didn’t want me. No-one wants me. No-one will ever want me.

On Sunday I wrote about ‘riding the wave’, instead, merely days later, I was pulled down a whirlpool of dark and stormy waters. And, remember, I can’t actually swim.

The extremity with which I reacted to both of these cancellations made me realise that maybe I wasn’t yet as alright as I thought I was. That maybe, actually, I am very much not okay right now.

Have you seen that ‘there are actually 11 seasons’ meme doing the rounds? This one? Well, I acknowledge that maybe Sunday and the subsequent blogpost was the equivalent of Fool’s Spring. I thought that by making it to February, and having daylight past 5pm, that it was all over. Sound the alarms, war is over and depression has left the building. Whereas, actually, in reality, I am still stuck in the low of high-functioning anxiety and depression. That actually, in reality, I am struggling to feel much hope or joy right now. There are glimmers, but no sustained sparkle. I keep grasping but cannot keep hold of the shards.

So, back to the bed fort. I cancelled Speed Hating. We shall never speak again of the preliminary school visit I made today for a job I thought I wanted (let’s just say the parallels between dating and finding a new job continue, with both utilising carefully curated profiles…) I’m still planning on going to the Lock & Key event, treating it as a David Attenborough-esque social-anthropologist would – ‘It’s Saturday evening, and here, at this central London watering hole, we have 250 unpartnered people looking for love using phallic-shaped props. No, I don’t see it working either.’).

I’ve deleted the apps, for the ten thousandth time in my life. I’m on a self-imposed ban till the end of the month, or until I find the will to live again – whichever comes first. And, no applying for jobs for a couple of weeks. I need to accept I am very vulnerable right now, and that throwing myself into situations is really not the answer.

Right now, I have very little within my life that is actually within my control. And so my fixer mode was activated, like Norbot in the new Wallace & Gromit movie, I tried to put solutions in place – applying for new jobs and dates in a bid to find something to anchor me back down to Earth. Sadly, I’m pretty sure that is neither healthy or actually possible. By being so solution-focused, I think I inadvertently inflicted more harm on myself.

So, it’s time to get back into my tin can and wait it out before my Bigmouth Strikes Again.

Sometimes you listen to a song at a certain time, in a certain place, and it will become forever infused with those contextual associations. Whenever I listen to Space Oddity I’m reminded of my first solo flight, on the way to see Depeche Mode play in Zurich in 2014. It was the day after Valentine’s Day, a night I had spent sleeping on a bench inside Heathrow airport as the weather was due to be so bad that if I didn’t get to Heathrow that night then they’d be no way I’d make it in the morning. That time of my life was my first period of depression as an adult where I was really not okay.

Two weeks prior I’d called Samaritans as I felt so lost. The university mentor of my PGCE was actively encouraging me to defer for a term to recuperate, but I was determined to crawl through. Doing the course, having to show up each day, was the only thing keeping me going – it made me accountable for my own existence. I knew that if I delayed the course now, then I’d never return.

The moment I’d wake up each day and take stock of how I felt. Was it going to be a good day or a a bad day? There were no in-betweens. A good day meant I’d feel something and be able to engage with the world around me. A bad day meant emptiness, a hollow void where feeling should reside, a film barrier blocking anything from getting in or out.

On that flight to Zurich, listening to Bowie’s Greatest Hits on shuffle, Space Oddity epitomised the weightless drift I had been experiencing those past few weeks.

Unanchored and untethered, far above the world.

It’s surely no coincidence that I’ve felt another variant of those feelings the last couple of weeks. It’s the exact same time of year, 11 years on. Just like then, there are areas of my life that I don’t have any control of at all. Due to external factors and awaiting answers, I don’t know what’s on the horizon for my professional life. I want to take decisive action, but there’s not enough source material yet to make those decisions. The rules of the game are yet undefined, so I can’t yet decide the moves I want to take. I barely know what cards I have, let alone the right way to play them. Whilst every atom of my being wants certainty and a plan, it’s just not possible. I have to let it drift.

Then, when I do that, I end up feeling similarly hopeless about my personal life. I have no control over who I see on the apps and who gets shown me. And, in my current head and heart space, any attention I give that isn’t reciprocated feels like a micro rejection. Death by a thousand papercuts. Putting yourself out there means being unguarded, open to joy and shrugging off any disappointments. Right now, though, I feel Zoidberg in season 2, episode 9 of Futurama – a raw and vulnerable crustacean looking for it’s mate, without it’s protective shell to stave of danger.

At times this week I’ve been yearning for a Fairy Godmother to fly in and fix it all. Hold my hand. Make the decisions. Remind me to eat and take care of myself. Tell me that it’ll all work out and be okay. That I’ll crawl through this storm, Charlotte the Brave and Fierce and Bold, stronger and more powerful, on a new path. The right path.

For now, I just need to keep sitting in my tin can, riding out this journey, having faith that I’ll land back and be grounded in myself once more.

As day 4000 of January ends, a day of crappy grey weather and unrelenting rain, with scarcely a dash of sun, it’s inevitable that one would reflect on how shitty the world can feel sometimes. That cocktail of bile is only enhanced by the fact it’s a Sunday. Sunday evenings are the actual worst. Unquestionably awful, it’s been scientifically proven that nothing good happens on a Sunday evening. Sunday evenings are a void where all hope goes to die, soundtracked by a never-ending playlist that alternates between the theme tunes of Antiques Roadshow and Last Of The Summer Wine and Song of Praise. Just those three. On a loop. For all eternity. That’s what a Sunday in January feels like.

And so, I return to this blog because I feel totally pants and I need to vent and to not feel alone. Maybe in the process this will help you feel less alone too. Particularly if you’re physically on your own this evening. Doubly particularly if you are also single. Triple particularly if you’ve had a day like me where it feels like every step you have take to rectify the afforementioned singledom feels beyond futile.

Let’s start small. I downloaded Bumble again on Friday. I gave up on Bumble last year because of this ad campaign. I was outraged by the ad and swore under no certain terms would I ever return.

Turns out, it only took a bleak AF January to get me back on there and abandon my moral high ground.

It felt more promising than Hinge (‘the dating app designed to be deleted’ – in despair) and there was a mild thrill at a couple of intriguing matches. I sent my opening message to three men and…. received no reply. Whilst there’s an element of ‘it’s annoying that they ‘liked’ me and we matched, but they don’t want to message’ I don’t leave the blame totally on them. Bumble is infuriating because of it’s time-out feature. Once you send your opening message, the other person needs to reply in 24 hours otherwise the match expires and disappears.

In a time where we live on our phones, replying within 24 hours logically seems doable. In reality, that isn’t all that long is it? Imagine you match at 4.30pm on a Friday, naming no names (DAN!), with this really wonderful, kind, warm, generous, empathetic, tall, curvy, hilarious, witty, curvy redhead (oh, you think that describes me? Well, aren’t you nice, you ol’ flirt you!) So much can happen between then and 4.30pm on a Saturday that maybe you don’t have the chance to message. Maybe you have your notifications off because you’re a Selfhelp King who wants to protect his mental health and, in the process, inadvertently miss out on the love of your life. Dan. Maybe you’re drafting the perfect reply to the literary genius you’ve been sent, the best opening message you’ve ever had, you get distracted & life gets in the way. Bam, it’s 4.31pm and this wonder of a woman is lost to you forever.

Again, not blaming any Dan the Man here, I think this countdown feature epitomises everything that is wrong with dating apps. In theory, it’s encouraging dating with intent, of ‘you liked this person so message immediately to lock it in’. In reality, it’s another commodification of dating, of retaining your being plugged into the machine and as active as possible to secure matches. How are you meant to get excited about the profiles you see as there’s this massive hurdle in the way? You’re somehow meant to find the balance between getting mildly invested and excited in a profile with knowing that even if you do get a like which results in a match, there’s a limited window for it to be secured. It’s like trying to open a door, peaking your head through put keeping your heart outside – just in case.

Which sums up the other thing that I’m sad about. It’s been a couple of week since this date with Mr Breeze and it’s not going to work out. T text this evening to say he’s taking a break from dating as he’s realised he’s still not over his ex, but he did say he enjoyed spending time with me so he’d be keen for us to go for drinks as friends. Whilst I appreciate this happening now rather than more dates down the line, it doesn’t stop it being frustrating or disappointing. For one thing, it would have been good if he realised this before rather than after our date…

Also, whilst there’s an element of compliment that he enjoyed my company platonically, that’s also not the reason that we met on a dating app and went on a date. I went on the date for the same reason I’m on the apps, I’m looking for my life partner. Someone who enjoys my company and also wants to [insert innuendo voice and eyebrow raise] *enjoy my company* (sorry Mum!)

I know that by tomorrow these things will sting less, but right now, it’s the 34th shitty January of the year and I just want to be held and known and seen and loved. It all feels like another life lesson when I’ve been given enough of those to warrant PHD status. There’s too much plot to be stuffed into the story of my life, when really I want to be stuffed another way (I SAID I’M SORRY!)

On the back of last year’s mixed bag of a romantic life, I’m feeling a bit exasperated by it all. Why does love appear a game others win so so easily, whilst I keep training and don’t get the chance to leave the bench? Why does love fall into people’s laps, whilst I have trash fall into mine? Why does love cross others’ paths, but cross to the other side of the road for me? How can I find the will to keep going and keep trying and being open to the universe when I get handed shitty dates or people who aren’t ready to date or have matches that time out before they even have a chance to start?

I know my experiences here aren’t exclusive to me. Dating is hard. Dating in 2025 is like playing in extreme mode with a minimal survival rate. I also know that all of this is better than being with the wrong person. But please, great scriptwriter in the sky, can we add in some lightness and rom to balance it all out please?

I really don’t think I’m asking for the impossible, just a little requited romance to zhuzh things up.

That would be nice.

Please and thank you.

We are 20 days into 2025 and my 14th year of dating, and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new entry into my top five worst dates of all time. I am writing this from my bed fort, in my pyjamas, 37 minutes after the date ended. 83 minutes after it started.

A few years ago I wrote about my worst ever date. One day I will write about my 2nd worst ever date. Today, we have an immediate entry to number 3. Whilst my first Breeze date personified the best of the apps USP of not having a chat function, today’s date – my second off the app – epitomised how even the best laid plans can oft’ go awry.

Breeze lets you know the venue of your date 24 hours before it happens. Last time it was a perfectly fine bar just off Brick Lane. Today’s date, the immensely fancy bar at The Shard. Even though I am a Londoner, I’ve never been in The Shard, so this was exciting and a novelty. However, after a look over the bar menu, the fanciness of the venue was apparent and inadvertently added a new stake to proceedings. This was going to be a properly romantic venue, the date would have to live up to it right?

Oh, sweet naïve me of barely two hours ago. How wrong we would be. How hopeful we once were. And now, as soon as I finish writing this, I’ll be googling availability in the nearest nunneries and finally making of official, for once and for all.

I arrived to the entrance looking and feeling glam, I had risen to the fancy occasion and worn my current favourite outfit (fitted check dress, black heels, dragon statement necklace and baby blue swing coat). From a short distance, I spied my date. And, I hate to say it, although it may be relatable to anyone who has used the apps, my heart sank. Z had lied about his height (by *at least* five inches) and used what could only be described as immensely flattering photos on his profile.

I tried to slow my entrance, quite possibly in the hope that my actual date would appear. I ended up just behind Z in the security queue, he didn’t seem to spot me whilst I continued to hope that this was all just a weird coincidence and that this similarly-looking man had arrived to the same bar at the same time.

We ended up in the same lift. I exchanged prayers with all available higher powers that this man was not my date. Surely he would have said something by now if he was actually my date?!?

‘I think I know you?’ is what he said as we both excited the lift on the 32nd floor of The Shard.

Well, that was confirmation wasn’t it. My fears now confirmed, I admitted defeat – as well as the fact that no, I wouldn’t be able to leap from the 32nd floor and survive

Z wasn’t rude, intentionally. Maybe. Possibly. I think? He was just so awkward it was excruciating. As much as I tried to will it, to start with, at least, before my capacity was totally spent, conversation just would not flow. He presented as a man who had never spoken to women before. Half-finished sentences were mumbled incoherently, accompanied by uncomfortable levels of the eye contact. Questions were answered with minimal responses. Everything had to be deciphered as I did all the heavy lifting in carrying what could barely be called conversation. I literally was being given nothing work work with.

The most he said in one go was a monologue he delivered about what an attractive woman I was. A speech that was so earnest and laboured and unsettling that describing it as ‘ick-induing’ would be the greatest understatement in all of history – it resulted in my hiding in the toilet for as long as felt socially acceptable.

Upon my return, nothing changed. It all felt so synthetic and inorganic, requiring a surplus of emotional labour and social battery that I was unable to supply. He tried to make jokes that landed so poorly they were essentially insults.

We were in this exceptional venue with breath-taking views and wonderful ambiance, and I was reduced to asking Z about which tube line he uses to get to work. That’s how bad it got. We’d already exhausted any other topic of interest. Our incompatibility would have been a buzzkill for the ten dates in our vicinity. I’m surprised we weren’t penalised and charged for how much we’d drained the vibes.

Z asked if I had time for dinner. I politely declined, feigning how I felt unwell and should probably head home. The waiter appeared with a bill for the bottle of water we’d had alongside our pre-paid glasses of wine (something I outlined in my write-up of my last date). Z did a comedy skit about how expensive the water was (£7.50). He was so focused on said comedy skit that he was oblivious to the waiter stood right next to him with the card reader. In my desperation to leave, I lunged across the table and tapped my card. This did not cease the skit, or result in any semblance of thanks for paying.

‘Which way are you headed? Tube or underground?’, I asked – loathing the role that TFL had played in the short while we had been conversing. As soon as possible I made my leave wishing him a ‘get home safe!’ with no intent to ever see or speak to him again.

So now I’m out of pocket £7.50 for a bottle of water, a totally drained social battery and also any hope that I’ll ever find romantic love.

Last night, I cried myself to sleep. Not the dainty, maiden in a period drama, kind of cry. We’re talking about crying with your chest ugly crying, feeling so bone-tired and world weary, so unweighted by purpose that you feel like you could float away any minute kind of crying which made me so exhausted I fell asleep kind. The morning after, I felt out-of-sorts, so I did what any good and upstanding teacher would do and took a register of all the symptoms and how I was feeling. Brain fog. Low mood. Feeling hopeless. No motivation. Loss of appetite. Crippling anxiety. Feeling tearful. Running on empty.

Ah. Of course. Hello depression, my old friend*.

*mortal enemy

On the way into work, feeling overwhelmed and down about it all, I started going through my calendars of previous years and was unsurprised by what I found. This is a cycle I experience nearly every single January, usually at the mid-way point of the month. It’s no coincidence that my three very worst struggles, dark periods where I called Samaritans as I felt so upended and lost, were in January. Apparently the ‘official’ Blue Monday is Monday 20th January, but I reckon this one is just as bad – if not worse. Typically we are propelled into the New Year on a wave of optimism, the new and fresh year greeting us with seemingly endless possibilities. That naivety is quickly drowned out by returning to work and the to-do-list you had decided to leave to ‘cycle back to in the new year’, crappy weather, bank accounts draining at an exponential rate and, at best, 30 minutes of daylight a day. And that’s before we even get started on how bleak headlines are and how dire things seem across the world.

The shelves where joy and hope sit are bare whilst sadness and despair overfloweth.

It [gesturing at anything and everything] all feels so bloody futile.

The intent in writing this isn’t to corral you through this month. In my current headspace, I couldn’t even begin to formulate a motivational and inspiring message. To write anything otherwise would honestly be untruthful and insincere, feigning optimism and encouraging belief when I really don’t feel it right now. And I wouldn’t dare patronise you with self-help tips on things you can do to feel better right now because, in all honesty, if anyone did that to me right now, well, I’d probably flip a table.

All I can say to myself, and maybe you too, is that, going by past patterns, these feelings will feel less powerful and, crack by crack, some happiness will come in and things will feel easier.

This too shall pass.

Really though, I’ve written to say, this month is shit and if you’re struggling like I am, we’re in this together.

Whilst it might feel it, you are not alone.

In December I was sad³. First of all, with high functioning anxiety and depression there’s always some omnipresent sadness. Most days it’s volume will be minimal to low chatter, background noise that can be filtered out and therefore causing little disruption to proceedings. Sometimes it’s at more of a talking volume and it’s more of a battle to crack on, having to keep nasty thoughts and feelings at bay. On occasion those voices seem to acquire a megaphone, barking horrific thoughts of self-pity and loathing. Unfortunately it was the later that took up residence in December. Secondly, I was experiencing SAD. It’s something I’ve always struggled with, the scarce amount of daylight and the long day nights make me feel trapped and vulnerable. Although I am not a delicate flower, I am more like a graceful oak both figuratively and literally, I wilt in Winter. Finally, I was also sad for Reasons. Whilst I started to make some headway towards the end of the month, suffice to say – December was a bit of a write-off for me.

However, I am Charlotte [insert expletive] Harrison, I may be down but I will never be out. I just need a plan and a purpose and access to a pen and paper. And thus I started to shape up Project 52.

In 2019 I gave up writing New Year’s Resolutions in favour of The Dare List. Having decided that most resolutions were either too nebulous and impossible to quantify, or involved giving up things (the world is shit enough without me giving up any goodies), TDL was a strong alternative. A list of 20 things I wanted to do that scared me. The important thing was they weren’t 20 things that would scare everyone, some of the things might appear to be small or insignificant – like going to Madame Tussauds (I *loathe* mannequins and am utterly terrified of them) – or bigger – I wrote a poem and performed it in public – but they were things that would make me feel powerful and less frightened of the world. The challenges didn’t necessarily revolutionise my life, but they did impact it. I had my first ever manicure thanks to my friends Fati & Laura. I now get my nails done every month and love it, it’s become a huge part of my self-care routine as well as a form of self-expression.

I thought I’d take a year off in 2020 – which proved rather fortuitous… In the proceeding years, I’ve trialled other lists and challenges. In 2023 I gave up dating apps and refereed to it as #AppFree23. In 2024 I tried to say yes to more things, which resulted in taking up running and joining a choir – two hobbies I can’t imagine having in my life now.

Returning back to December 2024, when I was feeling like a sad cube, I decided I needed to embrace that energy again and do something bigger than ever. Something that blended the themes of the lists and approaches from previous years, whilst also being monumental. I needed to find joy again. And few things bring as much joy as adventures. So, why not do 52 of them?

And thus Project 52 has been born. This year I will be undertaking 52 adventures. I’m aiming for roughly one a week but this is not a firm rule. Another non-rule is the definition of the word ‘adventure’. I am throwing the dictionary out of the window in favour of personal interpretation. My life experiences, or where applicable the lack therefore of them, shall guide what adventure means or looks like. Whilst there will be some high octane ones (I’d love to do a skydive, and I’m eyeing up several zip wires and a bungee jump) there’ll be some lower key fun ones (I’ve already booked in line dancing and a music video dance class), some practical ones (I don’t know how to swim or drive, this feels a great time to give both things a try) and some personal ones (I’ve booked in a return to fencing, after 12 years away, and undoubtedly there’ll be some mishaps involving dating events because I am clearly a glutton for punishment). I’m also plotting some overseas shenanigans too.

However, while Project 52 was initially founded because I wanted to make myself feel better, I don’t want it to a be a solo journey. I’d love for this scheme to involve other people to. My dream is for people to message things they’ve always wanted to try and we do it together. I’ve been empowered by my various Dare Lists, they’ve unintentionally made me feel bigger & bolder & braver – I’d love to help as many other people as possible experience that too. So please do message with ideas of classes or experiences, things you’ve always wanted to see and do, and we’ll get plotting.

‘Life is short and the world is wide. I want to make some memories.’ – Donna Sheridan, Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again.