The following is an excerpt from Heartbake by Charlotte Ree, a part memoir, part recipe book, and part joyous battle cry for those who find themselves lonely at any age, hungry for so much more from life.
Content warning: This post includes discussion of suicide attempts that may be distressing to some readers.
He was thirty-two, a social worker who specialised in mental health management—at least that was what he told me— and I remember gushing to a friend about how mature and articulate he seemed. We met in Newtown and walked to my favourite local haunt, Bloodwood. He was a bit reserved, but charming, wearing black jeans with an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a tee.
While I was so enjoying the depth and detail of our meandering conversation, I realised quite quickly that I hadn’t finished two sips of my wine before he was already ordering another one. Nerves, I thought.
Two hours in, and his drinking hadn’t slowed. I can’t explain why—an instinct maybe—but I suddenly decided I should head home, alone. I didn’t want to get drunk, and I certainly didn’t want to sleep with him, so I wrapped things up, saying that I would like to see him again but that I had made plans to meet a friend for dinner.
Watch: Charlotte Ree on Mamamia's No Filter podcast. Post continues after video.
As I left and began the short walk home along King Street, I received a text from him saying; I love you. And then another. And another.
Rattled, I flagged down a taxi and climbed in—shaking, sweating, nauseous. I hurriedly explained the situation to the driver and asked him to drive me home the long way, to prevent any possibility that the Fright might follow.
Once home, I turned on every light, shut every curtain.
I checked the doors were locked. Then I checked again.
What followed was a sleepless night filled with a flurry of text messages and a barrage of calls from the Fright. A night of harassment. Of anger and abuse. Of suicide threats.
I can’t f*cking believe this has happened. I wish I was dead.
Please don’t give up on me.
I really thought I had found something.
You were meant to bring balance to the force, not destroy it!
I’ll f*cking kill myself.
With shaking hands I messaged back:
Please call your family or friends. They’re there to support you and you’re not alone.
I didn’t know what to do, who to ask for help or what to say. I suppose now, many may wonder why I had not simply blocked him and upon reflection, I have wondered this myself. But I knew he was not okay; I knew what was happening was not right and having grown up in an environment with someone with mental health challenges it is now impossible for me not to be empathetic. It is impossible for me not to want to help when I see someone struggling, whether I know them or not. So I sent him the number for Lifeline and told him there were people he could talk to, people other than me.
But the texts kept coming, thick and fast. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was too afraid to shower. I couldn’t watch TV or turn on music. I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t eat. I set up camp in the front room where I could listen for the gate and I saved my neighbours’ numbers, triple zero and Newtown police to the favourites list in my iPhone. I drafted SOS text messages in the notes app so that I could quickly copy and paste them if I needed them. I immediately went on Bumble and not only blocked but reported him.
His texts were relentless.
I hate you.
I’m going to jump off a bridge.
I f*cking fell for you and now what the f*ck.
By 2 am, I couldn’t take it anymore. Every new message alert had me verging on the brink of full-blown hysteria. I wrote:
Please leave me alone.
He responded immediately.
No.
At 4.55 am he sent me a link to a YouTube video of Jackie Wilson’s To Be Loved. At 9.29 am he sent another flurry of messages, beginning with an apology.
Thanks so much for looking out for me. It was so great to meet you. I wish you all the best. Truly.
You’re amazing and I want the best for you.
I just wanted so much to be good that I was so bad. I ruined it. I get it. I’d love you forever.
I’d give anything that I was something. I. Get. It.
I f*cking tried.
Wow.
I didn’t respond to any of them.
There was a pause of some hours and then, at 2.38 pm, the messages began again.
Don’t go. Please. I’m in hospital.
I can’t believe this. As soon as I get discharged I’m killing myself. Nice to know you.
I’m a nice man who deserves a nice woman and as long as I don’t touch drugs or alcohol I’m fine. I don’t want to lose you.
You don’t like the drunk version of me—neither do I—and you never need meet him again. But the healthy part of me can give you so, so much more. I really like you, Charlotte.
He seemed calmer now, more rational, so I stupidly engaged:
I really need to look after myself at the moment and that means wishing you all the best, and going our separate ways.
He wrote back:
I understand. There’s no justifying my actions. Nothing was ever said to you that was mean when I was sober. I’m not toxic. I’m not co-dependent. I have goals. I know who and what I want to be. I like who I am. And I like you. And I want to look out for you, look after you, and make you happy. All I need is another chance.
Feeling I’d made myself clear, I didn’t acknowledge this, and so the hounding began again.
I’m sorry.
I promise that I would never drink around you again.
I wish I could just explain what happens to me when I drink too much.
Please just don’t give up.
I see this is pointless. I know what I did was scary and unattractive. It’s literally just what happens when I get too wasted. I was nervous. I didn’t know how to act.
I liked you and it frightened me. And I could tell that you liked me too. I just need a chance to make things okay.
I have so much to give. I won’t message you again. I’m sorry this happened. All I know is how much I would love to make it up to you.
I wrote:
I found your actions and following messages incredibly troubling and upsetting. I really think it’s best for you to look after yourself. This year has been incredibly challenging for me and I left a toxic long-term relationship only to experience more toxicity since.
I can’t put myself in that position again. I hope you understand. Goodbye and take care.
There were no more messages after this, and that night I slept deeply. The next morning, I woke up at 7 am to another message—not from the Fright this time, but from a woman who identified herself as his sister.
Hi Charlotte, it’s Natalie. I’m not sure how close you guys were but I feel it’s right to tell you that he died from an overdose last night. I’m sorry if you two were close. Call me if you need to talk as I have his phone and I’m messaging his friends.
I couldn’t stop shaking. I was horrified. I was traumatised. But then it dawned on me. If his sister was going through the Fright’s messages, she would have seen her brother had sent me a barrage of abuse. Who could possibly interpret that as close? It wasn’t his sister at all, I suspected; the Fright himself had sent the message. This was just a game to him, and I was the pawn. He was attention-seeking in the most manipulative way. I knew I needed a strategy. I had to break the third wall. I found his Facebook profile, and from this I found his mother’s and sister’s profiles. It was a risk, but I sent a message to his sister, with a screenshot of the last text message. I expressed my condolences and explained that he and I were not close, that I had only met him once and I wished her well. My friend Chris came over for a dinner that tasted only of the effort it took to make. He could see the bags under my eyes, that I was unsteady on my feet. I explained what had happened. He decided to call the Fright on a blocked number to see who answered.
After three rings, we heard his voice on the other end of the line: "Hello?"
Clearly, he was very much alive. I deleted the message I’d sent to his sister, for fear that it would only make the harassment begin again. I messaged his profile picture to my girlfriends who were on the dating apps, telling them to watch out and to report him if they heard from him. Bumble finally responded to my report to say they had deleted his profile. It didn’t stop him from creating another and another.
Two days later he sent me a link on YouTube to Black Sabbath’s Changes.
My anxiety was through the roof. I became afraid to leave the house. Fearful that, as we’d met at a bar only a ten-minute walk away, he was going to be somewhere close by. Watching out for me. Waiting.
Listen to No Filter where Charlotte Ree shares more of her story. Post continues below.
Rob picked me up and, in an attempt to lift me out of my spiralling anxiety, took me on the ferry to Cremorne. We spent the afternoon swimming at Maccallum Pool. Rob had brought sandwiches made with slices of thickly buttered fresh white bread and beautifully glazed ham carved from the bone, but I couldn’t eat. We decided to walk to Mosman Bay wharf and take the ferry home from there. As we were walking, I received another text from the Fright.
Please just love me.
I broke down. And I did what has always been the hardest thing for me to do—I asked for help.
Rob took my hand and led me to the back deck of Mosman Rowers. He fetched me a glass of water and then, together, we composed a message.
You MUST understand that, drunk or sober, your words carry an immense amount of weight. Pretending to have committed suicide is a horrific thing for anyone to do, let alone someone who claims to work in mental health. I find your actions abhorrent, unacceptable and absolutely terrifying.
I won’t indulge this behaviour any longer. I do not know you. I do not owe you anything.
I do not want to hear from or see you again.
He responded immediately.
This is the saddest text I have ever received in my life.
Rob and I waited for the ferry back to Circular Quay, trying to figure out my next step. I could call the police, but I didn’t know where he lived. I didn’t have more than his name, phone number and one picture. There was his Facebook profile, of course, but it offered very little additional information. Because I had blocked and reported him on Bumble, I could no longer view his profile to source more photographs. We realised that, until now, the Fright and I had been alone in this twisted mindf*ck. Perhaps the intervention of a third party, a male, would compel him to stop. So Rob sent him a message directly, from his own phone.
Charlotte’s friend here. She’s brought me completely up to date with your harassment. I know she has asked repeatedly for you to stop contacting her. Please stop, or we’ll have to consider further measures.
The Fright’s response was swift:
The Fright: Cool, man—by which I mean I’ll stop. Please just let her know how sorry I am. I just don’t know why I do this sh*t.
Rob: I highly recommend you seek help, because you can’t expect strangers to carry you. Not Charlotte, not me.
The Fright: F*ck you, dipsh*t. I don’t expect anyone to carry me. Me and Charlotte had a wonderful time together.
Rob: I’m in no place to deal with this, and more than happy to report your behaviour to the police. It’s unacceptable. And don’t even think about contacting Charlotte—your actions have caused so much damage to one of the closest people in my life.
The Fright: All right. I’ll stop. And I deleted Charlotte’s number. No police, yeah?
Rob: I know it is hard from the privileged position us men have in society, but this kind of behaviour— pursuing contact when someone explicitly asked you to stop contacting them—is called stalking. And I assume from your studies in mental health and counselling, you would know the fear and anxiety this instils in women, when one woman dies every week in Australia at the hands of a man.
Time passed, and then I had one final message.
Not a day has gone by since acting so poorly that your voice has not entered my head at some point saying, ‘I find your actions abhorrent.’ I self-sabotage the good things I have in my life, because my self-worth is so low, that I feel I don’t deserve anything, as well as the feeling that I am going to inevitably mess things up anyway. And threatening suicide when I’m in that state is something that seems within the realm of being reasonable. I couldn’t be more self-loathing about acting that way. This isn’t a justification—for I know that there isn’t one, which makes it all the more frustrating. Accepting accountability for my actions and realising that self-will has consequences, is something I struggle with greatly. You’re a wonderful person. I’m glad you got to see the real me for the few honest hours that I was just me. Goodbye, Charlotte.
Charlotte Ree’s Heartbake: A bittersweet memoir (Allen & Unwin) is out now.
If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.
Feature Image: Instagram @charlotteree.