The last entry here is just the tip of the iceberg. I meant to write more, but couldn't. I have all the emails and text messages to publish but can't bring myself to do it. And I don't think I'd ever felt this lost and grey, and confused and scared as I am now.

I finally got some sleep last night, but woke up crying. I dreamt about Mil, and we were in Thailand, in a big beach house somewhere with lots of people I did and didn't know. In the dream, none of the stuff had happened, but he had said to me 'I think we'll call it a day,' and I was distraught. I tried to find him amongst the people, to tell him that was the last thing I wanted, but I couldn't find him. And then I woke up in tears, both wanting him to comfort me and wanting him to be completely bleached of the touch of anyone else.

It's now the sixth day, and the tears won't stop. And after a lot of thinking, it seems every single path I choose from now on will hurt a lot.There's lots of loose ends that need tying up, and the sooner they're boxed off, the better.

I've been to the GUM clinic to have a full-on test, and I recieve the results in two weeks' time. Mil still has to speak to Rachel, and I still have to get all of my stuff out of the former house. Then the recovery can begin to take place.

Despite the fact I love him more than anyone in my life, and after finding out what he has done I am destroyed beyond belief, I have a schizophrenic thought process at the moment and every path seems to lead to more hurt and torment.

I recognise he has a problem, and so does he. We talked about it, and he said he'd get help. In the same conversation, I told him to burn the couch and the bed and anything else they'd fucked on. This was no longer my home, but a place where I'd lived and he'd fucked a listener.

And this is where the schizophrenia kicks in- IF and only if, I decided to give him another chance, which is technically his third, we would have to leave months between us for me to remember who I am as a single person and for time to elapse for me to percieve him as being mine again and not tainted by someone else. I don't want to spend every minute looking over my shoulder and thinking he's gonna do it again, and I want him to get help before I even consider another go.

I don't want to live in the house like that, and as far as I'm concerned the furniture can be burnt or sold. The house can be decorated or sold. Once I've got ever last morsel of my life out of there and in stroage at my mothers, I don't want to go in it again. Also, if I went back, I would have to justify myself to everyone- friends, family, work colleagues....and that's also a lot more humiliation to deal with.

On the other side of the schizophrenic coin, I could choose to send him for the help- sex addict counselling or whatever, and leave. I could be free to enjoy the world with only my job as a responsibility and my friends and family would still respect me for walking away. There might be another boyfriend lined up for me, who isn't a cheat or a sex addict, who likes flying on planes and seeing in the world.

But then I might miss out on this love I have now, that's so strong with someone so stupid and unappreciative- but my his admission, because he doesn't know how or what to do in a relationship as no-one's put up with him for that long.

In all of this, I've tried to make the best out of a bad situation and look for solutions instead of getting angry at all the negatives, and I have the power, experience and determination to help him. But should I bother? I wish I was n't one of those epople who insists on helping everybody. I should be a more selfish twat. Like Mil.

I have to get up now to go to work. First day on the radio since Tuesday morning. Kill me.

Today is Saturday morning. This time last week, I was reasonably happy. On Tuesday, I went and saw Benjy the personal trainer and did a session with him before walking into town and back home. My plan was to go and get some lunch and get changed, and return to the radio station to do some more work. I cooked some  pasta, and as I ate it, decided to update this blog, as it has been around five weeks since I did it last and so much has happened since then- starting the new job, working closely with Mil, and all that kind of thing. Basically, I wanted to write about the fact that I was overcoming the challenges and things were getting easier. A lot of happy things had happened- the listeners are finally accepting me onto the breakfast show, Grandpa is very healthy, I'd been organising a family party for Mil's upcoming birthday, and I finally had a spare half hour to get these nice things written down.

The problem was, I couldn't remember the password to my blog- so I searched Keylogger. And that was when I saw a line of text that read 'Mmmmmm...missing you too Sexy. I've been thinking about you a lot'. I sat for a moment and tried to recall when Mil had sent me that message. Then I looked at the date of it. We were in Scotland.

I then looked up all of Mil's passwords for his Facebook and Yahoo accounts, and changed them so I could access both and he couldn't stop me. I saw some horrible things, logged out, hyperventilated for an hour or so, and then started making frantic phonecalls. Firstly, I rang Stanley, to cover my show the next day, then I rang Boris and Doris to get a room for the night. And then I rang Mil, and told him I was leaving.

I packed a lot of stuff into binliners, and Mil returned home. At that point, from the few messages I'd seen in his accounts- he's been cybering lots of different girls and that was enough for me to leave- especially after I'd dumped him for doing the MySpace thing a couple of years ago.

He said relatively nothing, and I packed. Took some overnight stuff and went away. His mother called me, and we talked a little but I was too distraught to be making much sense. I'd had to walk to the station to prepare the show for Stanley the next day- as it's just over a month old and I'm the only one that knows how to operate it- and bawling my eyes out, I went to work.

When I got back that evening, I sat down with my computer and began to go through the messages, one by one. The first one I found at 1.30am on Wednesday morning read along the lines of she missed him and couldn't wait to see him again.

Again?

There's been a first time?!

I rung Mil, before tunring up at the house, confronting him and stealing his iphone. I rang her, who was actually a listener to the station who knew all about me and told her I knew. Then I asked if he'd worn a condom. She replied in the negative.

I stormed back to Mil's house and went ballistic. He lay in bed holding his head in his hands. I asked him why. He said it was because he didn't find me attractive any more.

I pinned him down by his chest and shoulders and punched, kicked and slapped him until I was tired. Then I left.

The following morning, his mother texted me:

'Hi my Darling Girl. Before you do or say anything please read Mil's text to me. Be Safe. Love You Both. J xxxx'

She forwarded me the text:

'I can't mum. I've ruined everything. She doesn't want me. And I can't blame her.'

 

....despite the car breaking a little on the way- it still moves, but makes clanking sounds when you turn right in it for some reason- we're now installed in a little cottage in the middle of nowhere in Scotland. Well, I say nowhere, we're on the edge of a village but the gardens and houses are so big around here, seeing the neighbours about is something of a rarity.

Last night I passed out in bed. It's been a busy few days and I've got a lot of stuff dancing about in my head. Joining where I left off before, on the same day Bossman told me about the new job, I went home that evening and whilst Mil was busy both reeling and sulking, I went to Neurotic Mother's to fill her in on the career change.

I rather mistakenly thought that I'd get to tell her this in private, but the hippy woman from up the road, Karen, turned up moments after I did. So I told Neurotic Mother, and Karen, and we sat and had coffee in the back room. Karen had come around to tell Neurotic Mother all about her new job that she'd gone for, which is all very well and good, but I swear to God that woman must have some kind of homing device on her cranium which makes her come around and the most inopportune times. This wasn't the first time I'd been to Mum's to talk to her before Karen had appeared, and I guessed it wouldn't be the last.

So Karen's update was good news (for her), my bit was good news (for the boys) and bad news (for my confidence) but Neurotic Mother's daily roundup of news and gossip was as always, more impressive in degrees of irony and tragedy than anyone else's.

Turns out that Neurotic Mother, Tommy and Daisheeki had attended a meeting of social workers and other such child welfare bodies this week. Tommy, my stupid step-brother, has a daughter with a woman called Cokehead. They originally had a kid back in the late nineties because at the time they were both involved in credit card fraud and were looking at lengthy prison sentences.

Now Cokehead is Jewish, and so her family are very rich. And pyschopathic. And she's an absolute nutter. Anyway, they ended up have a daughter they named Moschino (I know, you couldn't make this stuff up, could you?). Years later, and the couple break up, with Cokehead sticking to her namesake and Tommy dissapearing to sell weed and do drug running for a bunch of gangsters. The break-up was lengthy, vicious and painful, and Moschino ended up being used as a bargaining tool in a custody battle that lasted several years.

After a long time of visiting various McDonald's, Little Chefs and other various service stations to see Moschino in the form of a supervised visit every Sunday, Tommy got joint custody, and gets to go and stay the weekend with Tommy and Daisheeki regularly.

So Moschino is now eleven, and it was discovered in the last few months that Cokehead has a new boyfriend. I don't know his name but we'll call him Paedo, as by all accounts he has a history of convictions for sex offences against children. Turns out that Cokehead has been letting him stay over, and trying to hide him from Moschino.

One particular ocassion involved him hiding in the wardrobe, and when Moschino opened the doors and saw him there, she pannicked and ran and told her mother who in turn told her she must have seen a ghost! So now the poor kids is really confused, and tells as many people as she can, who get the social services notified and the meeting was called.

Neurotic Mother, Daisheeki and Tommy are all present, including Cokehead and her elderly Grandma, Gigi (84- and slowly loosing her marbles), as well as a bunch of social workers. Cokehead is told that she has to end the relationship with Paedo immediatly or Moschino will be taken away.

Gigi is too old to care for Moschino, and Cokehead has been labelled unfit, but that's not yet on a permanent basis- they're still letting her skate on thin ice. Daisheeki probably could take on Moschino, but she's currently claiming sick benefits for arthiritis in her hands and already looks after her own two kids. Tommy is thinking he'll get permanent, full time custody of Moschino, but to do so, he must pass a drugs trst. He thinks it's as simple as shaving all of his hair off to hide the fact that he's still munching speed and smoking dope 24-7, 365.

So that leave Neurotic Mother- the only one that's not too old, not on drugs and not sick. She will know in January whether she gets to legally inherit her fourth Grandchild. She's just saved and had an extension built on the house for Albert and Maudikye to have a room of their own, I'm guessing and extension on an extension could be an option. Christ, she's going to have a house that'll look like it should be in a Dr. Suess book....

In other news, me & Georgie went to see Grandpa on Thursday. He's back in hospital with pneumonia and is in a bad way. In fact, the reason I'm up so early blogging is because I woke sobbing after having a nightmare about Grandpa.

I found out he was in the hospital on Thursday, after I run the care home to speak to him. The nurse said he'd been in for nearly a week, and was surprised that my father hadn't told me. She told me the hospital and ward number and I rang the doctor directly. They told me Granpda was okay, they were going to be running ECGs and suchlike on him over the next few days, and when I visit, please could I bring him some supplies? Apparently, once again, the care home hadn't bothered with an overnight bag for him and he had nothing but a pair of slippers to his name. I made a mental note of a shopping list in my head.

Then I rang Emotionless Father.
'Grandpa's in hospital,'
'I know,' He replied.
'But you didn't tell me! You have to tell me because I'm not his next of kin.'
'Well, he's okay,'
'No he's not. He has no supplies on him- pyjamas, a dressing gown, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and flannel- he's nothing! The nurse asked me to bring some for him,'
'Well she didn't look very hard. All of his stuff is in his cupboard next to his bed. Don't buy anything, he's fine.'
There was a little more conversation about the breakfast job, and then I bid him farewell.

Georgie picked me up from the office on Friday afternoon. It was my last shift and I welled up a bit when I walked down the corridor for the last time. I told Sam I would be back when I'm home from Scotland, as I'm still trying to blag him to let me do some part time work from home, but he says I'll be too busy with my new job to do that. He'll be surprised...

Anyway, me and Georgie drove to the hospital, stopping off at Sainsburys on the way. I bought Grandpa a book, a photography magazine, some chocolate and a couple of newspapers. As I walked through the men's department, I looked at the stuff and wondered if I should trust my dad's judgement.

I did.

It didn't pay off. We arrived at the hospital to find that Grandpa had nothing and was clothed by the nurses layingering him with surgical gowns. Apparently the clothes he had on when he arrived had dissapeared off the the hopsital laundry as they were wet and as they were regular day clothes, he couldn't wear them when they eventually returned. The nurses had provided him with a toothbrush and toothpaste and some standard issue NHS soap.

He was overjoyed to see us but I could tell straightaway that something wasn't right. In the other hospitals I've visited him in, he's been happier, but here, he was stressed out and didn't understand really why he was there.

He talked to Georgie whilst I had a quick natter with the nurse and apologised for the lack of supplies, and promised to get him some stuff there over the weekend. He was due a chest X-ray on Saturday morning, and they'd be keeping him until Monday afternoon.

Returning to Grandpa, I explained what was going on, about his X-ray and his ECG (bless him- he didn't know what one was...it seems all that time I've been watching Casualty with Mil is finally paying off), and gave him the stuff I'd brought.

Grandpa munched down the chocolate straight away, so I'm guessing he's not eating the hospital food, and as I was talking to him, I noticed how much the stress of being there is affecting him. A typical example was me telling him I would be ringing the nurse on Saturday morning for an update of his health.

'Don't ring me here, I won't be here,' said Grandpa through mouthfuls of Galaxy Caramel. 'I'll be back in Childwall. Ring me on 228 7544.'

Me and Georgie looked at each other. He hasn't lived in Childwall since 1942 and I know there isn't a hospital there, so I guessed he was referring to his old home. And the phone number was the number he had when he lived with Grandma in a total different area ten years later. It seems that where his short term memory is desperately failing, his long term is trying to fill in the gaps for him.

I also asked if Dad had been to see him in the hospital. The response was:
'I don't know why he didn't come in and say hello. We were all downstairs waiting for him and he just came in the door then went straight to his room. They're all upstairs now.'

I wish I could take away the confusion factor and the pain for him, or donate a little of my youth. If we could do youth transfusions, I'd be first in the queue to give him less uncomfort and the ability to walk again.

Anyway, it's now just after 10am on Sunday morning. I've already been out and had a walk on the beach, but now I could do with getting changed and going out for a run. I can always squeeze in an afternoon nap later.

Because that's the word I need right now.

So third day of sickness, still with a banging head but that soon eased after Boris & Doris donated some co-drydamol (sp?) on my way to work to go and show fifteen boys inbetwixt the ages of 6 and 9 around the studios.

I put the kettle on, and Bossman summoned me to his office, I presumed, to give me a run down of what I was doing with the kids, who the contact was, and all that kind of thing. Oh how wrong I was.

'Close the door,'

'Oh, it's one of those kinds of meetings, huh?' I sat with my mega cup of coffee awaiting the bad news. I knew it was going to be about the PC/Presenting job that we'd all applied for. I was expecting, at best, the midmorning presenters' position, and at worst, nothing at all.

'What would you say if I offered you breakfast?'

I snorted tea through my nose. 'Sorry? What? Isn't that a job best suited to Alan or one of the boys? I've never even covered breakfast before,'

'Well I'm offering it to you,'

Christ. Bossman went on to say that despite Mil being the most suited to breakfast, he never really liked him on that shift- too many boob jokes, slagging off chavs and being generally unruly, and for that reason he was taking him off, and replacing him with me, who by all accounts, is more 'family-friendly.'

There was more discussion about wages, and the ins-and-outs of such a radical station reshuffle, and then he made me promise to only discuss this with himself and Mil. Then he released me into the office to await my studio tour. Mil sat opposite me on his desk, and I kinda sensed something was up.

An hour later, the tour has been completed, the kids have been sent home and me and Mil lock up the building. Mil is not happy at all. He has been offered the PC job, but will obviously be coming off breakfast where I'll be filling that slot. He then has the choice of moving Alan onto the show I wanted, and having Alan's drive time slot, or the other way around.

Next to that, Mil is getting a very small wage for all of this responsibility and the bit that bites the most- he's not overjoyed about us working together. He's bothered about me not listening to him, as I haven't previously, and the fact that it could all get too much for us both.

So now it's late, my head is jangled, I've got four hours of cold calling to do for Sam at the office tomorrow, and my head is utterly jangled.

I'll talk more tomorrow once I've got all this sorted into some kind of digestable order.

...yet after last night's revelation, feeling a whole lot better!

After not getting up this morning, half due to my head still pounding and also because it seems I woke up, but was still asleep and managed to turn off my mobile alarm, cunningly hiding it in the quilt before going back to sleep.

Text sent last night:

Bossman: Hi Chick, not sure if you fancy it but I've got some Cubs round tomorrow evening. I know you needed the cash so if you do a studio tour with them you can invoice a show fee? Let me know and I'll confirm times. Ta.

I agreed, and for that have cancelled Running Club. I figured I'm up to talking to uninterested kids for half an hour about the station and it'd would be less physically demanding than running around the reservoir for an hour. And I'll have a little more green stuff next month, which is, as always, desperately required.

Doing all this work on my blog recently made me consider an overhaul. For a brief time The Living Soap Opera was called The Surgery or something similar, as I'd got a strong fanbase of people who were convinced I was some kind of level-headed soul that could dish out reasonable good advice.

Yesterday, as I was editing, I realised my username was still Doctor Esme, and thought it didn't make sense anymore. Well this morning, I realised it did, as it seems although an online surgery now no longer exists, my clinic in the physical world is alive and well.

Stanley: Esme dude can you keep this to yourself please. Only you as it's not good. You know that lad well there is more to it but I don't know what. On Friday she was messaging him and he said there was no chance anything would happen but I know he is playing the game.  Elizabeth has said to a mate she feels bad as dating me is going ok but if he asks her out she would go out with him. We are on a date tonight. She talks to louds of lads and they all ask her out. What do I do? Is it game over?

This whole thing with Stanley and Elizabeth has been going on since May now. They split up, he was heart broken, but she's high maintenance and a control freak. They both moved back to their parents' houses and although she claims they're both single, they text each other around thirty times a day and check each others' Facebook accounts.

He recently went on holiday to Turkey to see his brother, and left his mobile at home on my advice. It took her twelve hours to realise he didn't have it and he was sent over 60 emails in that week. She likes to keep really strict tabs on him, but she's also slept with one of her work colleagues, which she confessed to. Stanley is lovesick, and it's tearing him apart. Only last weekend he ditched a night of drinking with me and Mil to drive to Newcastle (estimated at 6 hours of a journey) as she was in The Great North Run and wanted him there, but said 'just because you turn up doesn't mean we're going back out together. But we'll still be sharing the same bed.'

Confused? Me too.

Esme: Dude, yes that's game over! You're not in this to share her!! C'mon man, wtf?! You need to have this out with her.

Stanley: She will know I use her Facebook. What do I do? Will she not come back now?

Esme: No dude, I'm sorry, but you've been used. Be honest about her facebook and then get the hell outta there!

Now you know, that logically, if you were in that position, you'd leave. Call it quits, get your stuff and go. But I know he won't. That poor boy will be following her for months, perhaps years yet.

I've told him so many times to get out of there, and that he's only being used as a lap dog, but he can't hear me. Got hearts in his eyes that one. I'll just wait for him to come to the realisation himself.

Apparently means 'I've got it!' and I have.

So I've been sat here all day, feeling like schizzle. For the second day now I've had a pounding headache, like I've been drinking (you know those hangovers that hurt when you even move your eyeballs?), I've slept for twelve hours straight and have had the usual hormonally charged hormone rushes.

We were watching TV, or rather Mil was as I was thinking to myself. I was sick to death of feeling increasingly bad every month, something I always blamed on PMT to others whilst excusing my weird behaviour.

So, I turned to the internet with the aim of finding an answer to my problem. After maybe half an hours' worth of searching, I found this:

PMDD is premenstrual syndrome (PMS) that is so severe it can be debilitating due to either physical, mental or emotional symptoms. Treatment is recommended because PMDD interferes with the sufferer's ability to function in her social or occupational life. The cardinal symptom—surfacing between ovulation and menstruation, and disappearing within a few days after the onset of the bleeding—is irritability (PMID 11571794). Anxiety, anger, and depression may also occur. The main symptoms, which can be disabling, include^[3]

• feelings of deep sadness or despair, possible suicide ideation
• feelings of tension or anxiety
• panic attacks
• diarrhea
• mood swings, crying,
• lasting irritability or anger, increased interpersonal conflicts. Typically sufferers are unaware of the impact they have on those close to them
• apathy or disinterest in daily activities and relationships
• yeast infections
• difficulty concentrating
• fatigue
• food cravings or binge eating
• insomnia or hypersomnia
• feeling "out of control",
• increase or decrease in sex drive.
• increased need for emotional closeness,
• physical symptoms: bloating, heart palpitations, breast tenderness, headaches, joint or muscle pain, swollen face

Five or more of these symptoms may indicate PMDD. Symptoms occur during the 2 weeks before the menstrual cycle and disappear within a few days after the onset of the bleeding.

You can read the full page by clicking here. I'm the proud sufferer of thirteen of the above symptoms! And every single one I can confirm occured because I've written about them in here. Thank the world for blogging! Now, all I've gotta do is cure this damned thing. Jesus.

So I read some more. Seems the only way to permanently get rid of this is by;

• A variety of prescription drugs- which I'm not gonna sign up for;
• Having my fallopian tubes removed (not a chance, knowing my luck I'd lose my boobs and grow a beard);
• Or eating lots of bananas and spinach, packed full of vitamin B6 which alleviates symptoms.
  

Or I could await my menopause with fevered anticipation. Well I like spinach, so that's good, but I'm not a big fan of bananas. Looks like I'll have to work on that.

I am happy that I may have found the root of the problem, and a cure for it, but am a little cheesed off as all of today's sleeping has ensured that I'm am truly awake now, and it's half three Wednesday morning (well, either that or it's Symptom #11- 'insomnia or hypersomnia').

Mil is fast asleep and I could lie there for another hour watching the clock go round, or I could try and sleep down here.
At least I know what the problem is now. Back of the net.

...Well, it's not really illness so much as exhaustion, and after about twelve hours' sleep I feel so much more human today. I texted in work this morning before going back to bed and sleeping more than I felt possible- in fact until half two this afternoon to be precise, which I guess I really needed.

Mil came home mid afternoon and shuffled off to bed and I stayed online, fiddling about and generally wasting my time. I actually started working on one of my little online projects, which often involve nothing more than catching up with ever evolving technology, and I decided to edit my blog. Now in case you didn't know, this blog is duplicated across a total of three sites- Blogger, MySpace and Bravenet.

It sounds really geeky, but I have an emotional attachment to each one; The Living Soap Opera began life on Bravenet, and then lived on Blogger for a while before it was moved onto MySpace before my identity was discovered and I had to take everything down.

So I've spent the last few hours editing new templates, which is really enjoyable in a geeky, anally retentive way, and reading some of the other blogs that are about on the internet these days. When the Soap Opera began, roughly ten years ago now, lots of people were blogging, whereas now there seems to be fewer demographic groups of individuals and more companies writing journals about changing consumer trends, which is a shame.

I also found my old Photo Bucket account too, which I hadn't logged into for ages, and that sent me into a moment or two of quiet contemplation. It seems I'd been diligent enough to sort my photos into albums, and I had a good look through to remember what life had been like all of those years ago.

There were pictures of my old internet friends- people I had never met in person but their blogs and profiles I'd pore over each day during chats with them. There were friends I knew in real life, people who had lived with me and shared life's ups and downs before they decided they didn't want me in their lives anymore, and graphics from my old eclectic witchcraft and occult site that I had spent hours working on before which now never saw the light of day.

Enough of the poignant contemplation though, there's a reason people do that- slip out of your life. Sometimes with a bang, other times without you even noticing- it's simply that the Universe has deicded that you don't need them anymore. You've learnt all you can from those people, emotionally, mentally, physically, and now it has cued up some more friends for you. Yeah, it'll be different, but it's always for the better. Kinda wish I'd been able to talk to myself like that years ago....

Anyhoo, after fiddling around with my Blogger template for an hour or so, I realised I'd reset it and lost the information box which list the psyeudonyms of everyone I write about, and the thing is, that was mainly for me to remember as an author, as I could never remember who I'd written about or not.

So that's a little mission for me to work through this evening. Mil has just stirred upstairs, and that's my indicator to get up offa this dent on the couch and do something more active, albeit less beneficial.

Until we get to have a lucious week off, tucked up in a remote cottage in Scotland, with no internet access or mobile phone signal. And it's still dawning on me all that needs to be done before we go!

At the moment I'm ill, tucked up in bed and feeling like hell, awaiting Mil's return from football. I don't know what's up with me, but am guessing I'm just run down. I felt awful this morning and didn't go into the office. I just couldn't face it.

Anyway, I've spent this evening looking for our cottage on Google Maps to get that spark of enthusiasm going. At the moment it's an ember, I'm hoping to get it to roaring bonfire level over the next two days, but it's kinda hard, as my inner voice, as always, is putting a dampener on things.

Firstly, I booked this holiday nearly two months ago, after going on Alexa's hen weekend. I spent lots of time with Alice, Mil's cousin's fiancee, and she, and indeed the rest of his female relatives told me how beautiful this remote Scottish island was and how they were surprised that I hadn't been over there with Mil already.

It's not going to be our first holiday, in fact it'll be our fourth together, but all of the other three have been to the houseboat in Amsterdam, and all of which I organised. On the way back from the hen weekend, Alice was telling me more about all the fun holidays they'd had there and remarked how Mil had been with at least two of his previous girlfriends.

Now, I'm not gutted about that, as that'd be really freaking childish, but I can't help but wonder who organised the holidays that time? He said when we arrived home from the last jaunt to the houseboat, that next time, he would organise the holiday. It never happened, so I did. And my logical half is saying 'Well that's 'cos the poor boy is half asleep most of the time because of his silly shifts hosting The Breakfast Show' and my stupid, feminine, hormone driven half is saying 'He probably doesn't actually want to go with you. That's why he never booked it.'

This is like weird relationship schizophrenia and at the end of the, does it really matter? I keep trying to tell myself that, but it doesn't seem to be going in.

Anyway, my plan is to spend some much needed time alone with Mil, where we're uninterupted by work and thus I can reaffirm my position. Living with a Breakfast presenter is no easy task.

I've started mentally forming a list in my head of things to take with us, and will be taking my laptop to type up the rest of my manuscript notes, which will take me at least a day. I hope to get that damned book at least halfway finished by Christmas- if Sue Townsend and Mil Millington can do it, I can do it too.

I feel a little better today- still self hating, but not bordering on full on tears as I was last night. I got away with hiding in the office until about half seven, when Mil started texting me to find out where I was.

My original plan had been to just stay away from him for as long as poosible, and I presumed that he'd come home from work and gone to bed, so he'd sleep through the time when I was supposed to be home and not necessarily realise I wasn't there.

Unfortunately, this backfired- he got back from work and didn't go to bed and instead played on the Nintendo all afternoon:

Mil: Hi Smexy, have you set off from the office yet?

[Rumbled!]

Esme: No. Not yet. Have you had dinner?

Mil: I'm about to have nosh, then I'm planning on going to bed no later than 9.30. I've been awake all day, thought I'd have an early night. How come you're still there?

[Because I'm trying to avoid you- protecting me from your mouth and protecting you from mine, especially in this current state, it wouldn't be pleasant. I'm sure some are thinking I should've just gone home as normal and screamed at the poor boy like a banshee and took all of my stresses out him- let's face it, he's the one who picked Flossie in the interview! The reason I haven't though, is that it's taken me a long time to realise that only I am responsible for how I feel, and it's up to nobody else to make me feel better. God knows why Mil picked Flossie, and why he chose to tell me about it, but it's up to me to make the hurt go away. After all- when did yelling at anyone in a hormone induced state solve anything?]

Esme: Cos I thought you'd be asleep! I'm hiding behind my workload.

Mil: Oh, ah....well I'll see you in bed later then....ha!

Esme: Yeah, I'll be back between ten and eleven. Will you be awake or shall I be really quiet?

Mil: Are you really at the office? I'll be in bed asleep hopefully by 10pm.

[Oh shit, I hope he's not worried- I didn't mean to do that!]

Esme: Of course I am! Where else would I be??

Mil: Dunno, just seems a bit odd you being there until this time of night when you started at 10am. Safe trip back.

Esme: I didn't start at ten. I get the hint tho, I'm on the way back now.

Mil: If you've got work to do then stay and finish Smexy.

Esme: No I didn't really. Just filling time with little jobs.

And with that, I stepped out in the cold night where it was sheeting it down with rain and began the half hour walk to the railways station. When I got in I was knackered. All of this self-hatred and stress really does take it out of you. Straight in bed and slept like a log.

It must be hormones, and not necessarily frustration at Mil, as I'm sat here, alone in the office and crying about what a fat pig I am!!
This is good, because I realise it is hormones, but also bad, because I am a fat pig, and hormones have a terrible habit of making me a professional critic of my own body, without allowing it to be drowned out by positive thoughts emphasising my few good points.
God, I hate this! Every single month turning into a pathetic, self hating wretch. I want a hug. And a deep hot bath. And a razor blade....wait no, that's the hormones again....I want a glass of wine and maybe an eating disorder and matching labotomy for Christmas.....