I’ve started seeing a psychotherapist. I can’t afford to, but I can’t afford not to. I’m seeing it as an investment in mine and my children’s future.

I feel as though I’m going mad. Am I ill? Have I gone insane? Is this all my fault? I need to know. I need someone to give me the strength and support to do what I know needs to be done – to leave.

I keep having the same song lyric playing in my head, ‘Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more.’ My psychotherapist said I am articulate and in touch with my emotions. It’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a very long time. I feel very tired and emotional; my thoughts are scattered.

My sessions leave me feeling shaky, my foundations rocked. My core is being viciously ripped open, examined and roughly thrown back together to create some semblance of me. The me I am now, not the me I used to be. She is long gone.

I wish there was someone to hold me after my sessions; to cocoon me in a warm embrace, to gently, rhythmically soothe my soul back into place, to allow me to find my breath within the blanket of their love.

There is no one.

I am alone.

Tom is at the pub. I’m crying. The children are shouting me; the kitchen needs cleaning. I feel a wave of anger in my chest. Still, once the children are settled, I can be alone and at peace for a while.

He has a facade – a happy face, a cover-up. It’s the same one I had in therapy today. The pretence that I’m happy. Several times, I paused to swallow back the tears.

I’m not ready yet.