The husband (or ex – I don’t know – read on) has been very anxious these last weeks/months/years and asked to talk today. I said “let me get my dad out of the way, then I am all yours”. So, after having a quick catchup with me dad, at 11am, I went into the lounge and sat on the floor in my usual spot.

He began by criticising my “prioritisation” of my dad over him. I replied that I “got dad out of the way” so that I wouldn’t be distracted by phone calls or worry: he (hubby) would have my undivided attention. To my mind, that isn’t prioritising my dad, that’s making sure that my husband gets the best from me.

I told him that I had skipped my Sunday morning exercise so that he had time. At this point, seeing Mission Impossible in the afternoon was not a worry – we just had to do our talking before then.

This next bit came to me at 1am because I could not remember it even a few minutes after he said it!

His criticism was that I am not asking follow up questions, which he thought was because I didn’t want him to ask me questions. This went on for some time, and the details are lost to the time he spent talking about it.

My thoughts are actually that I am tired of painful, difficult, awkward conversations: I said that I was burnt out. “You’re always burnt out” was his reply.

His last issue was my forthcoming trip to London to see Cicero. And keeping secrets (again). I hadn’t told him where Cicero planned to take me (leather bars!) and the reason is simple: I did not want to add to his stress and anxiety. he is shaking so much of the time with anxiety.

I also said that I thought we were over, citing examples such as his use of “amicable” and his desire to have me buy his half of the house from him.

During this part of the conversation his voice got louder and louder and it became harder and harder for me to interject. The migraine, which I’d had the last three days, I had needed to ignore in order to have this conversation. I couldn’t say “I have a migraine” because I do not know when I would not have one. It was getting worse, and my brain, already thick with mental glue was really struggling.

Apparently, he was the one being amicable and I was not the victim in this.

And he didn’t regard us as separating, which was not what I’d understood: I might not have gone so far with my arrangements with Cicero as to agree and overnight stay … or maybe I would: I am bloody shattered with anxiety myself and I need a break from it.

“You don’t know that man!” he shouted at me. I said that Tacitus thought he was a good chap, to which I got a “Tacitus is also into the same sex shit as you and Cicero.”

I tried to explain that initially, we had tried to arrange a eunuch meetup with Tacitus and a friend of his, and Cicero. Cicero had offered to put us all up – that’s just the kind of person he is. Anyway, Tacitus had been ill so that was taking more time to arrange, and when Cicero suggested that we two could meet up and persuaded me to stay over a couple of nights I was in the frame of mind where I just needed to get away.

This conversation lasted until after 2pm. I missed lunch, which isn’t a good idea for my concentration.

I am surprised that I survived so long.

Somehow, I ended up in bed, with the covers pulled completely over my head – not in my usual sleeping cocoon where my face is out in the open, but fully buried, head and all. That’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed: I retreat into the dark. Total block-out. Hibernation. Whatever you want to call it.

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Sometime later (I later discovered that I had been in bed for three hours), he came upstairs and pulled back the covers.

I screamed.

Not dramatically. Not performatively. Just… a raw, startled animal sound. I was disoriented, confused, afraid. Light hit me. Presence hit me. It was like being dragged to the surface too fast. I think I tried to say something, but I’m not sure what came out. My brain was too fogged. I didn’t understand what was happening.

I tried to remember how I’d got to bed. He hadn’t put me there, I had taken myself.

then I tried to recap the conversation. Idiot! Bed is a safe space!

The argument resumed. Is it an argument when only one of you is talking (yelling)?

I got up and carefully went downstairs: I was not entirely steady on my feet and my head was killing me.

I made a drink, had a couple more codydramol and a propranolol and sat back in my spot.

And it all started again. I had to stop him so that I could have some tea – at 8pm.

After walking the dog, guess what happened next? More!

He asked whether he was “easier to love at a distance”; I don’t remember whether I answered him. The answer, however, is “yes”. At that time, right then, I wouldn’t have cared if the sofa had eaten him.

How do I end these conversations? What words meaning “my brain is fucked” can I use to be able to take a break?

I am so fucking done with these “talks”. I never, ever, want to have another one. I cannot do it.

Only an hour or so more. I was so fucking mangled by then.

No counsellor – nobody – gets to hear his shouting and the things he says to me. Long ago, a friend witnessed it when we went to hers for dinner. He was drunk and was bloody vile. He was sober this whole time.

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Finally, I went to bed. I scribbled a few notes so that the time spent today wasn’t completely wasted.

We never did go and see the film.

I just put my phone down when he came into the room and insisted on giving me a hug. This wasn’t a kind, loving hug, but a hug intended to prove a point. It was a mean hug.

Then he said that he wanted to come into the bed with me.

That wasn’t an offer of intimacy. It was meanness. Nothing loving about it.

I told him to fuck off and spent most the night so wound up that I couldn’t sleep.