Almost

If all goes to plan, the girls will be home in less (much less, hopefully) than 24 hours. I can't wait. I can't wait to hold them, kiss them, hear their voices, even hear them whine about something (though that latter part will probably not last very long).

I got some stuff done today, too. Not much, admittedly, but some all the same. I threw out 7 huge bags of rubbish - a huge chunk of it was recycling rubbish that's been piling up in the kitchen for weeks because the recycling bin is rarely out and, when it is, always full - and tidied up a fair amount of the sitting room. To me, it looks pretty tidy; there are still a few things to do, and I need to vacuum like crazy, but it's basically done. The only problem is the fact that to the untrained eye, the place still looks like a tip because there's still so much else to do. And I won't get a huge amount done "tomorrow" as it's already 5 am. But well. Baby steps, as they say, baby steps.

On the down side, though, is my uncontrollable tears this evening as I watched "Belle toute nue" on M6 (can't believe I actually watch this kind of crap now). It's a programme that gets a very camp stylist guy to help two women come to terms with their bodies by relooking them. Oh boy. The things the two women were saying could have come from my own mouth:

- can't bear to look at myself in a mirror;
- hate my stomach/hips/bust;
- never want to be seen in a swimsuit;
- don't feel attractive;
- can't be bothered to make any effort because I'm so convinced that I'm not attractive;
- etc.

I was crying before the end of the first "make-over", sobbing by the end of the second one.

I'm not (I don't think) as "curvaceous" as either of the women, mainly because I'm taller. But I am undoubtedly overweight, muffin-topping and repulsed by my stomach/hips/thighs. I don't make much effort any more because I'm chronically single, likely to remain so and virtually a recluse.

I know it's up to me to make the effort, to get out there and meet people (easier said than done: I'm utterly broke, remember?), reclaim my life. But I don't have the courage, I don't have the guts for that kind of thing.

And oh, how I hate being alone! How I long to feel a man's arms around me, holding me tight, whispering into my ear that I'm beautiful, that everything will be OK, that everything really will be OK.

But it ain't happ'nin' people, not at all.

Going

The suitcases are packed, the postcards from me (to be found at bedtime, to remind them of me) have been written and hidden under the pyjamas, the picnic is ready in the fridge. Tomorrow morning, D will turn up, supposedly "between 9 and 10" (ha!) and take my girls, my sweet, sweet girls away from here, far away, all the way to the Loire Valley for a whole week.

My heart aches and tears well up in my eyes way too easily.

We fight all the time, they're bored at home and so far July-with-Maman has been pretty crap, so I totally understand why they're so excited. And I know, once I've been reassured that they've arrived safely and that my god-awful MIL hasn't done anything ridiculous, that I will probably have a pretty good week. But it's still hard. It still tears me apart, this not-going-on-holiday-together thing. I can't bear to think of them so far away.

That said, I do have great plans for this week (they'll be home next Tuesday night). Admittedly, these plans seem to focus heavily on watching-crap-on-TV and eating-crap and sleeping, but plans are plans, after all. I also have work to do and a shitload of tidying, sorting, throwing out, cleaning and rearranging. I will have to force myself to leave the house (I realised this afternoon, when I was out running a few errands, that I hadn't actually left the house since Wednesday...), but I fully intend to make the most of this week.

I'm quite looking forward to being able to get things done without feeling guilty, to being able to listen to whatever music I like, watch whatever I like... I have plans, and I hope to make the most of this time.

But that doesn't mean I don't hate it, hate that it has to be like this, hate that holidays will always be like this from now on.

And nothing will ever stop me having minor panic attacks about the safety of my girls - it's a long drive, bad weather is planned and, whilst D is a good and responsible driver, you can't always guarantee that others are, and that freaks me out.

I won't rest tomorrow till I know they've arrived, then next Tuesday will be the same, until they get home.

I know this is utterly pathetic, that millions of kids go on holiday without their parents every year, but it's not just that they're going on holiday without me. It's the why and how of it all, the pain that I'm still feeling, the anger I'm still feeling towards D and his behaviour, the hatred of my crappy life.