Repeat after me: A website does not equate to a pint and a packet of twiglets.

On Saturday, feeling thoroughly beaten, downtrodden, woe-is-me and all manner of other self indulgent feelings, I went out for dinner with my sister and my mum (isn't it funny how authors rarely use the word 'mum' and opt for 'mother' instead, sounding in someway more grown up, or even, if you're very posh, 'mummy' - why you are allowed to use terminology usually confined to the use of toddlers when you are of the upper classes I'm not sure, something to do with scraping the bottom of the gene pool and similar IQ levels perhaps...).

I started to expel my whitterings after several glasses of wine. My trauma did not fall on deaf ears, but I didn’t perhaps receive the sympathies that I had assumed would be laid upon the browbeaten WebStress.

My sister, firmly but gently, in the tone of voice reserved for loved ones who know you oh so very well and who know exactly what to do to sort you out, told me that the only person who could do anything about my work situation was none other than myself and that I might as well get used to it because that was the situation, things weren’t going to get better.

I whimpered, almost inaudibly, through her speech, but she has an infallible way of speaking so fluidly, so convincingly, without let up, in such a way that she could convince you that black was white after a five minute verbal sparring, where I am usually left sweating useless words from my tongue while she deftly whistles a tirade of watertight arguments. By the time she had finished, my whimpering had retreated back into its hole and was holding a pillow over its ears, and I was left with the facts.

That night and the next day I scrutinized my situation. I was restless, uncomfortable. I was struggling to see a way out. As far as I could see it up until this point, work was changing for the worse, I needed the money for the mortgage and not a precious penny left (I have Excel spreadsheets to prove as such), I couldn’t get a new job elsewhere unless they allow Newfys in the workplace (so far I have not found such a vacancy), my potential business partner was now training for a new job and wouldn’t be free until her debts were gone.

And I could do absolutely bugger all about any of the above.

But it had been there all along, staring me in the face. People had said it over and over to me, but it made me feel queasy, terrified, stressed even at the very thought. How could I cope again, after last time? Such long hours, being treated so badly, never being paid on time, charging my work for a pint and some Twiglets.

As Amy told me last night, in between attempting crucifix climbs and several unbecoming handstands at pole dancing, I can still have the pint and twiglets. But they’re just the bonus, not the WebStress’s bread and butter.

Everyone I have told this week has said things along the lines of ‘about time’, ‘good for you’ and other lovely supportive phrases. In fact the only person who looked concerned was mum (there’s that word again…) and that was coupled with the words ‘how are you going to pay the mortgage?’ which I managed to brush briskly away with a surprising amount of confidence and bubbled excitement.

No one surprisingly has gently mentioned the fact that when I was freelancing last time that I was so utterly miserable and stressed that I was generally a fairly hideous person to be around.

So there, I’ve said it, I’m going to freelance again. From A to B via such a rambled, tangled thought process that unravelled itself and fell out of me, outstretched in front of me, straight, clear, unfaltering, unbending.

But this time, I’m going to do it properly.

Sunday evening it dawned one me why I really hated it. Because I took everything so personally, because I let my stress and my worry consume myself. Because my lack of confidence in my work eroded my strength and stress seeped in through its porous walls.

This time I’m not going to let myself down.