Dear Insomnia,

I am sorry to do this again in an email, but I can never find the words to say it to your face. You make it too hard, with your irresistible, mysterious brooding nature.

It was a mistake. I should not have let you back into my life. There, I have said it. You are my poison. You were my poison before cancer and you certainly are afterwards when your allure and prowess has been enhanced by chemicals.

These last few nights have been a terrible, terrible mistake. You seem exciting at first, almost naughty (and you know how much I like the naughty), creeping up on me when the sun has gone to sleep, the outside world is quiet and the Internet connection is fast. I know we have a laugh together; doing jigsaw puzzles, playing sudoku, reading the reader’s comments on tabloid newspaper’s websites and listening to the foxes fornicate, but enough is enough. You cannot keep doing this to me.

I need a man who is going to bring me a hot milk and stroke my head, and not a man who makes me feel the pain in my side and gives me dry mouth. I need a man who does not snore and not a man who makes me ask a hundred unanswerable questions. I need a man who is going to tell me that everything is going to be all right and who makes sympathetic noises when they are not, and not a man who gives me imaginary hot flushes. In short, I need somebody who is not you.

My bed is not big enough for the two of us.

Being with you makes me sad. Too much has happened and too much is going on. I do not think we can even stay in touch now. You are bad for me, and I you. You know that, deep down, over time, I would only make you fat. Move. Move far away. The more you are in my thoughts, the harder you make it for me. You’ll be fine. It is time. Time to say goodbye, as the famous classical crossover song goes.

Please be mature about this and let me go. I know I am hot stuff and clearly the business, but you’ll find somebody else almost as good. They always do.

Farewell and sweet dreams,

Emsie doodle xxx