Hate Is a Strong Word, and One That's Totally Applicable in This Case

Last night I walked out of the office in tears and thought briefly about what would happen if I never came back. I had it in my head that I would quit in mid-May, but I don't know if I can make it even that long. The trouble is that I'm so exhausted and I work so many hours that I can barely keep it all together, let alone attempt to set anything in place so I can escape.

In an attempt not to burst into tears in the office earlier in the day, I sent my dad an email that said only: I hate this job so much that I don't know how much I can bear. This was a stupid move on my part: My dad is the sort of person who, as I worried about having enough money even to take the Tube in 2009, "sympathized" by saying things had gotten tough at his company, too – "We can no longer fly business class," he told me. Anyway, he wrote that he could commiserate. I'm seeing him on Monday, and – though he usually ignores any instructions I give him about acceptable conversation topics – I told him I didn't want to talk about it. All that happens when I talk about it is that I'm whipped up into a frenzy of hatred and despair – who needs that in the few free hours I have?

Plus I really don't want to hear his opinion about how I need to stick it out for a year. If I want to be a writer no one cares about my CV – it's all my ideas and what I can, erm, write. Yes, maybe the magazine I work for might be a source of freelance work in the future and maybe I'll be cutting myself off from it if I leave, but that's a gamble I'm going to have to take – assuming I can summon the nerve (and figure out the cash) to get the hell out.

The whole job situation makes me feel terribly alone. I get emails from casual friends and contacts that say things like: "So, do you love it?" and I just want to scream. It's tough to go out in the evenings, (a) because I can barely get out of the office, and (b) because, as I've said before, one cannot radiate negativity about the job one moved a continent for to new people, and I'm too exhausted to fake it.

Enough. In my continuing effort to reclaim my lunch hour and my waist, I've hit vinyasa yoga three times this week. I'm going to try to go twice a week, I think. (It's tougher than you'd think only because my time in this job is not my own. It's hard to control when my lunch hour actually will be, let alone actually make a class.) I've also run twice (just 3 miles each time, instead of my standard six) and eaten appropriately. I have a big eating and drinking weekend – a hen 'do, a friend in town, an engagement party – so am hoping not to go too crazy. A friend has suggested the three-bite rule, which I'm debating employing, though I tend to do better with none than some.

As if all of the above weren't enough, I'm feeling rather fragile – and fat – at the moment. This was not helped by a woman at an event I was at tonight running up to me, putting her hands on my arms, squeezing me and saying: "I love your dress. Who makes it?"

Diane von Furstenberg, I told her, inwardly yearning for England, where no one would invade your space like that. Something about her tone made me take an instant dislike to her, and my gut wasn't wrong.

"Is it this season?" she asked.

"No, it's a couple of years old," I told her. I refrained from adding – as I might have had I wanted to carry on talking with her – that I'd bought it at either Harvey Nichols or Harrods (can't remember which) when a friend was visiting for New Year's 2008, and we'd hit the sales.

"Oh," she said, looking scornful. (Her outfit, for the record, was nothing spectacular, and she had on makeup that could have used an update.)

"I loooove Diane von Furstenberg," she said. "Wanna know why?"

Um, no, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.

"Because I can fit into her size 12s, you know?" She winked conspiratorially.

Of course I immediately wondered if this woman thought I were a size 12 (for you UK readers, that's a 16). I don't want to say my night was ruined, but it certainly didn't help my state of mind. Have I really gone from a size 6 to a 12 (or looking like one) in two months? Reason No. 428 I hate my job...