When I watched Baby Reindeer I felt huge compassion for Martha. In the Netflix series she became obsessed with the barman who treated her kindly and gave her a cup of tea on their first meeting. She sent him an avalanche of emails, texts and stalked him in person too.
The veracity of the events have since been called into question but the series highlighted the toll stalking can take and the fact that although four out of five stalkers are male – women do it too.
But then I already knew that – because I’ve stalked three men in the past decade, obsessively. To the extent I once bought a dog, so I could have an excuse to turn up at my ex’s local park where he walked his dog  – I don’t even like dogs.
No one except my victims would have a clue about my secret life – ostensibly I have the ‘perfect’ life – a job in property development, a husband, who’s completely in the dark, and two grown up daughters.

I think my stalking is partly down to an unhappy childhood. My parents argued constantly when I was younger and then my father disappeared to work abroad for months at a time when I was five. I also have an addictive personality – I’ll become obsessed with hobbies, for example, I’ll live and breathe running for months and then drop it.
Even some of my earliest relationships were unhealthy – while many teenagers have intense friendships mine were obsessive.  I had a best friend when I was 13 and I wanted to be with her every second of the day. I’d wait outside her house so we could walk to school together, I chose the same GCSEs as her so we could do every lesson together. I copied what she wore, I was jealous if she became friendly with anyone else. When she understandably distanced herself from me when we were 15, I was devastated.
It lasted until I found a new best friend and then the pattern repeated. Now I have a group of girlfriends from work and school mums, but I make sure I don’t get too close as I can’t risk becoming obsessive and outing myself. 

I didn’t start to stalk men until I was in my 40s. I had a few boyfriends who I ended up dumping and then I met my husband in my early 20s – who’s rock solid, kind and loving and deserves better than me and then I had my children – two gorgeous girls who are now grown-ups.
I should be settled. But there’s something inside me that courts danger and to my shame I’ve had several affairs – it’s these men I’ve stalked.
The first man I met through friends at a gig ten years ago. He was an artist called Miles*, not handsome but very charismatic. There was a spark and we exchanged numbers, despite both being married. We texted each other every moment and arranged to meet up the following week – the sex was phenomenal, I’d never experienced anything like it. For three months we took unbelievable risks to see each other – I even crept out of my marital bed in the middle of the night to go and meet him, he lived near me in north London.
And then after three months Miles ended it – with a brutal text saying, ‘I’m sorry it’s over’. I was broken, I couldn’t understand, the day before he’d told me he couldn’t live without me. When I started bombarding him with messages he blocked me. I needed to get an explanation, so I turned up at his studio, lingering outside and then pouncing on him. He coldly told me to leave him alone. And still there was no explanation.

After that the obsession kicked in – I couldn’t just leave it. I knew a lot of his routines, where he lived and the supermarkets he went to. For months I stalked him daily. Sometimes I’d stay out of his sight, other times I let him see me – though never when he was with his wife. I felt compassion for her. But I got a kick out of his flinch of shock and seeing him scuttling away. I’d sit outside his house at night, just watching the lights going off in his living room and waiting to see them come on in the bedroom. I remember once hiding behind a van, then when he came out of his house stepping into view. I never tried to talk to him again though. I didn’t love him or want him back, but I couldn’t stand the idea of him forgetting me.
My maddest moment was buying a dog so I had an excuse to walk him on Hampstead Heath where I knew Miles took his labrador. It was crazy – I don’t even like dogs, though I’ve grown fond of mine. The dog also gave me an excuse to be out of the house, other excuses I used were working late and seeing friends.

I wanted to know where Miles was all the time. I set up fake social media profiles to stalk him online. If he checked in at restaurant, I’d look at their social media page to see if I could see him in the background. I’d take my husband out to the same restaurants, hoping to see Miles there. I stalked his friends too.
I knew my behaviour wasn’t ‘normal’. I tried to stop myself, but it’s like having the itchiest bite in the world, you try not to scratch it, but then you do and for a few seconds you have a blissful relief. But then the itching starts again.
It went on for about nine months and then suddenly I lost the urge – I no longer cared.
I’ve never fallen in love again, but I’ve had two further flings and I’ve stalked them as well. They’ve followed a very similar pattern, a passionate affair, followed by them ending it, saying they felt it had run its course. I’ve surprised myself by how patient I can be – I’ve waited for hours just for a glimpse of them, I’ve gone back to the same place time and time again, I’ve driven for miles out of my way. Because they’ve all been married they’ve never called the police on me – they ignore me.
It isn’t that I expect them to come back to me if they see me everywhere. I’m not deluded that stalking someone will make them love you. I just want to still feel that we’re in each other’s lives. I realise I should get help, I rarely feel at peace. I feel enormous guilt towards my husband, but yet manage to compartmentalise most of the time – I do love him and I’m under no illusion that by not only cheating but behaving illegally I could ruin both of our lives.
And yet part of me doesn’t want to give it up and live in a ‘normal’ way. For me it’s like someone who shoplifts for kicks, or any addiction, you know it’s self-destructive and harmful to others but you can’t help it.