Phoenix Fights

"The only thing we have to fear is fear it'self – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified, terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." Franklin D. Roosevelt. Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2014….



If you were to pass me in the street, you’d probably think that I look like the average, mild mannered, rapidly ageing, peri menopausal maiden, if a little frosty about the edges.

But I have a secret life.

I’m a very adept, dedicated, highly skilled, sniper.

Not the kind that fires semi automatic weapons at passing civilians, of course. Although in the neighbourhood I live in, it’s not unheard of and sometimes a prudent course of action if you’re carrying a designer handbag, the latest iPhone or even a six pack of Fosters.

I’m one of those really annoying people that goes on eBay and just when the last seconds of an auction are ticking away, jumps in at the last moment and bids for your item, and usually stealing the deal right from under your nose.

Nice huh?

But I don’t do it to annoy. I’m kinda of addicted because it’s (a) something to do, (b) a cheap(ish) thrill and ( c) I’m hunting, not wabbits, but crafty stuff, antiques, retro shoes/boots and especially, super warm, beautiful cashmere goods.

I’ve always wanted a 100% cashmere coat, but would never stump up for the price of a new one, as, rather like buying a new car, it’s one hell of an investment and loses value the minute you walk it out of the shop. Plus, I’m unemployed. So in the winter months I peruse eBay just waiting for the right item to pop it’s head up, then I can monitor my target and wait those 45 seconds at the end of the auction to strike.

And it’s turned into something of an obsession.

Especially when something I want is elusive or in short supply, then I’ll usually end up hunting it down to some small village in the Cotwolds and demand to buy it, which is why I ended up driving 40 miles to a small exclusive boutique the other day to purchase a beautiful mohair car coat that I hadn’t even tried on, as it was the last size 10 in existence. Fortunately it fit me, but to be honest I barely ever go out anymore, haven’t worn it yet and am unlikely to until Autumn, so quite why I felt compelled to buy it right now I do not know.
But when it’s winter, cold, and as a tallish person with long extremities I always get the urge to swathe myself in warm sumptuous layers to protect me from the weather. I’ve always been quite a sensuous person too, so am very attracted to natural fabrics that feel good against the skin. Cashmere, wool, brushed cotton, alpaca, you name it and you’ll find me buried under a pile of it come October through to March.

And in the summer, when the weather is hot (ha!), cottons, silk, linen and light denim make up the majority of my wardrobe.
I’m not rich or a snob, it’s not about that. I love brushed cotton as much as virgin wool, but I can’t abide anything unnatural, itchy or sweat inducing against my skin.  Nice fabrics and yarns feel like caresses to me, which probably boils down to the fact that in my day to day life, I am rarely physically touched.

Of course I get light, air kissy, mwah mwah embraces from my London friends when I meet them, but apart from when I see my family, it’s rare that I am on the receiving end of a proper embrace, let alone a cuddle. And when you see photographs of me with a group of people, I’m always slightly separate/aloof from the group, even if I’m liked by them, as ironically from a body language point of view, I strongly suspect that I put out an untouchable vibe, when I’m probably more in need of physical contact than anyone I know.

And don’t even get me started about sex. The thought of it is just unimaginable to me right now.

There is no doubt that I am lonely, isolated, and as a result I have built myself a very comfortable, homely fortress here in South London, and with it’s plush carpets, log fire and cosy nooks and armchairs strewn with throws, it would be the ideal little sanctuary to come home to.

If I ever went out that is.

And as much as I love and appreciate my home and the garments that make up my wardrobe, there are times where I’d be willing to set a match to the lot of it in exchange for a cuddle from someone I can trust and am able to love and and will love me in return.

But until that person comes along, if they ever do, I will stay here snug in my lonely bunker, behind the blanketed barricades, scanning the horizon for something that will kill the pain.

If only for sixty seconds.

(Originally blogged as CASHMERE CUDDLES, WOOLEN LOVE)

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And just when I thought everything was going so well.

I’m two weeks from a pretty successful Lenten ‘best behaviour’ period, and all of a sudden, it feels like I’m about to roll down a hill to nowhere.

It’s like a juggling act really, isn’t it, trying to get all your daily chores done, sticking to your resolutions/good intentions and keeping it all going?

Then something distracts you and you drop a ball.  Be it getting to bed early, eschewing alcohol, or bad carbs ball, one day you forget to do something then immediate sense of guilt/failure unsteadies you, but you manage to flick it back in the mix whilst not losing anything else.  Then another wobble, another mini guilt trip and just as you manage to get everything under control again, Life comes along, rudely jogs your elbow, then of course one escapes, and then another, and the whole fucking lot comes tumbling down around your ears.


That potential work opportunity I was telling you about?

It all seemed so promising at the time.  But now?

Now I smell a rat.


Actually I love rats so let me change that.

It’s starting to smell a little fishy.


Nope, that’s not working either…

OK, so what I’m trying to say is that something seems a wee bit suspect about them.

The first time I visited the company, it was all very exciting and promising, but the second time, their attitude and whole proposition seems a little slapdash/complacent/indifferent, PLUS they wanted their substantial fee paying cash in hand which immediately got my antenna twitching, and as the meeting commenced, something told me that I was not going to get much out of them.

Okay.  So, I acknowledge that I’m paranoid.

And I know in some ways, this could be me deriding myself, by thinking that they wouldn’t (or is that couldn’t) value or prioritise me, and that my old friend FEAR is once again lurking around the corridors of my psyche trying to gain entrance.

But my intuition is 99.9% spot on and rarely lets me down. Even Aunty C acknowledges this.

That said, I know that I’m very prone to letting one bad thing attach itself to another and then they breed like cancer cells, so I’m trying very hard to put it on the back burner, get me balls back up (watching shite TV and skipping walking/yoga specifically) and weigh it all up rationally once my panic abates.

This also might be self sabotage as I’m dreading interacting with the ‘normal’ again.  I say ‘normal’.  I met this woman on the way in and she talked at me for about 45 mins without drawing breath, neither noticing or acknowledging the horrified look and sickly smile no doubt pasted to my chops.  I was bordering on obtaining a restraining order in case she ever recognised me again.


It makes me wonder how I coped when I was working too.  If I remember rightly I was exhausted by the very act of getting into the office, no wonder I found everything and everyone else such a challenge, so kudos to all you people that have a job and manage to stay on an even keel.

And how do people who work, and have a family and kids to deal with?!  Double kudos you people, I can only stand back (at a safe distance with my bag on the seat next to me, no offence, nothing personal) and admire you all for this.

Anyway, it’s a sunny day and I have no excuse not to walk.

Then I can do a bit of mat work when I get back.

Plus I’m physically fitter than I have been for a long time, so why screw that up by eating badly?

And I’ve taken the plug of my TV.

OK, I haven’t but I have turned it off, OK?!

Onwards and upwards, both me and my cojones.

Here we go again.







As most of you know, I’m really trying to rein in my anger generally but seriously, some people just make me want to explode with outrage and frustration, namely an individual who has written about his bemusement at the outpouring of what he sees as ‘faux’ grief at the untimely, tragic death of Peaches Geldof.

Like many, I was stunned at the news of her demise, and genuinely still feel deeply saddened today.  I thought about writing something on this blog yesterday, but thought to myself ‘What can I say that others have not already?’ and settled for praying for her family, children and loved ones instead.

Then I saw this.

Lord God, where to start?

I’m going to try and do this kindly and honourably just so that Lee Cooper might understand that just because his experience does not mirror that of his contacts, does not mean that people are not genuinely affected by this.

The crux of his message seems to stem on the rich and famous “beautiful people” being at the centre of media attention when tragedy strikes, but millions of unknowns die every day under the most awful conditions possible.

As you know, I am not above being resentful of said “beautiful people” (, but surely this is one of those crucial circumstances when we realise that they are not necessarily so ‘shiny’ and ‘happy’ all the time after all, and when it comes down to it, death, sickness and devastation are neither prejudiced or fussy?  In fact, when the chips are down, the fates/gremlins/four horses of the apocalypse will happily crash into anyone’s life and stomp their dreams into the earth at any given time, no matter how pretty their faces or how talented/well know/rich they are.  Bottom line is, shitty things are the greatest leveller.

The other point is that fame and fortune tends to come at a price.


Ask Amy Winehouse.  Ask Jade Goody.  Ask Brittany Murphy.  Ask Princess Diana

But you can’t can you?  Because they are no longer with us, and arguably still would have been had they not lived their lives in the glare of publicity, under the perpetual scrutiny of the muck raking, gibbering gossip mongers, parasitical paparazzi and the ‘build ‘em up, tear ‘em down’ tabloid media.

And the millions of people who die in similar or even worse circumstance every day?  As unfair as it might seem, we don’t know anything about them as individuals so we cannot relate to them and tend not to mourn them in the way that we do for people in our circle or, like Peaches, people whose lives we have some knowledge of.

The collective sadness surrounding the death of Peaches Geldof, like Princess Diana, is down to the fact that we know, or think we know her, and our empathy is strong because we all have a ‘Peaches’ in our life.

A daughter, a niece, a cousin, a sister, a granddaughter who we now clasp to us in gratitude, whilst aching for Ms Geldof’s loved ones as we imagine the unimaginable, searing, endless pain they must be suffering and thank God that such a thing did not befall us or ours.

This time.

To that affect, when we mourn someone famous we are mourning for all lost children and their bereaved parents, friends, siblings and lovers, because if we knew of them, we’d empathise with them too.

Can I put into words why I personally am so sad at Peaches’ death?

Firstly, for those of you that don’t know, my blog is totally anonymous so I have no reason to write anything other than the absolute truth. I am not into showboating (quite the contrary) or using this article to make myself look like some obsequious, rubber necking, ‘faux’ (there’s that word again) saint or something.

Those of you who know me know that I am far from that.

I’m sad because I’m from her mother and father’s generation and I remember Bob, Paula and their clutch of happy, tow headed moppets from the ’80′s and ’90′s, and they seemed like the happiest family in the world.

I then remember only too clearly Bob and Paula splitting up, the chaos that  ensued, and the resulting media frenzy and thinking ‘God, those poor kids’.

Having once been a fan of her writing, I also remember, to my shame, judging Paula harshly and dismissing her as vain, selfish, and destructive, when I didn’t really know her or what was going in her marriage.  This is why I avoid the tabloids nowadays, because when you’re a judgemental old cow like me, it is only too easy to believe what you read in the newspapers.

No one is all good, and no one is all bad.  We are both shit and sugar.  We all have our shadow side.  Deny it’s existence and it can take over.


I later remember my shock at Michael Hutchence’s death, and only then started to realise that he and Paula weren’t necessarily living the ‘hot rock couple’ party lifestyle, and that Paula’s monumental decision to split from Bob had corrupted her life and which then started to speedily unravel.

I saw Paula in a cafe in London about a week before her death having lunch with Finlay Quayle.  She wore none of her usual trademark make up and red lipstick, and remembered thinking that she looked very wan and apathetic.

Ten days later she was dead.

The whole thing was like some awful, horrific soap opera.  When and where would it all end?

And always at the heart of the action were her poor children, confused and disorientated, bug eyed at the cameras, shrinking away from the unwanted press attention.

Poor Bob.  Quite how he kept it all together during those dark days is beyond me.

And what he did next was nothing short of heroic.  He put aside his animosity towards Hutchence and took up custody of his and Paula’s love child Tiger because he felt it best that she was raised with her half sisters, formally adopting her in 2007, and brought all of the kids up himself, along with his partner Jeanne Marine, giving them love, security and solid family environment in which to flourish.

There has been a lot in the press about relations with the Hutchence family and Bob not being great, and accusations of keeping them and Tiger apart, but no one is perfect, and I dare say there is muck to be found if one cares to rake it up.

But to my mind, Bob Geldof is a decent bloke with a huge heart.

Over the years, Peaches, like most kids, had her ups and downs, and because she was unable to grieve for her mother for years, stumbled around, trying to find a sense of belonging as she did not really know who she was.

I understand and empathise with that feeling oh so well.  I too lost my mum too young, and am still trying to figure out who I am and my place in this world and I’m in my 50′s.

Then after a very brief marriage that was swiftly dissolved, she found a life partner in Thomas Cohen, had two beautiful babies and everything seemed to fall into place.

As an outsider looking in, it just felt that she had found her place in life.  She no longer sought the wrong kind of attention, she no longer indulged in unhealthy pastimes.

You could see her happiness in her face.

There was no longer doubt or discomfort in her expression.  She literally glowed, and it was evident that she was happy and had blossomed from a bolshy teen into a secure, self assured woman and mother, and I couldn’t have been more pleased for her.

And later, she confirmed my inkling in her last ever interview.

‘Becoming a mother was like becoming me, finally,’ she said, ‘After years of struggling to know myself, feeling lost at sea, rudderless and troubled, having babies through which to correct the multiple mistakes of my own traumatic childhood was beyond healing’.

And then, yesterday morning, she died.

It was beyond shocking.

How fucking inadequate words are sometimes.

How could you not feel sad about this?

If you don’t, I’m not judging you.  We are as we are, and as an empath, quite frankly, I envy you.

What I do judge however is someone who deems the grief and feelings as others as ‘faux’ whilst parasitically using the death of one of his much maligned “beautiful people” to try and create controversy and attract attention to his blog.

Who is he to call into question the authenticity of the feelings of others?

Who is anyone hurting by posting their messages of sympathy online?

Maybe just maybe this surge of empathy will colour all of their lives and we’ll all, even if only for a day or two, start treating one another a little more kindly? Would that be such a terrible thing?

My heart goes out to Bob Geldof.  How much more tragedy and heartache can one man take?

Her siblings are so young, too young to have lost a sister at 25, bless their hearts.

Her babies, who’ll never really know their mum and may not even remember her or how much she loved them.

Her poor manchild husband Thomas left to bring up his children alone, when he’s barely more than a boy himself.

As Ellie Goulding said “Even if you think you’ve got it all figured out, some things still can’t be explained or understood”

I can’t even begin to understand or relate it to a merciful and loving God.

And yes, I would feel the same for anyone else who has suffered the loss of a child, spouse or mother in such devastating circumstances, famous or otherwise.

I can only hope that Peaches died painlessly of natural causes, that the press and paps BACK OFF, and that her family and friends are left alone to mourn her in peace.

If you feel sad, feel sad. There is nothing to justify or to be ashamed about.

Please say a prayer and send love/grace/chi to all of her folks, because they’re so going to need it now and in the months and years to come.

RIP sweet Peaches G x






This is one of those songs that you hear out of the blue on the radio and immediately reach out to turn the volume up.

‘Have You Ever Had It Blue’ by the irrepressible Paul Weller’s ‘Style Council’ nearly made it to my Optimistic Mix list, but only just missed out because the lyrics aren’t exactly, well,  jolly.

However, please don’t let that put you off having a listen fellow depressives, because as soon as that brass section kicks off in the opening bars, all you really want to do is get up and shake yo stuff.


In fact, humour me and let this be the first song you hear on Monday morning, I guarantee it will brighten up your day.

Promise. :-)

This song harks back to the days when I wore far too much make up, partied hard, slept little and was 100% in denial that there was anything wrong with me.  It was everyone else’s fault if they couldn’t handle me, not mine.

And you know what?  Whilst I kinda miss ignorant bliss, recognising your shit, and getting to know the true self is actually the only love worth fighting for.

So I trudge on in full awareness of my crazy, fucked up self.

And I breathe….

Namaste x


Daily Prompt: Green-Eyed Lady – SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

We all get jealous from time to time — what wakes the green-eyed monster for you?


OK, so let’s get one thing straight, I’m not a jealous person.

When one has such low self esteem that they don’t think they deserve to live at all, I don’t think I ever had the nerve or chutzpah to take something off someone, or demand that they not have it.

But I do occasionally suffer from bouts of the next best thing.

It’s what I’ve dubbed, courtesy of that ’80′s legend Jilted John, ‘Yeah, Yeah, It’s Not Fair’ syndrome.

I’m also occasionally prone to envy, but this (as my friend Helen has already outlined most ably in her fabulous Scribblefest), is a tad more forgivable as all you really want is the tiniest slither of the pie, and not to snatch the entire thing out of the hands of the current recipient, hurl the empty dish at their head afterwards then lean over and burp applesauce in their face.

Well not usually anyway… ;-)


I should know what jealousy looks like; I had and do have a couple of green eyed monsters in my life at present.

One cannot bear for me to have anything she does not, even if she can’t feasibly have it in the first place, one example being a hot date when she’s ‘happily’ married, a vintage bargain bag when she has a wardrobe full of new Pradas or a party invite that she cannot attend anyway.  But she’s a psychopath, so it’s not that surprising really (

When I was younger and more attractive, another now ex friend once hinted very heavily that life would be much easier for her if I were to put on about 3 stone in weight, as she was sick of her horrible, deadbeat boyfriends hitting on me, something I would always get it in the neck for, and not the HDB’S.  BUT if I was safely ensconced in a relationship and she was on the look out, she would have no qualms in asking me to be her wing woman in order to attract more men to our table for her.

That said, whilst YYINF syndrome is not quite as bad as jealousy, it is, I have to admit, mean spirited, whiney, pathetic and not all that different at the end of the day.


So regarding my particular (pale) green eyed character flaw, when does this terrible affliction kick in?

When I see the happy, the lucky, the fortuitous, the beautiful, the loved from the moment they were born, getting on splendidly in every aspect of life you’d care to mention.

‘And who might they be Sista?’ you may ask innocently.

And I say to you, ‘Oh they, and maybe even YOU, know who you are dear!  Don’t think I haven’t noticed, y’hear?!’

Because I SEE YOU pretty much every day; all glowing, confident and appreciated courtesy of your perfect parents, coasting gracefully through life, getting everything you want, meeting your soul mate at exactly the right time, having the wedding of your dreams, popping out 2.5 model kiddies without even so much as gas and air, climbing the corporate ladder with grace and ease and looking stunning in the bargain, blah, blah, fucking blah.


You always get a seat on the notoriously crowded 7.45 am train from Guildford to Victoria, and even in a heatwave, sans air con, you arrive on platform pristine and box fresh whilst the rest of us are sweating, dishevelled, cursing wrecks.

You can go to the January sales and never get jostled or flustered, and always nab the best bargains as you walk, no glide, through the yielding, parting crowds like a cross between Moses and the frigging Timotei girl swishing through a field of daisies on a soft, summers day.

If you’re male, you’re everyone’s best mate, super masculine, but stylish, and a decent sort too, generous (shit, you can afford it!) excelling at all sports, and you’ve been told more than once that you look a bit like a cross between Davids Beckham and Gandy.

Your folks adore you because you were the perfect child, and you adore them back because they did everything for you and are just the best parents ever!

You always get a green light, never a red.  And I’m not just talking about driving.

You always get upgraded to first class on the plane, even if you’re in your oldest jeans and tattiest t-shirt.

You’re the must have dinner party guest in your circle because not only do you shine, but you have the ability to charm, make everyone feel comfortable, are attentive even with the most boring neighbour and you are guaranteed to entertain everyone into the night with your hilarious anecdotes and cutting edge opinions and knowledge about, oh, just about everything.

Despite walking everywhere you have never ever scratched the leather off your stiletto healed Jimmy C’s.

And of course, it goes without saying that you’re also anything from attractive to extremely good looking.  How could it not be so?


Doors open for you.  Packed restaurants miraculously find a top table for you.  Flowers grow, soufflés rise, the stubborn bend, and legs do part.

And the hardest thing of all for someone like me who had a hideous childhood, was never loved, has mental health issues, struggles to keep friends (whine, whinge, whine…), and never, ever had or will ever have what you have?

You’re usually a bloody nice person and I would no doubt like and admire you if I knew you, when I so long to hate you.

Because IT’S NOT FAIR!

Who decides who has a great life and who has a shitty one?


All joking (kinda) and ranting aside, i know that I’m luckier than most and things could be a whole lot worse, but sometimes I look at these shiny happy types and wonder how things might have turned out for me, had I been lucky enough to have the chances they’ve had.

I guess we’ll never know.

In the meantime, I try and fight my irritation and caustic, destructive, corrosive jealousy, sorry, envy, stop bloody MOANING and make a mental note of which queues to rise early for when my next life is due.

And if Holly frigging Willough-booby gets in my way in the Looks Department, there’ll be HELL to pay.

Back off Blondie, haven’t you had ENOUGH blessings?  You’re INSATIABLE!!

Oh Gawd, I feel yet another rant coming on….Here we go, two, three, four…..

Trackbacks & Pingbacks

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So as of last weekend, it’s now officially British Summertime.


For most people this is great news, but I’m one of the few oddities that dreads the return of those bright mornings, long, heady days and balmy summer nights.

But this year I realise that if I want things to be different this year, it’s me who need to change with regard to my attitude toward summer, others, and, of course, me, myself and I.

Summer is lovely when you have friends and family to spend it with, but historically I’m not great at maintaining a loyal fun band of beach buddies or picnic pals.  I’m OK at making friends, it’s keeping them that has been the problem because I tend to put all my eggs into one basket, and when said old basket invariably (sensing my vulnerability and reliance on them), does something shitty and lets me down, I respond by dropping their ass so hard their nose bleeds.

Classic BPD behaviour doncha know.  Shame no one told me about this, oh 30 years ago?!

In fairness, I always knew that something was wrong, and Aunty C (my counsellor) tried her best to help me change the behaviour pattern without labelling me (something she was and is highly resistant to), but there is something about being diagnosed EUPD that has kicked my arse hard enough to make me realise that the world isn’t going to change, so I have to.

Before I thought it was all others doing stuff to me.

But the reality is that it’s my behaviour that allows them to do it.

And my desire for only a couple of soul mate and no superficial acquaintances compounded by my ridiculous reluctance to do anything by myself tends to leave me in a very shitty, lonely spot between the proverbial rock and hard gaff.

So, as I see it, a two pronged attack is necessary.

Firstly, I need to be more sociable.  Yes, I know I’ve been saying this for months, nay, years now, and I’m still on the back foot, but from now on I am really going to try and get out there, do small talk (ARRGHH!), meet more people and spread my eggs far and wide.

That sounds a bit unsavoury doesn’t it?  But you know what I mean.

And even if the first few times are, sorry, feel uncomfortable/boring/pointless, I must persist as sometimes it takes a while for people to show their true selves and grow on you, and vice versa.  I know for a fact that this is going to be a massive challenge, as I’m not good at ‘trying’ with people, and flee at the slightest whiff of rejection, but I don’t think I have any choice if I want things to change.

For example, I could have gone dancing tonight.

But I didn’t.  I’m here writing this for you because I made up all the excuses in the world for not going, and I’m not going to meet any new folk that I can socialise with in my spare bedroom.

At least I hope not anyway…



The other thing I have to address is my fear and reluctance of doing stuff on my own.

You may well be thinking right now ‘Why does this stupid mare dump her friends all the time if she hates flying solo?’

The answer is ‘I don’t know dipshit, I’ve got a personality disorder!’



Sorry, I digress….

The other day I suggested to a friend that we go for a walk in the park.  She couldn’t make it because she had to study.

Did I go anyway?



I’ve asked myself this a million times, and I think it’s because I’m frightened of looking sad/lonely/conspicuous to those of you out there with loved ones to play with.  However, when I think about it, I’m sure you’re too busy arguing with your wife, trying to find a parking space, stopping your kid/dog from jumping in the pond after the ducks, squeezing your boyfriend’s bejeaned bum or finishing your Mr Whippy before its dribbles down your arm to notice some old misfit like me hovering around the periphery of life, apologising for my very existence to absolute strangers, some who are probably just as weird as me.

And some even more so.


Anyway surely it’s better to look like a saddo and be out there enjoying the day than staying at home and actually being a saddo?

You keep telling yourself that Sista, just you keep on telling yourself that….

I know it won’t happen over night.

But I am going to try harder.

Because I may not be like everyone else or fit in with the masses, but who wants to be the same old boring ‘coloured water’ anyway?


And if people stare, whisper and laugh, well that’s their shit.


Because one day I’m gonna be happy with my own company.  And when that day arrives, my aura will be so beautiful, attractive and beguiling, I’ll probably have to fight all the others off with a stick.  ;-)

I know that many of you are in the same position as me.  You cannot bear yourself, let alone love yourself, and at times the isolation, darkness and pain are so intense that you wish yourself to be somewhere, anywhere but here on this earth and face all the shit we have to encounter every single day.

But you matter.

WE matter.

Be yourself, my lovelies.  Everyone else is taken.

Namaste x





Well folks, guess what?

I got in.  :-)

Don’t get me wrong.  Whilst I’m thrilled, I’m also nervous about it, and am now wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, or whether I’ve presented myself as something I’m not.

But I don’t think so.

This company say time and time again that they only take on people who are comfortable in their own skin, and somehow, someway, I got away with it.

But let’s face it, I’ve had plenty of practice as I’ve been pretending to be someone or something I’m not all my life because I’ve never really known who I am or where I belong.

So they must think I’m a happy, balanced human being who loves myself for who and what I am.  How the hell did that happen?  If only they knew what a self loathing, paranoid little misfit I am!

Or maybe, just maybe I am comfortable in that forum and this is what I’m meant to be doing.  I do know for a fact that I enjoyed the interview.

Excited, afraid and that most scary thing of all, hopeful.

I may not have to prove myself for some time, but once I sign on the dotted line, it’s on!

Thanks Big Guy.

I think.

Namaste x


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