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….


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YOUNG BPD WOMAN (Inspired by Maya Angelou)

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Pretty young women think they know my shit

I’m not cute, an old boot, gone down hill quite a bit

But the truth is much more,

Than I’d care to admit

I say

It’s in the storm in my heart,

The voice in my head,

That tells me I’m worthless,

And wish I were dead.

BPD woman

Unfortunately.

Old BDP woman,

That’s me.

I’d walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to men I would seem

Just a cold hearted tease

But some would still come,

The hunter, the sleaze

I say,

‘Twas the ice in my eyes,

And the curl of my lip,

The putdown, the shutdown,

The jut of my hip

The terror I hid ‘neath the sarcastic quip

I was woman

Cynically.

Cynical woman,

That was me.

Those men themselves wondered

What they saw in me.

They tried so much

But did not touch

My cold dark mystery.

I tried not to show them,

I’d not have them see

I’d say,

‘It was mark of my father,   

The scorn of his son

The fearing, the jeering

At school, from that scum

You think you can touch me?

Well think again, chum’

I’m a woman

Impenetrably.

Impenetrable woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Why I live alone

No family to love me

No real sense of home

BDP girls when you read this

Please learn from my poem

I’m BPD woman

So solitary

Solitary woman

That’s no way to be

Girl, your enemy is not without, It’s within

Don’t make others suffer

It wasn’t their sin

Try not to reject love

Before it begin

I say…..

Raise your chin, flash a grin

Bathe the world with your smile

For the love of another

Can make life worthwhile

Swing those hips

Shake those tits

For all you are worth

And try to find joy

On this place we call earth

And when demons rise up

All howling en masse

Take shelter and know

That this too shall soon pass

And accept some support

From your woman or man

For to struggle alone

Was not part of God’s plan

I say…

It’s the light in your eyes

The strength in your heart

Your youth and your beauty

That’s only the start

Of all that you are and are willing to be

BDP woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal BDP woman,

That is thee.

Namaste little sistas xxxx


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NOWHERE WOMAN

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I arranged to go to a party tonight.

Yay!

I bailed last minute.

Boo!

I’m lonely and beating myself up over my cowardice….but it would have taken so much effort to mingle with all the strangers.  Like Bernard Black from ‘Black Books’ (see above quote), I seem to be at my happiest when stewing at home in my own misery.

Plus, said the little voice in my head, what’s the point of socialising with these people when you’re not staying anyway?

Earlier in the day I met a friend for coffee.

‘I haven’t seen you for months!’ she squealed causing me to wince at her shrill enthusiasm ‘what have you been up to?’

I can’t remember what I answered.  I think I just lied through my teeth as the real answer was ‘I’m not exactly sure…every day seems like the last….are you 100% sure it’s September?  I could have sworn it was still June!’

And I had to explain my current situation and try and make it sound positive and exciting, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone.

‘So, I need to sell up and if all comes to plan I’ll move to a beautiful clapperboard cottage by the sea….but in all likely hood I’ll end up in the armpit of the UK in an ex council house next door to Mr & Mrs Asbo and their thirteen kids and pack of rabid Dobermans, but hey at least it will be mine!’

Shrieky looked as unsure as I feel.

‘How, erm, exciting, you must keep me posted!’  And scurried off lest my now tangible desperation was contagious, whilst I scurried off in the opposite direction to the safety of my lair.

I’ve always felt like a leaf carried along by the wind.

But never have the currents felt so stormy and unknown.

I’m tired of being that loser who everyone gossips about.

I always start so well, and seem so normal.  But it’s hard to maintain the act when you’re not working, not dating, not travelling and have just gobbled up over two years of your life without making anything of yourself.

It’s then that the penny drops and people realise that underneath your oh so plausible, pleasant veneer is nothing more that that, and that you’re about as substantial as a blow up doll.

How long will I be able to stay in this new place before I have to move on ‘cos I’ve been busted yet again?

Maybe I should just go into full hermit mode and buy a smallholding on the Outer Hebrides and stay at home with the cats and a couple of chickens and live off the land.

Knowing my luck though, fucking Donald Trump would probably rock up, build a whorehouse on top of my hen house, and cut off my water and kick me in the crotch for good measure.  Which would be unadvisable as I’d tear his fucking wig off for him…but I digress….

Bottom line is, I don’t know who I am, where I’m going to go and what I’m going to do.

And I’m so afraid.

I’m trying to be positive, but when you’re Nowhere Woman it’s like trailing your bricks and mortar around the desert, nowhere is safe and it’s not going to work.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK…..

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/beatles/nowhereman.html


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OI OI!

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When you’re at rock bottom, teetering on the brink of ruin and/or homelessness, and on top of that, wake up with a knackered back, it’s funny where inspiration can be found.

Quite literally.

Today I deemed that it was totally pointless trying to do anything, as no matter how hard I try to be positive, the shit just keeps  splatting me in the face, so I decided to lie low, bar taking a stroll to hopefully loosen my injury.

I then got up, went to the loo and within seconds, managed to knock my last loo roll into the toilet with my elbow whilst flushing, the waters dousing it with cat litter, pee and poo.

Fuck the walk.

Clearly nothing was going to go my way today. I went back to bed and picked up my favourite read of the moment, ‘Becoming Johnny Vegas’ the memoirs of one of my favourite actor/comedians.

I love Johnny Vegas because he’s as funny as fuck but also a truly sensitive vulnerable soul, and I frequently fantasise that he’s my friend. I then read that Michael (JV’s real name) loved and hugely admired the self styled father of British Alternative Comedy, comedian, club owner and notorious prankster, a man by the name of Malcolm Hardee.

‘Hmm,’ thinks I, ‘I know that name’, and lever my wincing carcass back out of my pit, I go and Google him.

Of course!  That sarf London guy with the glasses who was in ‘The Greatest Show on Legs’ where he danced a precarious routine with two other geezers and some party balloons, invariably exposing his knob and an alarmingly pendulous set of balls by the end of the set. Intrigued I wanted to know more about this man who inspired such love in my hero, so I went on Wiki and was shocked to discover that Malcolm was actually dead.

Shit!  He can’t have been much older than me!  What did he die of?

Alcoholism?

Lung cancer, as he was never seen without a fag in his gob?

Or did he finally get a good kicking for peeing over one of the punters (another party piece) at his comedy club?

None of these things. Malcolm Hardee, absurdly, drowned in the Thames whilst travelling 50 yards in a dingy from his floating pub ‘The Wibbly Wobbly’ to his houseboat ‘The Sea Sovereign’ whilst pissed, and when they brought up his body he was still clutching a bottle of beer.

A fitting if untimely end, it seems. But this man clearly lived his life with gusto and inspired great love and affection in his peers and family for being unapologetically and unashamedly himself.

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As for his funeral, it was, according to one chap, ‘The best I’ve ever been to!’, attended by hundreds of comedy’s great and good, whom kept the banter/heckling going via some ‘bespoke’ floral tributes, propping his sailors hat and a life belt on his coffin (a bit ‘stable door’ methinks) and no doubt the chosen few, posthumously, took him down yet another peg or two at the wake.

It’s what he would have wanted.

But it was this eulogy by another great British comic Stewart Lee, paraphrasing Matthew 6 Verse 25-34 that struck the biggest chord with me.

For some reason I found it unbearably touching and came to the closest to weeping as I have since my post medication days.  Partly because it was the perfect tribute, partly because this man was so loved, and partly because Malcolm was clearly the perfect example of someone who lived without fear or worry.

He quite frankly did not give a fuck, and probably drove friends and family half mad with his impulsivity, mad criminal activity (he once stole Freddie Mercury’s 40th birthday cake), practical jokes, and sheer unadulterated irresponsibility (he apparently would take unwanted bills, tax claims etc. and fill them in as being ‘deceased’) and was as free as the birds of the air, if somewhat less than fragrant as the lilies of the field.

Of course that did not stop him dying young.  But would worrying about it have changed his final outcome?

Each day does indeed have enough trouble of it’s own.

I’ve finally come to realise that praying, meditating, cosmic fucking ordering et all is not going to stop the shit raining down on my head.  It certainly rained down on Malcolm both metaphorically and apparently in real life one day when he deliberately steered his boat under a stream of effluent spewing out of a pipe from a liner, covering himself and all of his friends/passengers with a stinky brown soup. But I digress.

The point I’m trying to make is that if shit is in my future, it’s going to happen.  I’ve just got to grow a pair of big pendulous Hardee stylee balls and be ready to face it head on with a chirpy ‘Oi, oi!’.

That said I’m never going to be one of the Malcolms of this world.  It’s not in my make up.  But if I try harder, get out there and make my mark, maybe I’ll be loved a least a fraction of the way that he was and still is AND have some fun along the way.

And that will be enough for me.

God surely does move in mysterious ways…. Namaste x

http://www.malcolmhardee.co.uk


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PITY PARTY TRACK 19 – DESOLATION ROW – MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

You can push a person too far, and right now I’m at the end of a very long, frayed rope….

Yesterday, after months of saint like patience and extraordinary self control, I finally snapped tore one the Perkies a new arsehole (in the manner of Rorschach after a particularly trying day) when, on receipt of my desperate plea for timings and information re my schema therapy treatment, she let it slip that the start date had been moved AGAIN, (4 times to date) and my formal written diagnosis of my condition would not be sent out until everyone involved had completed their questionnaire sessions.

‘How do their answers have any bearing on your analysing and sending out mine?’ I asked in reasonable, if slightly strangled tones, moments before I flipped.

‘Well..um…I’m not sure, but I’m calling you back just to say…well…you know…we understand it must be soooo stressful…’

‘Actually I don’t think you do.  Because I’ve almost ran out of money and may not be in situ by the time you, sorry, they get their arse in gear and finalise a date.’ ‘Oh no’ she replied in those oh so familiar sickly sweet tones, ‘that must be sooo awful….’

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BOOM.

‘You know what?  I don’t think you’re getting it.  I’ve had to put my flat on the market, I’m down to my last grand, I’ve just had 2 bills that will amount to, oh say around £10K that need paying this year, and I don’t have a fucking job!’

‘Right.  Oh.  I’m so sorry to….’

‘Sorry but I don’t want to hear it.  I don’t want your standardised scripted call back that you make “so they feel acknowledged and listened to” because it’s bullshit.  It’s like you’ve recorded the same droning faux sympathetic message and play it down the receiver to all of us, and it’s just not good enough.  This is beyond a joke.  I’ve been waiting nearly a year for treatment since his nibs charmingly informing me that I was BPD and I’ve had to deal with the fall out of that all on my own (sorry Aunty C) whilst you lot diddle around, putting us through hours and hours of the same stupid fucking questions, intermittently treating us to your best ‘oh dear’ faces in lieu of real empathy, and move the goal posts again, again and again….’

‘Oh, well I….’

‘….and in the meantime we all sit in limbo, either hanging onto our place in society for grim death or mouldering away at home waiting for SOME TANGIBLE SUPPORT….’

‘…yes, I….’

‘..so the very LEAST you owe me is a formal written diagnosis so that at the very likely chance that I’ll be somewhere else by the time you get your act together I’ll have something to present to a medical professional in a new borough, where hopefully they might take it and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!’

‘I’m so sorry but…’

‘Look I know it’s not you, but for God’s sake if you don’t know when it’s going to happen, be HONEST because every time you move the dates, I promise you, it’s like a kick to the stomach to someone like me, and y’know what?  Not everyone is as outspoken as me, and let’s face it, the last thing you want is a suicide on your hands?  Just saying!’

I don’t remember who hung up, but I do know that afterwards my hands were trembling with rage, but felt curiously released and revitalised. Aunty C (my counsellor) laughed when I told her.

‘Good for you!  It’s great to that passion back! You are better off not relying on them, move forward, don’t hang around for them or you’ll be there forever!’

That was yesterday.

Today brought me back down to earth with a thunk.

Another service bill because they ‘under estimated’ last year’s. This is like some kind of conspiracy. How am I going to sell this place and afford somewhere near my friends now? I don’t know whether to explode again or sink into a sludgy puddle of lethargic, defeatist despair.

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I swear if I counted Dr Manhattan amongst my close friends, i would happily volunteer to be ‘ink blotted’ right now, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit anymore.

I wouldn’t even notice his fine physique, Billy C jawline or his huge blue willy wafting gently in night air.

Nope. Just splat me dude, then fuck off back to tinkering around on Mars, ta muchly.

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I honestly don’t know what’s going to come down on me next, but at this rate, I’ll be homeless.  I guess that’s when I’ll find out who my real friends are.

Look out for me sweeping up on my very own desolation row. I’ll be the one that ends up running riot with that broom in the direction of my local mental health facility.

Pray for me.

Namaste x

http://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/04/29/holy-moses/


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The Daily Post ‘To-Do? Done!’ – SOMEWHERE THAT’S GREEN (Updated)

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‘Quickly list five things you’d like to change in your life. Now, write a post about a day in your life once all five have been crossed off your to-do list.’

Of late the majority of my posts have been about the dire stuff that has been happening in my life, hence I’ve been less and less inspired to write, so I thought ‘I know!  I’ll shut up whinging about my shit (yes I do whinge, CD!) and do a “Daily Post” challenge to take my mind of it!’.

And here we are.

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Ahem.

WTF, I’ll do it anyway.

My five things, sorry, five OF my things are:

1. Get out of this shitstorm, sell up and find somewhere affordable to live where I don’t keep waking up in a cold sweat (and no it’s not down to the menopause) in the dead of night waiting for the bailiffs/debt collectors to come get me.

2. Find a way to manage my illness with or without the help of professionals, as right now it’s looking like I’ll have to forgo my two years of schema therapy if I move out of this borough. And I can no longer afford to live here.

3. Find some gainful employment that I can tolerate/cope with, so that I don’t keep waking up, covered in sweat, in the blah, blah, blah….

4. Sort out my body, i.e. stop treating it like shite by comfort eating, staying in 24/7 and deliberately depriving it of exercise, and look after it as least as well as I do my car.

5. Find some way of forgiving, accepting and even loving myself so that I can love and be loveable to others and have/keep people in my life.

Pretty fundamental stuff eh?  None of this ‘buy a pair of Louboutins’, ‘pull that hot guy at the gym’ or ‘have a closest clean out’ trivia pour moi.  Such stuff does not even register on my radar right now. Survival is the name of the game.

And how might things look should I achieve the impossible?

Perhaps a little like this:

To clarify, I’m not physically injured and don’t have a ‘semi sadist’ boyfriend; I sometimes wish I did, as I’d be able to justifiably beat the crap out of him, which would be a great exercise in stress relief.  ;-)

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It’s just that I have no idea what a ‘normal life’ would look like for someone like me, so this is as good an illustration as any, and as cringe makingly embarrassing as it is, like Audrey, I do yearn to be away from the city and reside ‘somewhere that’s green’.

But I’m copping out here, because I’m scared to paint the picture.  Because in my heart I daren’t believe it might come true.

But OK, challenges are challenges, so I’ll take a punt at it.

No picket fence, no shrink wrapped furniture (no plastic has been invented that my cats can’t annihilate) and no Howdy frigging Doody who/whatever that is.

But yes, I’m living in that ultimate cliche, a cottage near the sea.

I cook a darn sight better than Betty Crocker and now have a dining room so I can have friends around for BBQ’s, parties and big Sunday lunches.  

I’m living closer to my friends.  I’m close enough to my family that it’s not a five hour journey to get to them, but not so close that it makes either of us twitchy.  

I’m walking distance (or I’ll settle for a short drive) away from the water/beach so I know I can go there and watch the waves when the mind monkeys are driving me ape shit.

I’m walking distance (OK, a short drive) from my part time job which is challenging but not too demanding, leaving me enough energy to pursue the kind of work I love, and yes I have a baking business on the side.

I have the energy to write and make even be embarking on a novel.  At the very least I’m in a writing group and mixing with like minded folk.  

I do yoga. I dance.  I have a social life.  That would be kind of wonderful.

And the biggest thing of all, NO ONE knows about my shit, and whilst I might never pass for normal (quirky/eccentric has been attributed to me in the past), I am accepted and embraced for who I am.  There is no point of me moving to the sticks if the townsfolk know that there’s a (albeit innocent looking) little monster planted in their midst.

If I can have all of that I won’t even need a ‘Seymour'; not yet anyway.  But I live in hope that one day I’ll know what it’s like to be held by a man again, cherished and maybe even enjoy walks on the beach with a strong silent soul.

Control freak dentists of the Shires should, however, watch where they put their implements ‘cos I’m nothing like as sweet as Audrey.

I’m much more of an Audrey 2 really.

With much bigger teeth. :-)

If I ever achieve all of these things on this list, you’ll be the first to know.  just don’t hold your breath, OK?

Namaste x

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/to-do-done/


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OPTIMISTIC MIX TRACK 16 – Jam Jam Jam (All Night Long) – People’s Choice

So, anyway…things got worse!  And my ass hangs in the balance big time now.  Cue muchos sleepless nights and teeth grinding.

But I’m not going to bore you with any more of my whiny shit.

I’m going to try and focus on the positive.

So, a lovely lady gave me a big bag of gorgeous green goosegogs today.

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So I made Gooseberry and Elderflower jam.

And hot damn it’s good!

Not exactly scintillating news I know, but it’s the most optimistic thing I have for you today, so to make up for the sheer banality of my life right now, here’s the kind of ‘Jam’ that got my spirits soaring back in the day.

Ah, great memories….

Namaste x


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AS SAFE AS HOUSES

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It’s ironic that after all of these years of hiding away at every given opportunity in this little burrow, I’m now being forced to leave it for good.  But it’s hardly surprising and I’m being ejected at my own hand really.

To my eternal shame, I do get benefits from the government, but they do not cover my mortgage, which I totally understand.  Why should they buy part of my property for me?  But it’s some other humungous charges that are to be my downfall.  On top of my repeatedly sticking my head back in the sand, pretending that my payout/savings would last forever.

Then came the day when I realised that not only did I have but a couple of grand left, but a massive bill would be winging its way to me in a matter of days, and I felt all the blood drain from my face and head to my bowels where it sloshed and churned miserably, and still does to this day.

Being penniless and on the street has always been my worst nightmare.  It was my mother’s before me too, and I seem to have inherited that from her.  Along with bad eyesight and goofy teeth.

Thanks for that, mum.

So why have I brought my own horror story to life?

Well for a start, in the past when one door closed (job wise) something else tended to creak open so I’d always, if not land on my feet, manage to stagger to them with a couple of grazed knees and a mild case of concussion.  Nothing amazing or career enhancing you understand, but I’d put my feelers out and something would come up on my radar and save my financial bacon.

Not this time.  In all fairness, as most of you know, I did deliberately eschew the corporate world for the last 2 years, and of course my EUPD (BPD) diagnosis did nothing to stabilise my condition or confidence, but I have applied for other jobs. One or two of similar seniority, some mid range, but mostly pretty lowly ones, that paid a fraction of what I used to earn.  Jobs i could do blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back.  

Did I even get a callback?  

Not one single one.

I’ve done odd days of ad hoc work.  I’ve tried to sell my baking.  And above all, I’ve been constantly on the alert for a sign from God whom I thought, given that I’m watching and listening so intently, might give me a clue as to what my purpose should be on this earth and perhaps open a door for me. Even the tiniest crack in some some shitty, splintered, graffiti festooned door somewhere would do.

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Is that too much to ask?

But if he’s sent me any messages, my network must be playing up as I’m still no further on when it comes to figuring out what my next steps are with regard to this predicament and indeed the rest of my life.

And I constantly mull and ponder and question myself.  Have I been making this all up? Is there a God?  Does he/she/it have a plan for me?  Or is it all random and I have no more of a destiny than that little grey mouth pounding it silly head against the hot bulb of my reading lamp?  My cat is watching it very intently so I don’t fancy it’s chances once it gets bored of doing that either….

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So I’m meant to live, eat, shit, fuck, sleep, die and decompose and it’s no more complicated than that?

Or I am burning up some horrible karma from a previous life where I’ve been a total biatch, and that’s why I’m getting the silent treatment?

Maybe God is just thinking ‘Lazy, cocky little mare, who does she think she is?  Who said I have a plan for her anyway?  Slog away aimlessly little insect until I decide to acknowledge and give you something useful to do.  If you’re lucky.’

Boy I’ve done a number on myself, make no mistake about it.  Because if, no let’s be honest, WHEN I leave here, I’ll be unable to do the 2 year Schema Therapy trial as I’ll be living in outside London so not entitled to it.

The only thing that would rectify this situation would be if I got a full time job here and was able to fully support myself.  And let’s face it, that ain’t looking too hopeful.

But maybe this is meant to be.  Maybe I’m meant to move.  And if I’m able to buy a little place outright with what I get from this place, that would be a load of my mind.  I could get a tiny house with a little garden for my mogs somewhere in the sticks.

What if I can’t get a job in Newfoundtown?  Well I can’t get one here, so what’s the difference?!  And whilst I might be super broke, the bailiffs might take my TV (ARRGHH!), and my leccy and gas might get cut off, I’d still own the place and no one will be able to repossess it.

As for the Schema, I’m due to get a proper written diagnosis so maybe that will help me get some alternative therapy in the new borough/city/county.

Oh God, the thoughts just keep whirling around in my head.  And after the shit that’s come from living in it to date, I still want to shrink back into my brick shell and not do anything bar trembling under my duvet.

Aunty C (my counsellor) is being wonderful and supportive and optimistic. But I know she’s afraid for me too.

As for my family, I’ve pretty much told them that I’ve run out of money and have to sell, and that message was met with complete silence before my sister changed the subject and wanted to catch up on some gossip about a mutual friend.

No offers of support or help.  I think she’s worried I’ll ask for money or ask to stay with her but I’d rather slice my tongue out than do that, as the last time I did that, many years ago, she presented me with an invoice the day I left.  The bill was calculated as if I were lodger renting a room, there was a charge for the food I imbibed per day, a share of the energy bill, TV licence, council tax etc., and came complete with a date that it must be paid by.

I walked away in shock.  I hadn’t even started my new job and felt about as loved as a dose of herpes.

Then a week later she demanded a contribution toward a very expensive gift for a family member when I didn’t have a penny to my name, and when I told her I didn’t have it, she threatened to stop me seeing her kids if i didn’t comply.

I forgave her many years ago. But some things you never forget.

What I would have appreciated was a call asking if I was OK, maybe some advice and a bit of sisterly support, but she can stick it now.

One thing’s for sure, I won’t be moving anywhere near her as many have advised.  Anyway I don’t have to worry about being lonely in the new town, because that’s always with me, wherever I go.

So I just need to get on with it so that I can walk out of here with my head held high and not tweezed out, wriggling all the way like a winkle on the end of a pin.

That’s a good point!  I could live at the seaside!

OK so this might be a good thing, but I’m going to do a three pronged approach.

1.  Get this place valued, start looking for somewhere and figure out how much money I need to facilitate the entire operation.

2.  Doctor/dumb down my CV with a view to getting secretarial/admin work.  A EPA/Miss Moneypenny kind of role ideally.

3.  Write to my lenders and explain the situation, ask them what they can do for me, and if nothing else assure them that I’ll be paying them off in full so they have nothing to fear and don’t need to repossess.

Lord I’m scared.  But I’m going to bite the bullet and get on with it.

I have Clara and my friends, and I also remember that I always feel stronger when i look after my body and diet. In fact the Lent period was the healthiest I’d ever been so I guess i should get back on that too.

I think this is a quite good plan.  Unless stuff goes wrong.  And there’s so much that can go wrong. Especially with my karma.

Fuck, STOP THAT SISTA!

This fucking FEAR rules my ass big time.

I just want to find a place I can call home.  As I’ve never felt that I belong anywhere.

And it occurs to me that if I can conquer this SHIT and feel a sense of belonging within myself then I could feel at home anywhere like those little molluscs, adrift in a vast, all encompassing ocean, but perfectly happy in their self sufficient shells.

That’s quite a way off though.  

And even they have to look out for the pricks….

Please pray for me.

Namaste xx

 

 

 

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