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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I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS #BPD #EUPD

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The last couple of months or so have been tough.

Apart from the looming financial issues, I’m starting to realise that Aunty C (my counsellor as opposed to my shrink) may have been right about my not being formally being diagnosed (and hence labelled) and just pushing forward and trying to make things work. The trouble is that when you keep trying and keep landing on your arse time and time again, you come to realise that you’re not getting anywhere, and you’re not getting something that you need in order to progress.

And I’ve always been a truth seeker.

The trouble is that sometimes that truth is so frightening and overwhelming that you lose faith in ever being a fully functioning member of society again.

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Given that only Aunty C (and you lot) know the extent of my condition, there have been times of late that I have come very close to confiding in a family member or friend, especially given that ‘the book’ encourages the recruitment of ever loving, uber supportive cheerleaders who shake their pom poms, and chant encouragingly as you tackle life head on, whilst simultaneously battling your demons on the job.  Probably locked in the office loo reading mantras feverishly off a sweaty, creased flashcard whilst praying no one hears you talking to yourself.

But I can’t bring myself to do it, and have to carry the burden alone.  Damn my suspicion, lack of trust and faith in mankind!

But the last week or so has proved that I am right to be so trepidatious, as I have heard casual, damning prejudices slip out of the mouths of, if not my chosen confidantes, people not to dissimilar to them.

The first was at a BBQ where I was chatting to an old family friend who was warning me off a couple that he and some others had fallen out with.

‘Honestly Sista’ he said earnestly ‘stay away from him, he’s a twat and has shafted people more savvy than you.’

‘Really?’ I replied, not wanting to get involved in some willy waving turf war that was really none of my business.  Hell I get myself into shit on a regular basis without even trying. Did Ross really think I needed him dragging me into his personal spats?

‘Really,’ he asserts, drunkenly taking a big swig of warm Pimms, the wet shaft of celery nearly taking his eye out, ‘as for that wife of his, I’d only known her an evening and she tells me she has a personality disorder!  As if she was telling me her star sign!  Or her job!  Seriously, it beggars belief….’

And he does it.  He rolls his eyes and twirls his index finger at his head.  

The universal shorthand for ‘Looney Alert’.

‘Really?’ I murmur trying to bite down the urge to shriek ‘SNAP!’ in his face and watch him redden, squirm and struggle for a response.

But I was saved from my naughty mind monkeys by the host calling us over for hot burgers and chicken.

This same person, I’ll have you know, hardly let’s a day go by without plastering a lovely meme on his Facebook page about supporting people with mental health issues and chiding those who judge ‘em, this being one of his favourites:

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What a hypocritical knob, eh?

So I kept schtum.  Mainly because this prick isn’t someone I encounter very often, so doesn’t really matter, but his blatant masquerading as someone who did not judge others less fortunate than him makes me sick to the stomach.  It also disgusts me that a vulnerable individual, like this girl, might have shared her condition with him because of this bullshit propaganda, and he’s now spitefully spreading her secret far and wide.

The utter COCK.

The next encounter took place on Facebook itself, where an ex colleague was having a heated but entirely rational exchange with a female, and when he could not finish the argument he himself had picked, he told her to ‘Leave it!  Fucking bunny boiler.  Have you had your medication today?’

The woman did not reply.  I don’t know whether she has a history of mental health issues or was just disgusted that he had dismissed her thus (or indeed both), but I bet he wouldn’t have spoken to her that way if she had been a man.  And if he did use that forum to ‘out’ and deliberately shame her because she was intellectually out of his league, then I’m really glad that we no longer work together anymore.

The final straw was today when I opened an emailed blog from someone having a go at a ‘sick stalker’ who has allegedly being harassing him and others bloggers, the final line/parting shot being ‘Personality disorders can be so bothersome’.

No.  Shit.

My first thought was ‘I can’t believe he sent me this’ because he only knows me from this blog, but of course the mail out was sent to all of his followers so it wasn’t a personal attack.  It stung though.  And ultimately made me feel sad.  And resigned to my secret shame.

And in many ways I can’t blame him.  As you can see from this earlier post, I had the very same impression of BPD sufferers myself:

http://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/12/18/name-that-disorder-in-one/

But it finally made my mind up that I’ll never share my condition with anyone now.  Because people do judge whether they like it or not, whether they want to or not. And anything outside of depression (BDP, bipolar, schizophrenia etc) is still very unacceptable to the majority, whether it’s politically incorrect to admit it or not.

And whilst I admit to having trust issues, people, even those you love, do use your condition against you.

When I confronted someone over something she did, even though others had witnessed it, she immediately adapted a sickly ‘poor you’ expression, only just stopping short of doing the ‘twirly finger to head’ to those nearby when she thought I wasn’t looking, implying that I was being irrational.

When someone tried manipulate me to do her dirty work and I politely called her out on it, she pulled a similar face, implying that it was all in my imagination.  OMG she didn’t know it was that big a job!  No, of course she didn’t expect me to do it all!  I had totally misunderstood her!

And when someone asked me for a favour/money or to do something I was not comfortable with and I explained why I couldn’t help him, I got the ‘Excuse moi? You’re refusing me?!’ look, the disappointed sigh, and was blanked for about 3 months, just to make the point that he’s normal, I’m loopy and as far as he was concerned, I need his friendship more than he needed mine.  Hey, I should count myself lucky that he hasn’t had me sectioned for my audacity in optimising my free will!

So in sum, in being an out BPD/EUPD, I would be forgoing respect, credibility, my power and pretty much offering my throat to any passing predator, let alone showing them the whites of my eyes.

Fuck that.

So as lonely as it is to deal will this without the help of ‘cheerleaders’, I’m gonna pop my cojones out, man the fuck up and deal with it on my own.

Because I’m not one of you.  I’m one of them.

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And you know what?  If you met me, you’d never even guess.

So that means that me and my kind could be in your vicinity now.  Stalking you, cooking your cottontail and sharpening your biggest, best Sabatier whilst you prepare for a nice soak in your steaming hot tub….

Be afraid bitches; be every afraid.  The blatantly crazy aren’t the ones you should be wary of.

But that’s not the scariest thing of all.

Because when the shit comes down, you know that instinctively it’ll be me you want to turn to.  Because you know I’ve stared rejection, humiliation, isolation and financial ruin in the face, the very things you yourself dread, and I’m still standing.  And when you’re in that dark desolate public hell, who will show up to guide you back out towards the light?  Not your lovely, popular, social climbing compadres that’s for sure.  And you’ll be praying for my unacceptable scary ass to show up.  Whether I do or not remains to be seen.

You see?  Bothersome ain’t the half of it.

Namaste y’all ;-)


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‘AVE A WORD WITH YOURSELF…..

Floundering, floundering, floundering….finally, after superhuman resistance, it’s time to speak to my better ‘alf, wish me luck….

“The Cave”

It’s empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you’ve left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again

‘Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I’ll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind

So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears

But I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker’s land

So make your siren’s call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say

‘Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it’s meant to be

And I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again

 


18 Comments

SEVERANCE

bullied-alamy

It seems to me that going past the dreaded 50th birthday landmark makes people want to start digging around in their past to find out what has happened to whom, on a far too regular basis.

And if I were to hazard a guess why this phenomenon takes place, I would say that the unfulfilled, regretful and bored empty nesters tend to do this because they want to either compare themselves with their old schoolmates, hook up with some old boyfriend/girlfriend, or simply try and recapture their long lost youth by reminiscing about the old days.

Those of you who know me may have gathered that I’m not a fan of anything or anyone from my past re-emerging into MY present, uninvited.  They’d be about as welcome as one of my forty odd year old stools popping up in the loo, Mr Hanky stylee shouting ‘Howdy ho!  Guess who?’  

Ever the bridge burner, cutter offer and drawer of lines under the past, I like to past lovers/friends/employers to remain in the parallel universe they occupy and stay the hell outta Sistaville.

They have their country, I have mine.

They have their county, I have mine.

They have their borough, I have mine,

They have their street, I have mine.

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OK, so I do know that I’m rapidly running out Sista only territory (hence my fondness of pseudonyms), and I don’t have any lifelong friends so I’m pretty lonely hence it might not have been the best life coping strategy to adopt, but it’s a bit late for this old bitch to learn new tricks.

Well, that’s debatable I guess as ‘networking’ <shudders> is something I’m going to need to embrace moving forward according to the dreaded ‘book’, but what I didn’t welcome or accept is an unwelcome blast from the past knocking on my cyber door the other day.

Some woman whose name I’d never heard of tried to ‘friend’ me on Facebook.

I didn’t recognise her face, we didn’t have friends in common, so I was about to reject her and move on, when I noticed that she used to go to the same school as me.

Curious I had a look at her profile with something akin to dread churning in my stomach.  Of course I recognised the Christian name, but this was 40 years ago, so how was I supposed to know if it was her or not?

Then I saw the old 70’s photo of her family that she must have scanned and uploaded, and immediately knew it was Sally B.

The only close friend I had in my childhood.

The very same friend who fucked me off when I started getting bullied and picked on at senior school.

Well she actually picked a fight with me over a necklace but we both knew that she manufactured it as an excuse to break away from me, or only see me when her popular new friends weren’t around.  What she didn’t bank on though was my uncanny ability to totally cut off from people and, if encountering them again in public, being able to look through them as if they were a pane of glass and/or a piece of shit in the street.  And given that I was geeky and she was cool, Sal was very indignant about my coldness, so sent her younger brother out to beat me up, and he kicked the hell out of me.

We had been friends since we were about 6, which is pretty much a lifetime when you are 12 years old, so the break up felt like the end of the world, as it was the ultimate betrayal and indeed full confirmation to me that no one, but NO ONE could be trusted.

Over the years I got my own back.

I got contact lens and bleached my hair.  I became skinny, sexy and cool.  I had a very hot boyfriend.  I hung out with a band.  I moved to London.  I brought home an even hotter boyfriend.  I had expensive clothes.  I went to all the best clubs in London.  I travelled the world.  Well I got beyond Costa del Chipshop which is probably more than she ever did.

And whilst I don’t remember her seeing me in all my punky/new romantic, trendy, hot other half glory, Shitsville was a small town and I’m pretty damn sure she got to hear about it all.   Especially when I turned up to mass one Easter, Siouxie Sue’d up to the eyeballs, in leathers with my hot Italian Catholic BF (his idea, not mine) and stunned the entire congregation.

So fuck her and market stall clothes, her chavvy boyfriend, her lame job and predictable, shitty small town life.

As the years have gone by, whilst I still have some family oop North, I rarely find myself in that neck of the woods, so I pretty much forgot all about her.

Until now.

And before you say it, I KNOW.

We were only kids.  And kids are horrible.

But being a fucked up, BPD, revenge loving bitch, I find to my surprise that I still hate her.  And her horrible family.  Just looking at that photo makes my lip curl with contempt.

And as I scrutinise her profile I see she is friends with a few of the other thuggish bitches that made my life an utter misery all those years ago.  And I smile cruelly to myself at the way they look, the clothes they are wearing, the jobs they are (or mainly are not) doing, and inwardly jeer at their appalling grammar, shit taste in music, middle aged outlook and the fact that yes, they are still living in Shitsville and probably will for the rest of their days.

And I wonder what the fuck she thinks we have to say to one another after all these years.  Does she remember what she did? Is she sorry?  What she couldn’t possibly know is that she was my first ever severance.  And whilst over the years, I could do it with nary a flicker of emotion, as we all know, the first cut is the deepest, and losing the only person on the same wavelength as me at such a tender age was like losing a limb.

Severance Leg

So, to be perfectly honest, whilst I’d like to say I’d rise above it, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop myself from being horrible to her if we did enter into some kind of dialogue.

So much for my Tutu approved Forgiveness course.  Sorry Des :-(  It is pretty apparent to me now, like diet and exercise, I am going to have to work on this deeply challenging skill for the rest of my life, because I hate how this ugly emotion makes me feel inside.

So for now, I think it best to ignore her and move on, as, if I can only look back in anger, it’s best not to look back at all.

‘And so, Sally can wait….’

Sorry…couldn’t resist that…. ;-)

Namaste x


7 Comments

FRIENDS

Just a quick line to say thank you for all your messages and offers of support.  

Just because I wasn’t fit to receive them doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them more than I can say.

Was on very shaky ground there for a day or two, but I managed to get to yoga last night and am tanked up to the eyeballs on Divine Miss S, so am working towards getting my baggy old butt out into the world if only to breathe freshly polluted London air instead of the aroma of drug sweat, tea breath and stale cat farts.

Also I have a big family event to attend next week, and aren’t as selfish (or cowardly as some people would claim) to ruin their big day by not attending or something far worse.  That and the urge to punch the touché éclat off the boat race of a certain Shep Smith, who/whatever that is.

How fucking dare he? What is it with him, Hannity and all those other pompous, brainless right wing pricks being paid to mouth their ignorant, short sighted, stupid opinions for money?  Who watches that shit anyway?

Unlike the song says, my problems haven’t gone, but I am done seeking gurus, spirit guides and signs from above to light my way.  It’s down to me to put my big girl pants on, and get myself out of this shitfight. 

Most of my friends have gone.  They took themselves away, truth be told.  Or did I drive them away? Right now I neither know nor care. 

But it gladdens my heart to see you lot easing down the road, smiling and waving instead of hiding behind lampposts in the hope that I pretend I didn’t see you, and fuck off home. ;-)

I’m also here if you need me, but i think you know that anyway.

Special thanks to CD, you little tinker.  Stay in touch!

Big love xxxxxxxx


22 Comments

ANOTHER LIFE LOST TO ‘THE FEAR’ #depression #eupd

What can I say that others have not said before me?

I was so shocked and appalled at the death of the Hollywood great that is Robin Williams.

Like many on here, I have grown up with his TV Shows and movies, and it would particularly gladdened my heart when he appeared on chat shows, as he along with Billy Connelly was raconteur par excellence:

And of course everyone has been going ‘Why, why?’ and some particularly stoopid folk have called him selfish because they can’t understand why such a talented, rich, successful man could end his life in such a way.

Well let me tell you wankers, mental illness along with cancer, AIDs and death is one of those great levellers that cannot be fixed or alleviated by wonga.  Sure you can afford rehab and retreats and get to see the best physicians in their swanky offices, and recline on their velvet covered couches, but at 3am in the morning, when you can’t sleep because something is coming for you, and you are that close to taking an overdose, if only so you can stop running, it doesn’t really matter how expensive your designer jamas are, what the thread count of your bedding is or how presidgeous your postcode/zipcode is, the dark is the dark, and the Fear is the Fear, and there’s no escaping it, no matter who you are.

And that was the thing that really broke my heart.

That he knew the Fear.  My Fear.  ‘Cos it sounded very much like mine, in an interview he did with the Guardian a few years ago about his addictions.

http://www.theguardian.com/film/2010/sep/20/robin-williams-worlds-greatest-dad-alcohol-drugs

The reporter asked Robin whether it was the death of his friend Christopher Reeve that pushed him over the edge that time:

“No” he replied “it’s more selfish than that.  It’s just literally being afraid.  And you think, oh this will ease the Fear.  And it doesn’t”  What was he afraid of?  “Everything.  It’s just a general, all round argghh.  It’s fearfulness and anxiety”

And I hate it so that it tormented him too.

To the lovely, kind hearted, well intentioned folk out there, please don’t send people like me fucking Fear themed memes or quotes.  We’ve heard ‘em all.  Hell, I’ve even sent some myself.  ‘Cos when you feel that bad, none of them mean shit.

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I’ve nearly finished my schema therapy book.  I thought it would make me feel better. But it doesn’t. What it does do is explain why my years of therapy haven’t been enough to crack my anger, self hatred and self sabotaging behaviour and that, given the number of schemas I have (nearly a full house, folks! Whoop de doo!) there is no way I can do this by myself.

So I’m really frightened now.

I’m frightened that I don’t get picked for schema therapy.

I’m frightened that whatever I do get won’t work.

I’m frightened that I won’t get any work and lose my home.

I’m frightened that I have to give up my cats.

I’m frightened that mine will be the next name in the obits column in my local paper before the year is out.

I’ve read so many lovely comments about the great man on Facebook today and that meme that tells you not to be ashamed about your mental afflictions was all over the place, so just as an experiment, I posted something that wasn’t exactly a confession, but alluded that I was knew more about it that I had previously let on.

Silence.

Nary a ‘Like’ or a comment in sight.

You see, that’s the beauty of Facebook. Everything is out there and can be summoned or dismissed with the click of a mouse, so you can pretend that you are tolerant, politically correct and big hearted, but the tiniest sniff of anything or anyone that could affect your world or turn up on your doorstep, then you can ignore it, block them or log out, and get the hell outta there.

So I guess I’ll need to keep pretending that everything between my ears is behaving itself, and with any luck, everyone can pretend they’re non the wiser if I end up following suite and bow out early one day.

Sshh…so just don’t tell on me, OK?

Robin-Williams.-006

 

 

 


14 Comments

NAMASTE BITCHES

yogi2

I made it back

I hit the mat

But in my head are those mean twats

Who say that I should disappear

But I still made it, I’m still here

 

It is as tough as I recall

Some poses I can’t do at all

My muscles ache, my joints they creak

Whilst my demons hiss and speak

 

‘If your old workmates saw you now

They would seriously have a cow!

A teacher, you?!’ they laugh and jeer

‘So much for old ambitions, dear!’

 

And I’m ashamed, I must confess

Poor body, it’s in such a mess

Days, weeks, months, years, gone I know

I didn’t mean to neglect it so.

 

‘Get through this class, then move your ass

Go home and put it in the past

You know you’re not good at committing

Just hit that sofa, stick to knitting’

 

They have a point, I know they’re right

But I won’t go down without a fight

I may be tired and full of fear

But I’m still moving, I’m still here

 

Those years are dead and gone, God knows

As for tomorrow, fuck, who knows

I may just end up staying in bed

And let those bastards fill my head

 

But now, I’m present in the zone

And whilst I may still long for home

I move my ass, lunge, dip and breathe

And let those bastards curse and seethe

 

I’m looser now, I’m feeling lighter

If nothing else I’m still a fighter

So hear this demons, loud and clear

‘Namaste bitches, I’m still here’

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11 Comments

EAR WORM No. 22 – Elvis Costello – EVERYDAY I READ THE BOOK #BPD

Whilst not everything has gone right for me of late, I had a really good day on an unpaid job the other day.  I was able to laugh, clown, bond and banter and at the end of the day I was besieged by Facebook friend requests.  Well about ten, but that’s a lot for me!

As always I seem to find that by being someone else, I get to show my best/true nature, contradictory and mad as that seems.

Then I had dinner with a friend that I wasn’t sure I could be around, but lo and behold, we had a really nice time!

But as surely as night follows day, this halcyon period of normality is swiftly followed by a disgusting bout of sabotage and self destruction, and it’s almost like part of me can’t possibly allow someone as undeserving as me to keep up the momentum and stay on the straight and narrow.

So, I’ve decided to try and replicate what I did in Lent (i.e. stay off sugar/alcohol and work out more), plus I’ve created a tick box of things I need to do everyday in order to try and help me be nicer to myself and progress in areas I’m neglecting.

Healthy heart check list

This includes cutting losing myself in TV 24/7 and instead, reading that Schema Therapy book (Reinventing Your Life by Jeffrey E Young) and wherever possible, working through the exercises.

One hour in and I’m writing this instead.

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Whilst I’ve long recognised and understood a lot of where my shit comes from, and, on an intellectual level at least, understand what needs to be done to rectify it, I don’t like it reading this tome, much less anticipating doing these exercises with a bunch of strangers in September and I can feel a hot murky soup of unknown emotions bubbling ominously within me.

Urgh.

Actually I can name them.

Anger, fear, resentment, embarrassment, vulnerability, shame, despair.

There!  But I will finish the damn thing, maybe even by the end of the weekend.

I’m determined.  Otherwise how am I going to bring myself to even show up come therapy time?

I’m also being pushed by Aunty C to write some fiction, and I’ve promised her I’ll try again, but whether I stick to that one is anyone’s guess.  And when that day comes, I’ll be able to head up a post that reads ‘Everyday I WRITE the book’.

But in the meantime, I had to include this superb Elvis C track.

Why should you lot miss out because I’m a such a procrastinating wimp? ;-)

Namaste x

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