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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EAR WORM No. 23 – The Smiths – THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT #SUICIDE

No prizes to guess why this particularly ditty is going round and round in my head.

‘Take me out tonight….’

http://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/10/27/take-me-out/

The lyrics are also darkly, comically astute in this instance.

‘Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Anymore’

That said ‘I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care’ because it’s by the mighty Smiths who can do little wrong as far as I’m concerned, and whilst lots of people take issue with Morrissey, their controversially outspoken, mincy front man, no one can deny their musically prowess and, whilst you may not agree with Mozza on everything, you can’t deny that the man has ethics and isn’t afraid to voice them, acceptable or otherwise, and his quotes are legendary.

Plus he’s an animal lover, which makes him one of the good guys in my book.

There is a surprisingly optimistic line in this song which is, of course, ‘There is a light that never goes out’, and whilst I somehow doubt that it’s a reference to God or anything to do with the afterlife, I could be wrong.

Perhaps it’s all about clinging to that moment (or moments like it) when you’re driving around in a soft top car on a warm summer’s night with someone you love, your wages/student grant burning a hole in your pocket, the air ripe with frivolity and possibility, and shitty old real life is on the back burner, and seems so very far away.

Until of course, the clubs close, your money’s all gone, the air is ripe with the smell of stale beer, spilt blood and fresh vomit, your hangover is just started to kick and and you’re sat on the pavement still off your tits waiting for the night bus to take you home.

That’s the rub. We always have to turn back around and face what’s lying in wait for us.  Even Morrissey knew that, hence he was willing to die just to stay in that moment.

Can’t say I blame him really.

Despite all this, I find this sing-a-long classic strangely optimistic and I guess, like some wise soul told me recently, ‘Just remember, when you’re sat on the (beer soaked) floor, you can’t fall off!’

I just hope that there are no uncovered manholes within crawling distance, that’s all.  Or dog shit come to that.

Enjoy the song x

http://www.lyricsfreak.com/s/smiths/there+is+a+light+that+never+goes+out_20126868.html


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TAKE ME OUT

wolf

Well.

I did it.

I rang my mortgage lenders, hung my head, and rolled over, then closed my eyes, waiting to be torn to shreds.

Or that’s how it feels at any rate.

And although it was what I was advised to do, and in theory the most sensible course of action, I know in my heart that I have sacrificed my last shred of dignity.

Lost job?  Check.

Claiming benefits?  Check.

Bad credit rating?  Imminent.

The thing is that I rang them in good time so that this wouldn’t happen.

But I am such a naive fool.

Because even though I have no bad debts and have not defaulted on any outstanding payments (yet), now that I’ve alerted them to the fact that I may not be solvent for much longer, they are now on red alert.

It also doesn’t help that I have my mortgage, bank accounts and credit card all with the same people, so I’m guessing that using my plastic is going to be touch and go from now on, and that any overdrafts and/or loans will be totally out of the question.

Not that I need or want debt.

It’s just like having that ‘You can stay with us if you’re desperate’ offer which, as I’ve previously mentioned, has not being reiterated of late.  There is no way I want to stay in anyone else’s home, nor accrue debt if I can possibly avoid it.

it would just be nice to know that these things are in place should the worst come to the worst.

Just in case.

But now the final nail is in the coffin of the person I used to be, the person I thought I was at any rate.

You see, whilst I don’t think i have much to be proud of in my life, one of the few things I have prided myself in over the years is that I have been quite sensible with money.  Apart from the occasional splurge (which tended to be on food/wine as opposed to designer clothing), I paid all bills well in advance of the deadlines, paid my credit card off in full every month, and did everything I could to ensure that I would never end up on the street.

A tough working class upbringing by one parent who lived in the pub/bookies and another who scrimped and saved and who feared this above all else tends to rub off on a kid, and I was determined that her fear would not be my fear, let alone my fate.

Funny how things turn out, hey?

You think you know yourself, or one knows oneself, don’t you, until things gradually fall away.

Your job, your business, your ethics, your social life, your dignity, your pride.

Maybe this is what is meant to happen to me.  Maybe I’m being tested.

On the plus side, there isn’t much else I can lose right now.

Apart from my life.

pp31942-spiral-reaper-game-over-poster

And right now, I just wouldn’t give a shit.  In fact in some twisted way, I’d love it because I’d be able to just give in, for real, rent out this shit hole, guilt one of my friends into taking in my boys (with visiting/sofa rights of course cos dying would make me shameless), get the old credit card and just party until all my credit has gone and/or the geezer in the black coat arrives with his big knife thing and drags me off to wherever.  Maybe the place where the other sucker with the white robes should have dropped me off in the first place.

Whatcha say big boy?  We got ourselves a date?  Because dragging me ain’t gonna be necessary.

You don’t even have to wait till Halloween, I don’t want to come on too strong but any night works for me.  Hell, you don’t even have to buy me dinner.  I doubt you’d eat much anyway.

Because, for the record, you don’t scare me, you boney bastard, so quit all that grimacing and whoo-ing and get your skinny arse over here and take me out.

Before the next thing happens.   Because I have a horrible feeling that I haven’t even reached bottom yet.

Incidentally someone is so going to get it in the neck for all this one day.  Because my memory, patience and appetite for revenge probably even outstrips yours.

In the meantime, God please help me endure this life and that which is yet to come.

It’s the fucking least that you owe me.


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ANGER IS AN ENERGY

Lord_of_the_Kraken_by_SteveArgyle

I can’t be around people I know right now.

Or, more to the point, people who know me, know about me and profess to love me.

I can’t contain the anger see, no matter how I try.

Even if I keep schtum, it twists my mouth, bleeds from my narrowed accusing eyes, and emanates from my core, surrounding me in such a huge miasma of unvented vitriol, I wonder how my hair doesn’t crackle and stand on end.

And whether they know it or not, they sense it.

You see, I may mock these Schema sessions, but it’s only taken three for them to bust through my ‘accepting’ Zen like veneer, and release the Kracken, and since the last meet, I can’t stop the fury.  My lying, weasel of an estate agent, the patronising sexist caretaker, a faux Facebook friend, Oscar Pistorius, and subsequently ‘alternative’ comedian Jimmy Carr have all felt the rough of my tongue, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Even before I got to the session, I was bubbling and roiling with resentment, and when I remembered that (a) we were being filmed, (b) I’d consented to this and (c) the fucking camera was pointing in my direction, (ironic given that in different circumstances I’m perfectly happy with being filmed), I was absolutely determined to give not an inch.

Nada.

They prompt me, you see.

Gently and with apparent concern (retch), but I’m not having it.

‘How are people feeling today?  Sista, would you like to start?’

‘No.’

‘Ah….’

And everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats.  It’s quite funny really.  They’re so grateful to be there and desperate to be ‘cured’, but I’ve been here so many times before, that a ball of wool, bits of felt and sympathetic tones cut no ice with me.

They don’t care about us.  We’re just lab rats and something else to put on their illustrious CV’s.

Then they start discussing the ‘Punitive/Demanding Parent’ (close relative to Aunty C’s ‘Bad Parent’ I believe) and that, whilst our parents damaged us, they probably did their best at that time, and when everyone seemed keen to embrace that theory, that is when I cracked.

‘Sorry, I don’t buy that at all.’

Shrink No’s 1 and 2 whip their heads my way and frown.

‘They had a choice.  Even if they had a bad childhood, they could have decided to transcend that experience and give their child that which they missed out on. But they didn’t.  They decided that if they were hurt, why should things be any easier for us?’

One of my fellow inmates pipes up.

‘Yeah, but that was back in the day and they didn’t know about all, erm, all this then?’

I know what she means and I know she means well.  But she’s talking arse.

‘I was dragged up in the North West in the ’60’s and believe me, I know that there was no psychological awareness there when I was a kid.  You were either a looney and to be jeered at, or normal and accepted.  No one knew about this “Good Parent, Bad Parent” malarky that’s for sure…’

And I mime inverted commas with slightly excessive force and more than a touch of sarcasm.

‘…but my cousin took his shitty childhood and did the opposite to what his father did and became the best parent he could, and all his kids absolutely adore him.  See?  He had a choice and decided his kids deserved better.  Our parents chose the other path.’

‘That’s a fair point actually, and yes, this is sometimes the case’ agreed Shrink No. 1, and the others mumble in acquiescence.

Then I notice another girl is crying.

No. 2 is on it.

‘Bella*, what’s that bringing up for you right now?’

‘I don’t know, I’m…’ then she lets out a shaky sigh and meets my eyes.

‘….I….just don’t like anger’ and she shrugs apologetically.

I feel a bolt of shame lance straight through me, and I am silenced.

I know that I scare people sometimes, without even trying.  That said, she should see me when I really flip out.  But to be fair, us BPD’s are hypersensitive and I’m sure she senses the molten fury bubbling under my relatively composed facade.

As if reading my mind, No. 1 pipes up with ‘Please remember that this is a safe place people.  We are here to take care of you and Bella, I know Sista isn’t angry with you or anyone else in the group.’

I should say something.

‘Yeah, honestly?  I think you must be stronger than me if you can forgive and still love your parents.  I’m actually the weak one here.  And I’m sorry if I made you cry.’

Bella rewards me with a watery smile.

No. 1 then decides to chime in with ‘Believe me Bella, I don’t think Sista is that angry right now.   Believe me.  I’ve seen her when she’s angry!’

Whaaat?  Thanks Doc.  I’m now the groups very own Incredible Hulk and everyone will flinch if even my top button strains.

I reward him with a mock scathing sneer, everyone giggles and we move on.

But the shame stays with me.  Because the Jolly Green Giant is a mere tantruming toddler when compared to me at large, as I can destroy with my tongue as well as my fists.  And I clearly remind Bella of someone who hurt her very much.

I regularly mourn the fact that I am childless, but right now I thank God that I never reproduced, because who knows whether I would have lived up to my own exacting standards or gone classic ‘Mommie Dearest’.

But the anger’s still there.  If anything it’s worse.

I tried to do the best for myself and kept a pre arranged trip to the cinema with a ‘close’ friend, I haven’t seen for three weeks just to get me out of the flat.

How hard could it be?

1. Buy tickets

2. Small talk till the ads start

3. Watch the movie

4. Drive him to the station

5. Go home

Quite hard as it happens, as after three weeks silence, as went enter the cinema, he mentions that he’d deducted that I’d had a hard time of late from my posts on Facebook.

<yes, but you still kept your distance hey?  funny that….>

I fought to keep control.

‘Honestly Dean?  I really don’t want to talk about it, it’s too depressing.  Let’s focus on what you’ve been up to?’

Great parry.  He filled up the minutes with tales of his full, fulfilling social life until mercifully the trailers started, then the movie commenced.

But oddly my underlying mood clearly seeped into his personal space as unbeknownst to him, his body language clearly communicated his discomfort as throughout the film, he shrank away from me, turned his form in the opposite direction, and even whilst the movie itself was riveting, checked his watch on a regular basis.

When we got out it was late, the pubs were shut so the only option was for us to go to our respective homes.

<not that you’d linger anyway, hey Dean?  skint friends are such a bore and you have much more amusing things to do with your time I’ll bet>

‘Wanna lift to the station?’

‘Please!’

Then it went horribly wrong.

‘So what’s actually going on with your flat?’

‘Oh you know estate agents!  Full of shit until you sign with them!  To cut a long story things ain’t looking good re my great escape and I’m very worried about my future.  How are things at work?’

‘But can’t you rent out?’

<fucking drop it will you? drop it, drop it, drop it>

‘Nooo, because I won’t make a profit and won’t get my rent paid.’

‘So, there’s nothing on the job front either?  Odd because Steve says there’s load of temp work out there right now?’

<shut up, shut up, shut up….>

And then it all comes tumbling out.

‘I can’t move because there are no interested buyer plus it’s unlikely to sell for enough to get me out of this hell hole.  I can’t rent out.  I can’t get a job because I’m over 50, bonkers, can’t do full time because i have to work around my Schema Therapy, and everyone I’ve ever worked with, including my FRIENDS have pretty much distanced themselves from me so would not recommend or help me get something.  If I stay I’m fucked, if I move I lose my therapy.  My bills are bigger than my bank account and I could get repossessed and of course everyone who said I could stay with them is shitting themselves because let’s face it, who wants a depressive and two cats on their sofa?!’

I wink at him mockingly and before he can interject I continue.

‘No one that’s who.  It’s like the Budda says, you can never rely on others only yourself.  I can’t afford to go out and I can’t afford to stay in. My family like my FRIENDS are lying low just in case I ask anything from them and I’m essentially on my own in all this.  There!  Think that covers everything.  Questions?’

And as I take in his shocked little face by the light of the station lamps, I realise I’ve killed off yet another friendship, or at the very least, drop kicked it into intensive care.

‘I erm, well, I didn’t know things were that bad.’

I smile with faux jollity.

‘Well ya do now!’

We stare at each other.

He doesn’t move.

<get OUT of the fucking car Dean>

‘Erm, I didn’t know given you’ve just been a bit distance the last few weeks…’

I feel my mad Joker grin widen even more.

‘I haven’t been distant Dean!  You’re the one who said you’d be too busy to do anything for two weeks!  I just didn’t want to crowd you!’

His mouth is kind of moving but the words don’t make it out.

<get. out. of. my. car.>

‘You’re going to miss your train?’

‘OK, yeah, well I’ll….we’ll…’

‘Indeed!’

We air kiss and he opens the door.

‘See ya!’

And I drive away with a feeling of palpable relief, a furious grief and a howl of pain that never seems to end.

Another one bites the dust.

end_friendship111

But still the anger roils and boils.  I need to find a way to vent this shit before I take down entire cities.

I need to forgive the people who’ve let me down so badly.  Or have they?  It’s hard to tell when you’re certifiable.

I could be wrong.  I could be right.

This anger is the only energy that ever motivates me to do anything. Such a shame it’s a force for evil.

If I ever get to harvest it for the good, that’s when I know I can Rise.

But I ain’t holding my breath.

Ciao for now x

* FYI all names are changed to ensure anonymity, even though I blog under a pseudonom.

http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/public_image_limited/rise.html

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/jimmy-carrs-controversial-oscar-pistorius-joke-goes-too-far-at-the-q-awards-9812847.html


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HUBBLE, BUBBLE, YARN & TROUBLE

MAIN-Lynda-Bellingham

Today I have been mostly sighing.

I reiterate – sighing.

Not crying.

Despite things not going so great of late, I was doing OK.  I’ve been doing a bit of buddhist meditation and trying to accept my fate and was staying on a relatively even keel, until I went to my first Schema Therapy session.

To clarify, whilst this was my first session, it was the group’s second meeting, because, after all that angst filled waiting, I managed to miss the first one because I’d got the dates mixed up.  I’m pretty sure they (the two shrinks) thought I’d done it deliberately but I hadn’t.

One day seems very much like the next when you don’t have a life.

So, when I rocked up last Thursday, they were very effusive when welcoming me to the flock.

But I don’t trust them.  Partly because (as the scorpion said to the frog) it’s my nature, and partly because I haven’t forgotten them pretending my financial situation didn’t exist and that this would ensure that I was going to be there for the entire two years.  I was quite frankly amazed that someone so intelligent and well qualified would resort to behaving like an ostrich.  Well I’ve told ‘em and if they still choose to pretend that my imminent departure isn’t happening, that’s their funeral.

Also, the list of participants they showed me were women and there are men in this group. That’s going to be awkward further down the line.

The first, my first, session started with the ‘bubble’ exercise where we had to close our eyes and visualise being in a lovely bubble that none of our worries or anything bad could penetrate and where we were safe, at least for the 90 minutes we were at the hospital.

My friends, there are only so many things that a bubble can repel.  And an gang of burly baliffs would smash that motha to pieces, so I stared at the carpet by way of compromise and played along.

We then did this thing with a ball of yarn where we had to say our name wrap the yarn around our hand then throw it to someone else, until everyone was tied together, thus illustrating the unshakable bond between us.

Oh God, how I itched to take the piss out of it, so when they asked us what it looked like, I kept schtum.

But then they had to ask me, of all people, what I saw.

‘It looks like a pentagon.’

‘Ah yes’ enthused Shrink No. 1, ‘I can see that, so it’s like we’re points on a star?’

‘No.  A pentagon.’  As used in black masses? Fortunately I managed to keep that bit in my head.

Then, ten minutes in when one of the girls got emotional, Shrink No. 2 broke out some lengths of felt fabric for us to cuddle and link between us to signify softness, and a comforting bond.

What the absolute fuck?  Is anyone actually falling for this shit?

Well yes they were.  From what i could tell, I was the only cynic amongst them.  And that’s when the penny dropped.

Even in an entire group of misfits and outsiders, I’m the outsider.

That’s no mean feat is it?  Practically something to be proud of.

Except all I felt was despair.

I have nothing in common with the others.  I’m older, from a different area, a different background, and I’ve had lots of therapy over the years, whereas all the jargon, tools and visualisations seem to be new and wonderful to these people.

It’s not their fault but my trust in them is zero.  How can I bear my soul here?

On the plus side, I kind of feel that I might be able help them, and in that sense, help myself.

At one stage I pulled out my bottle of water for a drink and copped a worried grin from No. 2, then when one of the girls asked if she could drink from her flask of tea, everyone froze.

‘Um…’ said No. 1, ‘well, what does the rest of the group think?’

Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

‘Yes’ chimed in No. 2, ‘I think this should be a group decision.’ She nodded gravely.

Sorry?  It’s green tea, not methadone!

I had to pipe up.

‘I’m sorry but it didn’t even occur to me that drinking wouldn’t be allowed’ I said incredulously ‘I get very dehydrated from my meds, and can’t go 90 minutes without water, so as long as it’s not a can of Guinness, I don’t see what the problem is?’

The group burst out laughing and even the shrinks allowed themselves a faint smile.

‘Yes, well if everyone’s OK with that, we’ll agree that you can bring drinks into the group.’

Oh, goodie, goodie gumdrops.  Am I going to have to put my hand up to go wee wees too?

I reported back to Aunty C and she laughed.

‘Try not to rubbish it too much and see what you can get from it.’

I took that on board and congratulated myself on surviving the first session.

Except I haven’t.

Today I watched brave, ballsy Lynda Bellingham’s (British actress) final interview, when she spoke of her incurable bowel cancer and her resigning herself to imminent death, but was planning one last Christmas with her loved ones before popping her clogs.

But it never worked out that way as she died on Sunday.

And here’s me planning the most Scroogy Christmas I can because I feel unloved and let down by my family.

If I had to describe that moment, I don’t think I can do it justice, but I felt a combination of shame, sadness, anger, envy, shame, resentment and pain.

I didn’t cry but I can feel all those unshed tears lodged in my thorax again, and I keep doing those big shaky sighs that you do when you’ve bawled your eyes out.

Maybe it’s a matter of time.  I just pray God that it doesn’t happen there.

Maybe I’ll go and see the Munsters at Crimbo after all.

Namaste x

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/lynda-bellingham-final-appearance-loose-women


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PITY PARTY TRACK 20 – TRAPPED – COLONEL ABRAMS

Yes it’s Pity Party time again, so swig down your vodka and orange (squash), put down your cheese straws and hit the dance floor as I’m just lining up the 12″ version of Colonel Abram’s ‘Trapped’ so you can get down with yo bad self 80’s style.

I can get even more down on mine.

:-(

Apols for my absence of late, but I so wanted to have good news for you for my next post, but sadly things have not gone according to plan.

Re my three pronged approach (see Safe as Houses) I’ve done two out of three (which Meatloaf will concur, ain’t bad), but am shit scared to do the latter.

Mainly because my property has been on the market for two weeks now, and I’ve only had one person over to view it.

ONE.

So I can’t even say to my lenders that there’s lots of interest and that I should be out before Christmas and pay you off in full, so right now I am nigh on nostalgic for the days when my biggest worry was which club to go to, and whether my flat mate would ‘borrow’ my favourite tarty, scrunchy body con dress before I got home from work.

1400702716whitney_h_24

Hell, I’m nostalgic for that pitiful fear I had but two weeks ago at the mere thought of selling this place.  Little did I know that the market is practically moribund due to (according to the estate agent) concern of how the election might affect interest rates and the imminent arrival of Christmas.

Didn’t tell me that when I listed with them, did he, fucking slimy, bloodsucking twat?

Then I was terrified that I wouldn’t make enough to finance my new life elsewhere.  Now I’m shitting bricks and having nightmares about being repossessed, ending up on the streets, and/or having bailiffs take my car.

And before anyone suggests it, I can’t rent it out because I wouldn’t make any profit and I wouldn’t get my rent paid by the government because I’m be a property owner.  And no, I couldn’t stay with friends because now it’s critical, everyone’s has gone very quiet and seem to have forgotten their casual ‘Oh you can always come and stay with us’, because, let’s be honest, they never thought it would come to this otherwise they’d have kept their gobs shut.

As for my family, they never made that offer in the first place (no hypocrite they), and are now very much ‘Oh everyone’s in the same boat’ when I showed them the white of my eyes out of sheer desperation.

Well we’re not actually.  We’re not even in the same fucking river!  No one is going to make you homeless you bastards.

The only good thing about this situation is that you find out who your real friends are.

Trouble is, I don’t appear to have any, so I am trapped, and totally powerless and at the mercy of besuited bankers whom I will have to come clean to, and hope that they give me six months or so to shift this pile and get the hell outta Dodge.

On the plus (?) side, I’ve started Schema Therapy!

Oh boy, now that’s another story.

Stay tuned for another exciting episode of ‘The Fall and Fall of a Failing, Flailing, Fucked Up 50 Something’…..

Namas-frigging-te x

http://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/09/06/safe-as-houses/


12 Comments

TROLLY DOLLY

keyboard-warrior-meme-generator-me-is-keyboard-warrior-650617

As most of you know, I was blessed (or some might say, cursed) with a very sharp tongue which was seemingly tailor made to wound.

Not a very pleasant skill I know, but if it’s any consolation, as fellow vociferous looney tunes will know, we easily beat ourselves up as much, if not more, than we do our unfortunate adversaries.

Fact.

But maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t be beating people up in the first place.  Even if they do deserve it.

Until lately, I’ve never been much of a Tweeter.  I’m anonymous on there too so can’t connect with real life friends, the people I really want to follow don’t say much of anything (probably because they have a life), so a lot of the time I find it quite boring.

Who cares if Jonathan Ross just had a bit of toast and marmalade for breakfast?

Not I, and I’ll read any old shit to pass time, so it bemuses me why normal busy people spend hour after hour on there.

Then one day all became clear when an annoying celebrity I ripped into acknowledged me.

I was strangely pleased and flattered, which is odd given that I can’t stand the man. Then the penny dropped.  In a world where you, everything you say or do tends to go unacknowledged and unappreciated (especially when you have mental health issues and/or lack in confidence), Twitter is the one place where you can make the famous/arrogant/entitled hear you whether they like it or not.

So, whilst I don’t do it all the time, every now and then, when someone pisses me off, something is unfair/unjust, someone is being a dick, I go on there and have my say.   For the most part, I do it with humour and a level of affection, but of late, my tweets have been more angry and accusary.

m_140410mg

Appropriate and justified you might say, when it comes to someone like Oscar Pistorius literally getting away with moider, Shrien Dewani attempting to follow suite, Donald Trump riding roughshod over anyone and everyone, and the heinous Katie Hopkins being, well, herself. But one day, I got all het up about a baking competition because some old dear took someone else’s ice cream out of the freezer, let it melt and didn’t say sorry!  What the absolute fuck is that all about?

Then, when it came to what happened on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ last week, I started to turn, well, a bit trolly.  I know, I know, it sound so frigging stoopid, but this female dancer on it really gets my goat.

Let me also just say that joking apart, I am NOT a keyboard warrior.  Anyone that knows me would say that I would happily say what I write about anyone to their face.  And the police would probably be called.  But I digress….

So this dancer, Aliona won the competition three years ago, mainly down the the fact that she was paired up with someone young, hot and a professional performer.  That’s not to say they didn’t deserve the crown, but all of the professional dancers are amazing so she lucked out getting Harry that year.

The following year she got paired up with an adorable old TV presenter, Johnny Ball, someone of whom I loved to watch when I was little.  Aliona was visibly unimpressed but hey, you win some, you lose some, right?  However by the next show she was absent with an ‘injury’, leaving another dancer to tread the light fantastic with the old boy, who, no doubt hobbled by the disruption, performed poorly and was voted out first week.

Then in 2013 the BBC, clearly also suspecting foul play announced that she was leaving the show along with some other dancers.   But, instead of exiting quietly, dignity intact, she went apeshit, telling the press that she was being pushed out and did not know why. All this squawking seemed to work as, later that year she was back on the show and was paired up with legendary golfer Tony Jacklin.

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Had she learned her lesson?  Had she fuck.  Instead of looking after this national treasure, she concocted a ridiculous routine that showed off all his flaws, and that, along with the most ridiculous unflattering outfit I’ve ever seen, earned him the order of the boot in the first week. You could see the triumph in her eyes, and she barely bothered to feign disappointment as she trotted upstairs to rejoin the professional dancers.

This year, unbelievably, she returned again and was duly paired up with Masterchef presenter Gregg Wallace, who, it has to be said, was a veritable Chippendale compared with the other two, but was Modom content?

Hardly.  Whilst her face managed to hold it’s rictus grin, her eyes indicated that she’d rather take to the floor with an incontinent tramp. In a way I got that ‘cos I don’t like him much either, but tough titty sweetie, it’s your JOB to teach him!

You know you really hate someone when you hate them more than someone you really hate.  And I just hate that.

Ahem.

So much wasted energy…

So, seeing a pattern forming, I take to Twitsville and predict Mystic Meg style that poor old Gregg will be first off in week one.

And I was right. The curse of Aliona struck again. Not only that but it turns out that she was so cold and hostile to the poor sap that he was in tears and having panic attacks before his performance.  But she’s not all bad.  She did wait a whole 24 hours before retweeting hundreds of messages saying she shouldn’t have to dance with ‘old puddings’ anymore and begging for the BBC to give her someone hot and young to partner with next time.

Incensed by the unfairness of all this, I went after her on Twitter, telling the world about her evil strategy, how arrogant she was, and that she should be more kind and tolerant or leave, and when I was retweeted and supported, my stony little heart swelled with appreciation and self righteousness. Until I noticed some rather horrible, mocking carping little tweets nestling amongst my nice ones in my outbox….

Ah…..

Kind? Tolerant? Just like moi eh?

troll

Then I realised that I was using my boredom, hopelessness, anger and fear to vent at someone I didn’t know, to make me feel better, and whilst I wasn’t being horrendously cruel or threatening to shank her or anything, I was starting to morph into an ugly, bitter, ranting little troll, that crouched, snarling, snuffling and gibbering over her keyboard, just waiting for someone to trip trap over her hypocritical sensibilities so that she can ‘justifiably’ pounce and rip into them, laughing gleefully as they squirm and bleat with pain.

Who is this girl to me and what right do I have to demand that she loses her job?  What does she resonate in me that pushes my buttons?  Her youth and beauty?  Her arrogance?  Her ageism?  The fact that she gets away with moider?

Whatever it is, my fury is not about her, it’s about me and I have to stop launching myself at people and use that energy to sort my life out instead.

So I’ll stop.

Not totally though ;-)

Anyone with a piss taking gene as strong as mine would have to be made of stone not to join in the #askrobin campaign, someone has to support the underdogs of this world, and I can’t tell a lie, the Donald Trump/Fred & Rose West debacle and the resulting barrage of hilarious retweet requests made me snort tea all over my keyboard.

But when I get really ‘attack dog’ it’s time for me to turn this damn computer off, sit in a quiet place and find another way to vent my pain, before it envelops and poisons the world at large.

God, this self examination shit is hard.

Aliona, you’re a spoilt, disrespectful little cow, but you mean nothing to me or my world, therefore I will leave you alone from now on.

But if you pull the same stunt next year, you are toast bitch, you hear?

Namaste x


5 Comments

WORLD MENTAL HEALTH DAY

quitter

But I am.

And that’s something.

Things have been tough of late people, and that gene that tells me to fuck up everything that might be good for me is biting down hard, but am ticking off my challenges again, hoping I’ll get some fucking idea re what I’m going to do moving forward, and praying things will change.

Soon.

My beloved Aunty C is back tomorrow and I have never needed her more.

Will post something more eloquent tomorrow, but in the meantime, keep on keepin’ on people

xx

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