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 2015….


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Daily Prompt: CRINGEWORTHY – “TONIGHT, MATTHEW I AM GOING TO BE….CRINGY!”

brucey

“Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?”

Oh Lord, are you kidding me?

If anything I actually feel more uncomfortable than the person making a tit of themselves.

Not only that but my eyes water, which is a dead giveaway to anyone who knows me well, that someone should just sit down and shut the hell up.

I’ve suffered from this affliction for as long as I can remember, at least since very early childhood.

If my drunken Dad got up to sing at Butlins dubiously named ‘Talent Night’ to sing (especially if he did Al Jolson’s ‘Mammy’.  Oh God, just thinking about it make my arse clench), or my Mum sang along to a chart song (with all the wrong words, natch) dancing around the kitchen, I’d practically shove my head up my own sphincter in a vain attempt to escape the abject humiliation.

I used to die inside when the theme tune for ‘The Generation Game’ used to strike up on a Saturday night, as I knew that from the first cringetastic Brucey pose (“Alright m’loves?”) right through to the end credits, my eyes would stream as couple after couple would be made to perform all kinds of humiliating stunts and tasks, such as dancing with a samba troupe, making some strange, messy European delicacy or acting in some God awful play whilst Bruce eye rolled, goaded and jeered, for the delectation of the viewing public.

I think my sister has an over sensitive cringe gene too, as she would actually disappear into the pantry and put a tea towel on her head, such was her distress at British Light Entertainment in the 70’s, and this became the alarm cry for approaching mortifying moments in our house.

So whenever someone cried out ‘To the pantry!’ we would all scatter and do what we could to avoid the eye watering event whenever possible.

Screen Shot 2015-05-10 at 16.26.58

Nor did this affection abate as I got older.  I could not, would not, watch ‘Stars In Their Eyes’.  I tell a lie I watched about ten minutes of one episode and when the contestant announced “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Richard Marx”, I just knew that the hellishness was just moments away.  And sure enough when some bloke emerged from the dry ice with a mullet wig and a dopey grin to the soppy strains of ‘Right Here Waiting for You’, I seriously, honestly wanted to fucking kill myself.

I can’t bear it when people are being duped and refuse to see it (ref Paul McCartney/Heather Mills).

I die inside if someone is trying to be funny but isn’t.  Especially if they don’t even know it.  Yes I’m talking about you, ‘Newzoids’ (impersonators are some of the worst offenders)

And of course I can’t stand karaoke.  When I was working in the corporate world, I used to get dragged to these fun filled ‘team building’ nights that would end in some manky hole of a club in the West End, where we would be forced into a grubby room with sticky carpet and fag burns in the leatherette sofa, and forced to warble into the mike (“No no Sista, you have to do at least one!”) alongside some twat you despised, which would then be uploaded onto Facebook or You Tube for added humiliation.

For that alone, I should have walked out a long time before I actually did.

Again, I tell a lie.  I’ve done it once or twice.  But ONLY with people I like, who made no effort whatsoever to make it sound nice.  We just bawled ‘Living on a Prayer’ like a pack of howling wolves, and that was alright.  We knew we sounded shite.  We took the piss out of ourselves, played mock air guitar and shook our heads Wayne’s World stylee and that was, if not enjoyable, then tolerable.

It’s when people try and think that they’re actually good at it that opens my tear ducts, especially when they’re really earnest about it and then feign modesty when everyone tells them how good they were (with fingers firmly crossed behind their back) when they are just GRIM.  That is absolutely torturous to me, and I don’t know whether I feel sorry for them or wish them to spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

Oh, how could I forget?

For the life of me, I have yet to be able to sit through all 4 minutes of this, especially the last minute:

Absolutely.  Agonising.

I have no idea why I take on other people’s humiliation so eagerly.  I mean it’s not like they benefit or appreciate it.  In fact they probably just gaze at me, puzzled, wondering why I’m crying and/or looking so pained.

I am HSP and empathic though which may account for some of it.  Quite why I syphon off people’s humiliation instead of their confidence, triumphs or good luck is a mystery, but I’m putting down to my BPD and probably a whole slew of shitbag karma.

Hell fire.

Here’s hoping this life is my last shift.

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cringe-worthy/


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ONE FOR THE ROAD #bpd #sex

dr love

Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.

Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.

But now there is a physical aspect to it.

I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.

The situation was intolerable for someone like me.  The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space, and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I inevitably sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.

Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.

This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.

But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.

prostate test

For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things, it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting flesh.

Plus we have to do them every year.

Every.  Year.

Yes?  You there yet?  God.

I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.

Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.

And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.

I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire any time soon.

dr love

To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.

That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.

I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.

Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space.  Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.

It will  have to be on neutral territory.  Maybe in the back of my car even.

It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.

But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.

Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.

Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted.  In the meantime, pray for me please!

Namaste x


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SONGS OF ANGER 3 – GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE – Elbow

Last stop Despair, the next stop is Anger Central.

Stand clear of the doors please!

Today has been and is still a very ANGRY day for me, for some valid reasons, but none of which should fill me with a burning rage that is currently boiling and humming beneath my surface.

If you were in my local Tesco Extra earlier, you’d have seen a normal, slightly harried looking woman looking for something to go with her home made pesto.  You might even have smiled at me (some bloke did), and I would have returned that smile (and I did), out of politeness, but you would not have probably sensed that it would only take the very slightest provocation for me to take your head, plus the entire roof off the building with my soaring, volcanic, bottomless rage.

The cuss word commonly known as ‘see you next Tuesday’ seems to have taken the place of the word fuck, and is getting pretty commonplace here in ye old London town, that said, I don’t tend to use it very often.  Let’s face it, if c*** replaces fuck, what replaces c*** when you need to say something really offensive?

But today, my friends, must have been St. C’s day as there was a lot of it about.

Like one of the shrinks that kept asking me questions she didn’t like the answers to, then used every passive aggressive trick in the book to get an apology out of me.

She didn’t succeed.

Like the bloke on eBay who claimed the item he’d bought from me was substandard and scratched, when the photo of it showed that it was neither of those things.

I proved him to be a liar but gave him a refund, confident that the universe will take it off him tenfold.  I hope.  It had BETTER.

Like my brother and cousin who constantly block me from their little clique, just to get a rise out of me.

I won’t try and engage anymore.

Like the woman who spoke over and interrupted me every time I tried to speak at a group lunch today, simultaneously spraying me with spittle whilst doing it.

I refrained from forcing her cake and napkin AND fork into her ignorant, tactless, intrusive gob, and escaped as soon as I could.

Like the guy who nearly knocked a little girl off her bike, such was his hurry to park.

Vinnie-Jones-Lock-Stock-2

I dragged him out of his car and slammed his head with the door repeatedly, Big Chris stylee.

Actually I didn’t. But I did give him the ‘dickhead’ salute by way of compensation, much to the approval of said kid’s justifiably outraged mother.

It seems everyone jars with me right now, and that I’m incapable of tolerating my own species, but I’m the only common denominator, so I’m starting to think that divorcing the rest of the populace is the only answer.  Or turning to the bottle.  Or leaving this life altogether, which led me to this little number.

Now where’s my cocktail shaker?

And now one of my cats has just puked all over my bed, the little….sod.

C***?  No siree.  Not my Charlie.  You see, I love him so much that I’d probably forgive him anything.

There may be hope for me yet :-)

So, Life, things had better change, you’d better stop rejecting me at every turn otherwise we’ll be going before the courts tout suite.

And it won’t be Judge Rinder.

It will be JUDY, OK biatch?

You have been warned.

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elbow/groundsfordivorce.html


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PITY PARTY TRACK 23 – RUN AWAY – SALSOUL ORCHESTRA FEAT. LOLEATTA HOLLOWAY

I swear this has to be the most upbeat ‘Pity Party song’ EVER…

I mean it should be in ‘Optimistic Mix’ or even ‘Ear Worm’ as I can’t get it out of my head.

So, I came by this blast from the past after watching ‘The Paperboy’ movie on TV, then looking up the awesome soundtrack online, then went on a bit of a disco binge, and it all came flooding back to me.

The disco era, the late ’70’s when I had just started going to clubs, when I’d just discovered my womanly wiles, could just about afford make up and was too uninformed and afraid to know how mentally fucked up I really was.

When I was poor and stuck at home.  When I was all buck teeth and National Health glasses.  When I was borderline bulimic and didn’t even know what that meant.  When all in the world I wanted was a boyfriend and feared that no one in the world would ever love me.

When, unbeknownst to me, I had the whole world at my fucking feet.

That, my friends was nearly 40 years ago, and now the future is so very bleak, I honestly wish I could run away.

Now I’m stuck in this flat.  I’ve got marginally smaller, yellowing teeth and reading glasses.  My eating habits have gone wildly dysfunctional again (pathetic, I know).  I have no partner and am now pretty 100% sure that no one will ever love me again.

I am so stuck, and there’s no way back and no way forward.

God let me go back.  Give me another chance.  I swear I’d get it right this time.

Let me do a ‘Peggy Sue Got Married’ and wake up in the morning in my svelte, 17 year old body and give me the chance to steer clear of all of the mistakes i ever made?

As fucking if.

Namaste x


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MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER, BAKE ME A MATCH…

Let him eat cake

I’ve recently been back in touch with a very old friend via Facebook.

I used to be very close to this person, and he knows i have some mental health issues, so I was surprised and bemused when after some general chit chat about how life has been for me of late, to received the following missive:

Hi hon

Read this and thought of you.

Maybe you should try this out as from what I can tell from Facebook, you still make exceedingly good cakes ;-)

Jamie x

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/apr/11/i-tried-baking-my-way-to-romance?CMP=share_btn_link

“I tried baking my way to romance”

‘Audrey Shulman was good at baking but less confident talking to men. She decided the way to a man’s heart might be cake – and her whole life changed’

Essentially, in a nutshell, this courageous young lady, desperate for a boyfriend, hit on the idea of using her baking to pull, and committed to baking 50 cakes, and taking them to 50 different LA bars in the hope that the numbers game would pay off and she would happen upon her other half.

Bless her.

Bless Jamie, the old romantic.

Aww, dontcha just love the normal folk who think that the answer to all life’s problems is getting a boyfriend/girlfriend and finding true lurve?

I don’t mean to tease, I honestly don’t.

But seriously.

Do people really think that the bone aching, excoriating loneliness of someone with BDP/depression (or any other alienating condition) who has never, nor will never, ever fit in, and feels like an alien on their own planet can be cured by romance?

To be honest, I am really going through the mill right now in nearly all aspects of my life, group therapy is twanging on my last frayed nerve, so I would not inflict myself on my worst enemy, let alone some poor, hapless bloke.

As for sex, I am no where near trusting enough to allow anyone access to my body.

Also, jiggy jiggy is not a cure all!

My father used to have this rather horrible saying about physical relations, which went along the lines of…

Sex might fill your belly, but it won’t fill his!’

…the old charmer (is it any wonder I’m so fucked up?!), which roughly translated means that sex isn’t everything, and you have to be cautious and practical and not get carried away by chemistry.

In other words, ‘Don’t get knocked up, or you’ll not have a room under this roof young lady, so you better hope that laughing boy has a job y’hear?’.

But believe me, it could only ever be a minor distraction when you have a huge hole at the core of your heart that needs to be filled with some kind of self love and self belief, and it must be healed before you can even consider unleashing yourself upon the males of this world.

But he, Jamie that is, meant well.  it’s not his fault he’s lovely, loved and loved up, as opposed to fucked up.

The twat.

So I replied:

Hi Jay

A) Cute article thanks for thinking of me!

B) Hell, no

This is mainly because:

1. I have very little trust in you penis owners, and have been this way all of my life, but I am however working my way through these issues *

2. In my experience, men do prefer savouries.  In this respect your predilection to pink, iced bakes is unusual.  Anything to tell me there, Twinkle?!

3. I want to be liked for myself and not be some bloke’s cakey come up, thank you v much!

* platonic winkies are fine, so stop tucking it between your legs, you look like Buffalo Bill!

Sista x

That said, as most of you know, I love baking for friends and loved ones once they’ve made a place in my heart.  But this privilege has to be earned!

Ladies, would you go offering your coochie for free in your local pub?  No?

Like it says in the Bible “Do not cast your pearls before swine, lest they gobble them up like starved dogs, burp, then turn back to their 6th pint of swill and ‘Match of the Day’ with nary a backwards glance, the ungrateful b******s”

Or something like that anyway.

I also don’t believe in hunting for a mate.

The proof of the pudding is that this lady did not find true love via ‘cake barring’ (and she’s young and pretty!), but she did meet someone when she was least expecting it.  Oh and she also landed a book deal, which, as David Dickinson might say, was the real deal, as far as I’m concerned. :-)

David-Dickinson

Finally there are worse things than being single; this credo was fortified and embedded even deeper into my psyche after witnessing my friend’s fiancee (a distinguished Head of Chemistry at a very prestigious college no less) throw a 5 door slamming tantrum that would make a 3 year old blush with shame, ruining her birthday party, and causing everyone to leg it as soon as they’d finished their last drink.

Except for me that is.  I’d had too much to drink to drive home, hence was stuck with the pathetic little fuck for the rest of the evening.

How I held my tongue, i’ll never know.

And you best believe that the next morning at 6.30am I was up and outta there, and 60 minutes later, at home luxuriating in a fragrant moisturising bath, with a nice cuppa, some soothing music and two happy purring kitties, who were very pleased to have their momma back so early.

Seriously.  Is there anything worse than warring couples?  And why do they save their scraps for their single friends to witness? Do they consider it entertainment?

Who needs that shit?  If I’m not getting the benefits of a loving partner, I certainly don’t want to share the down side, so unless your beloved is going to service me, pick me up from the airport after a holiday, take out my trash, take me out Valentines Day, bring me breakfast in bed and paint my ceiling, you can keep the horrible stuff to yourself!

As for sex, Madame Sertraline has all but killed that urge off for me, so when a very cute rugby player half my age tried to come home with me the other day ‘For dinner and “afters”‘, I laughed and gently declined.

Did he honestly think I was going to stuff him?  Sorry, typo, I meant, did he honest think I was going to stuff him with carbs out of gratitude because he’s younger and prettier than me?

Sorry hon.  Even before i was drugged up to the eyeballs, sympathy fucks have never been an aphrodisiac to me.

But one day I’ll be better and maybe the universe will provide a kind, funny, ethical, passionate chap to share the rest of my journey with.

pie-389852

And you best believe, when he does finally rock up, he certainly won’t starve!

Namaste x


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SUGAR ME…

Sugar-depression

...wanna get my candy free’ sang diddy blonde songstress Lindsey de Paul back in the ’70’s, and I have to say, come Easter Sunday I was on exactly the same page, having being starved of the sweet stuff for nearly six weeks.

And I was ready.

Yessir, I treated myself to some posh chocs, made myself some fruit cake (not chocolate? Should have been a clue really) and at the last minute, made myself a batch of the best ice cream ever.

Because I’d been missing my Haagen Dazs.

I didn’t lose as much weight as last time, due to a knee injury, but my jeans were looser and, as it transpires, my energy levels were much better.

So Easter Saturday, I kind of cheated as I had to taste the components of said frozen ambrosia in order to get it right, but I’m sure the risen Christ would forgive me such a small transgression.

I decided to create my own version of HD’s Strawberry Cheesecake variant.

I made my own almond shortbread.

I made my own strawberry coulis instead of using jam as some recipe had suggested, with berries, a bit of sugar and a dash of cassis.  I mean, jam?  Shit, that’s a bit excessive, even for me.

I also cut down the sugar in the cream cheese ice cream after someone who had tested another version said it didn’t need as much.  I used 60g instead of 100g and it sure tasted sweet enough to me.

I also had some HD salted caramel and chocolate in the freezer, so was looking forward to a nice scoop of each after Sunday lunch.

So when Easter Sunday dawned, I had a cupboard full of goodies, but actually felt a bit intimidated re how I was going to eat them all after doing without so long.

I enjoyed a slice of fruit cake for breakfast, and had a small slice of chocolate orange cake after lunch at my friends house.

But when it came to my much anticipated ice cream sundae, I was in for a shock.

As I tucked in, I realised that my lovely concoction tasted of nothing next to the HD salted caramel chocolate which was tooth achingly sweet.  One scoop did not complement the other, they clashed horribly and it was then I realised how much sugar must be in the HD range.

For anyone who doesn’t cook, ice cream before frozen is essentially a custard, and considering that it had 15g sugar per portion (not including the shortbread and coulis), I don’t even want to think how many grams per portion is in the bought varieties.

Not only that, but after a three day dietary blow out, I was hit by a stint of severe depression not experience by me for quite some time, which only goes to verify what sugar does to one’s mood and state of mind, as per the attached article about how sugar affects the brain.

And this is with reference to normal folk, so imagine what it does to crazies like me?

Which is why my beloved Haagen Dazs is in the bin, and my freezer is packed with home made ice cream and cake waiting to be consumed another day.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ll always appreciate a good doughnut (old school, not those insubstantial super sugary, highly processed Krispy Dunkin monstrosities), a nice slice of home made cake, one chocolate with a cup of tea, and being able to finish a good meal in a fine restaurant with a dessert.

But gone are the days of ‘treating myself’ to a tub of shop bough high end ice-cream whilst telling myself that it won’t hurt me, or scarfing a packet of marshmallows (which are essentially pure sugar and gelatine) and congratulating myself for choosing a fat free treat.

Don’t get me wrong, the high is great; but the come down just isn’t worth it.

Haagen Dazs, we’re through!

And don’t let the door hit your big fat ass on your way out.

sizwqikzcgjyatxpyl7n

Lesson learned.

Namaste x

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/06/sugar-brain-mental-health_n_6904778.html


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SONGS OF ANGER 2 – WHAT IS IT ABOUT MEN – Amy Winehouse #bullying #intimidation

Having spent the last hour on Twitter ranting furiously at people bemoaning the sacking of (ex) BBC bully Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson, I realised that something had been triggered for me personality, so decided to take a deep breath, make a soothing mug of tea and figure out what was really bothering me.

So there I was cuppa in hand, pondering my emotions carefully and it turns out that…

…nope.

17866910-473343

It’s definitely Clarkson.

Theres nothing I hate more than a bully.  Especially in the workplace.  In a position of authority.

As I was at the mercy of one of them for about 3 years.

female_boxer_comp

Plus, it’s a shame I didn’t know that punching someone out in the workplace was OK, as I’d have had a field day on my exit interview ;-)

Then this song came to mind, Amy Winehouse’s sublime ‘What is it about Men?’.

More to the point, what is it about me and men?

This might sound like an obvious thing to say, but I’m not good with shouty, violent, threatening men.  Right, so I don’t suppose anyone is, but my reaction tends to be different to most people’s when confronted by them.

Instead of being afraid and cautious around them, I want to get in their face and scream at them.  Mainly I suspect it’s because I was too small, weak and vulnerable to defend myself properly when I was a kid.  it’s put me in danger a number of times, but when the volcanic rage erupts I don’t tend to care about the consequences.

Sertraline helps. Thank God.

Something else added fuel to the fire the other day, and whilst I didn’t think it affected me at the time, I suspect I’m pretty tense about it now.

To cut a long story short, the other day in group therapy, one of the guys pulled out a knife.

Shocking, I know. That said, I immediately recognised that he was doing it for attention.  Whilst always very needy and attention seeking, he is generally good natured, but this time I sensed his moodiness and resentment when we all were sat in reception waiting to be picked up by our shrink.

Anyway, this guy drinks green tea (or something suspiciously murky anyway) and always adds a slice of fresh lemon to his brew whilst we’re getting settled, but to date a knife has never emerged.  The other day however, he rather theatrically took out an entire fruit, produced a serrated paring knife and proceeded to carve a slice mid air, smirking arrogantly whilst doing so.

A couple of the younger girls looked pretty unnerved, as they have also been abused in the past, and, by all accounts this guy once killed someone, but I was never going to give him the satisfaction of showing any kind of reaction whatsoever.

My suspicions that it was all for show were confirmed because even when he had his segment, he kept it out and at one stage even held it between his teeth.

The shrinks froze.

I glanced at him in derision.

What the fuck are you doing?’ I asked, ‘you look like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean.’

He grinned knowingly ‘Ah sorry about that!  I just have to have lemon in my tea!  I wasn’t about to go on a, um, another killing spree…’

‘Well if you are, feel free to start with me.’

He then put it away and we continued with the session, but every now and then he’d punctuate the conversation with some aggressive aside or comment.

Afterwards the girls were concerned, as he has kicked off in therapy before (never in front of me) but I tried to reassure them.

‘Don’t worry, it’s all for effect’ i soothed, ‘he’s just trying to get attention.’

But over the last few days, I’ve become more and more angry about it, and I just know I’m going to confront him next session.

When I started group therapy, I was under the impression that all the participants were female, so when i turned up for the first session and saw two men sat there, I was not comfortable.

Don’t get me wrong.  I get on with blokes very well socially and as friends.  I’m just not good at showing any vulnerability in front of them.  But I gritted my teeth and got on with it.

And now, six months later, one guy has issues with me, and gives me sly little passive aggressive digs because I don’t want to have contact with him outside the sessions (something the girls have no problem with).  And now this little turd thinks he can bully us into indulging his demands for friendship and love, facilitate his excessive neediness by tolerating the the long, boring, droning monologues that he foists on the group.

And more and more, I feel that I can share less and less because of the male presence.

It’s not like I didn’t try, but me, men and trust go together like lemons, salt and paper cuts.

I could let this slide, of course.

I could accentuate the positive as another song goes.  Make lemons into lemonade and try and give him the attention he so craves.

But right now I’m more inclined to stick those lemons in the freezer, and when they’re hard, take them out and peg them at his stupid, smirking fizzog next time he pulls a stunt like that.

I hoped it might do me good to work with both sexes, but it’s honestly not working out that way.

How the hell am I supposed to build solid bridges with my male family?  Accept authority from a male boss?

Let a man access my body, and more frightening still, my heart again?

I know I have to speak up, but if I do I’m going to try and address it with integrity but there is no point of me attending these session if they’re making me worse.

It’s a lonely place without intimacy with beings that make up half the population.

Men, I miss you; do you think we can work this out?

‘It’s bricked up in my head, it’s shoved under my bed
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?
My protective side has grown a mile wide
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?

What is it about men?

sour-puss-lemon-face

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