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….




I bought something today.

Not food shopping but clothes.

And it wasn’t second hand, and it wasn’t discounted.  It was full price.  And whilst not a flash, ‘look at me’, attention getter, it was my style but brighter, made of beautiful fabric and not at all ‘background’.

I allowed myself because I worked my butt off for six gruelling 12-16 hour days on a job that left me changed as a person.

Because, even though it was something that is usually low key where I can stay anonymous, I was somehow miraculously made to feel important.  I was actually called ‘important’.  As in ‘No, sort Sista out first, she’s important.’

If this makes me sound pompous, then I’m not telling it right.  Because I’ve never really felt important to anyone, and I know for a fact that no one has ever told me that I am.  And I know it was a throw away comment from a young person who has no doubt forgotten of my existence as we speak.  But somehow, some way, I was dragged out from the shadows and put into a scenario where it was crucial that I attended day after day after day.

You can always tell when this is the case, because instead of receiving computer generated ‘if you can do additional days please tick this box’ emails from the agency, I was getting personal communications saying ‘it would be amazing if you can do Monday’ and ‘I know you must be tired, but you’re doing a fantastic job and we really need you to do just one day.’

I was bumped to the front of queues.  Interacted with the real important folk.  Heard my hero speak to me by name.

And I was totally one hundred percent comfortable with my environment and with what I was being asked to do.

Giddy stuff.  And whilst as a usual rule of thumb I get twitchy after being on a job more than 3 days (because that’s when relationships start to form) with it came a shot in the arm of pure confidence, and with that came a cumulative positive series of side effects.

I became more aware of my behaviour.  I was less spiky.  I made new friends.  I even attracted several members of the opposite sex.

However, on that note, there was one shaky moment when one very pushy guy (who was chatting up all the women) sensed my reticence and instead of backing off, laid siege to me. 

This was a disastrous move on his part because the more people pursue me or try to force me to approve and/or pay attention to them, the harder I try to avoid them, and in the end I was a hair trigger away from punching him in the face and screaming at him to get the fuck out of my aura.


Why do people do that?  If I get one inkling that someone isn’t into me, I leg it before they do.  But everywhere I turned he was there, feet, inches, centimetres away from me staring anxiously into my eyes, voice at full, deafening volume (for God’s sake someone, pass the remote) and breathing his stinking, full English breakfast miasma into my hair.  At one stage he even laid the full length of his hand creepily onto my hip to make me turn around and face him; I could feel the disgustingly intrusive heat of his palm through the silk of my dress, and how I didn’t break his face right there and then I’ll never know.

But I digress, as typically Sista style, I am giving more attention to that one negative in a veritable ocean of positives.

Because somehow I held my temper, and merely treated him to an icy excoriating glare before being rescued by a fellow female and carted off to play scrabble with less sleazy members of the crowd.

Don’t get me wrong.  I never forgot that this was an enclosed, faux fantasy world, and that the real world was waiting for me outside, with all it’s banal, draining, terrifying challenges, and that within a matter of hours I would be transformed, Cinderella style back to that anonymous, grey drone that everyone ignores, discounts and under estimates again.

And that, dear Reader is what came to pass.  I am back home in rags, grovelling around the ashy fireplace, surrounded by many chores.  No one is pandering to my needs, clawing for my attention, fluttering around me or calling me ‘important’ anymore.

But I feel a change has taken seed and I learned a few lessons which are as follows:

  • You don’t need to be pushy to be noticed.  Really you don’t. Whether it be pure fluke or that my sang froid was mistaken for confidence, and ‘don’t look at me’ attitude to be pure insouciance, I was chosen out of a flock of beautiful, talented, qualified young things to have a key role.
  • If someone really important likes you, others follow suit. Whether this be in a work environment, on social media or in a social situation, people are sheep and will come trotting after you trustingly if the popular folk approve of you and what you do.  This can either be extraordinarily, depressingly predictable news or something that can be used as a tool.  Sure, don’t kid yourself that all of these bleating masses are going to become your forever friends but you can potentially cherry pick along the way.
  • If you pretend to do something for long enough, you can almost make it feel real.  In other words, fake it till you make it. I had to flirt with some guy for six days, and whilst I was initially at an emotional distance, he was a fun person to work with and a real chemistry grew which almost certainly brought ‘the boys to the yard’.  Not only that but my libido woke up howling and demanding to be fed. Oh dear….but maybe it’s about time?  Not with him I hasten to add; he’s attached, hugely popular so categorised as ‘dangerous’ in my book, but maybe just maybe I’m not destined for the relationship/sexual scrap heap just yet?
  • Contact with the human race gets easier the more you do it.  The same principle applies to hiding away so we have a choice.  Don’t get me wrong.  I said ‘easier’ and not ‘easy’.  I did not find 6 consecutive days surrounded by my fellow homo sapiens easy.  There were other people as well as Mr Needy who grated sorely on my nerves, and I find that after about 3 days, people run out of small talk and start asking questions that are difficult for me to answer.  Like:
    • ‘What’s your main job?’ (I don’t have one.  It’s challenge enough for me to do this)
    • ‘Where did you go for your holidays?’ (Holiday?  From what?  I haven’t had one for years because I can barely afford to feed myself)
    • ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ (No idea.  My relationship with my family is tenuous and fraught with danger.  Two friends have invited me and I’m going to end up pissing off one or both of ‘em if I accept either invitation.  Plus I may even end up on my own in a new house in a new town with 2 stressed out cats and an M&S turkey pizza for one.  Ask fucking Santa, as right now, anything might happen)

In other words, you get asked normal questions that apply to normal people.  The kind of questions that could potentially expose me for being the freak that I am.

What do I do in those circumstances?  Lie like I used to?  Make up some kind of creative adaption of the truth.  Avoid answering and turn the question back on them?  I’m not sure. But I can’t let that stop me moving forward.

And I wasn’t spotted!  As the most amusing thing of all was that several people chose to confide in me about others in the group that they suspected to have ‘mental health issues’.  Oh the irony….

So I am trying harder this time.

I’m trying to do all the stuff that I’ve aimed to maintain throughout the life of this blog.  Work out, get out, make myself look attractive, take chances, interact more with people.

Get a life.

I can’t promise you or myself that I won’t stumble and fall again, as the humiliation of failing to successfully climb out of my painful pit of doom during the years that I have been blogging is one of the factors that made me abandon it and stop writing.  The shame.  But I’m trying to scale that slippery scratchy wall once again, and one day I will make it.

As being kinder to myself and others is all part of the plan this time.

As perhaps I don’t have to be a witch to get what I want out of life.

And maybe just maybe I’ll get a snog from my very own Prince (OK, so, maybe some dastardly old uncle is more to my taste) before the year is out.  I can but hope.  I may even don that silk dress again ;-)

Namaste x




About a month ago, I did one of the most risky, drastic, scary things I’ve ever done.

I walked out of my therapy group.

I had been thinking about it for months before, as I had started to feel how I used to feel before going to work, i.e. dread, depression, feeling that I didn’t belong, that I couldn’t trust people, that I had to squish down who I was in order to fit in and get along with everyone.

But of course it wasn’t work, it was 3 x 90 minute sessions per week in a grotty room in south London, so every now and than my rage, frustration and resentment would eagerly burst out through the tiniest crack in my composure, to which the shrinks would leap up in glee, parry it, and press me back into the confined identikit one sixth of an egg box which replaced my desk in that office building in Soho as another, less salubrious, prison of my own making.

Back in the day I used to manage my fury by working out, and if that didn’t work, I would stay away from the rest of the human race in order to protect both them and myself from the aftermath of the explosion, but I was urged to attend therapy however I felt, the moodier the better.

At first I thought this was to make me feel accepted, but I soon realised that footage of me throwing a fit was great material for Shrink 1 & 2 to exploit by sallying forth to use their book sourced, emotionally inept techniques to try and bring me under control, which invariably only made things worse.

Not only that but on that final fateful day, I told them that I was not in a good place and they once again insisted I attend. And when my irritation started show Shrink 2, Ann, making sure the camera got her good side, took me to task with a faux puzzled expression, telling me that I sounded very angry, that she didn’t like my tone and was taking issue with it.

So they blatantly laid a trap and set me up, and I, the fool that I was, staggered smack bang into it.

That was the last straw.  I reacted badly, but on realising what was going on, took a deep breath, gathered my belongings and left that room for good.  And as I exited onto that sunny street that morning,  I realised just how much it had all been chipping away at me.

  • The blatant insincerity.
  • The being spoken to in a babyish voice as if I was some mentally subnormal infant.
  • The ignoring of me, that is to say everything about me that made me different to everyone else in the group, especially any advantage or skill that others didn’t have.  It was more convenient to pitch the course at the youngest/least educated/most damaged instead of treating us all as individuals.  For example, Shrink No. 1 Jolyon invited me to a ‘Cuckoos Nest’ style outing to an exhibition with the others soon after my defection.  Sounds innocent and perfectly pleasant you might think.   But he spoke to me, a 53 year old, a sophisticated, cultured, urbane, well travelled woman as if I’d never set foot in a gallery in my entire life.  He actually used the words ‘I really think you’ll like the pictures’ and implied earnestly they weren’t always how they appeared but sometimes the most simple image meant something else and that he would explain them to me on the day and it would be fascinating.  I swear to God had we been in the same room and that room contained a cushion, I would placed it over his earnest little vole like countenance, sat on it, squashed every last breath in his body, then legged it out of the window.  I can laugh about it now but the humiliation, the shame, the realisation of how far I’d fallen was almost too much to bear.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest 19

  • The refusal to acknowledge that my points of view in our one to one discussions were valid, well thought out, emotionally intelligent and rational.  As soon as he was out of his depth, he would either switch subjects, simplify my point so that it sounded ludicrous, or lapse into ‘you’re crazy so I’ll just fuck with your head till you think I’m right’ mode.  In this, he was as much a bully as my ex boss.  Talk about frying pan to fire.
  • The complete lack of real emotional connection with either of them.  I suspect this was down to a lack of real empathy (as opposed to textbook sourced techniques), and maybe this wasn’t their fault, but to my mind, this is something that cannot be compromised on if one is to share of themselves.  I still thank God everyday for Auntie C (my psychologist for over a decade) who was, is, and always will be, the real deal.
  • The inauthentic, horribly strained relationship that I had with Ann.  She didn’t like me, my humour, the way I expressed myself, and that would have been fine had she been honest about it.  But she would coo flattering comments at me like a constipated pigeon that both of us knew weren’t true, and I cannot bear fakes.  The truth would come out during her ham fisted attempts to address my behaviour and I truly marvel at the fact that she every got the qualifications she did, let alone her position at St Psychos Hospital.
  • The putting their study before my needs, even the most fundamental.  I’ll give you an example.

Me:  ‘I won’t be able to stay on the course long term anyway’

Ann: ‘Oh no Sista, why not?’

Me:  ‘You know why, I have to sell my home and move somewhere cheaper, otherwise it will get repossessed and I’ll lose the only financial security I have and end up homeless’

Ann:  ‘Oh.  Well, that sounds very stressful, but we hope that you can stay as we care for you very much and you need the support of the group at this time’

Cue pointed stare.

And of course, my writing stopped dead as I didn’t believe that I had any to say of value to anyone anymore.

I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.

Not that they believed that I meant it.  And when the penny did finally dropped, they went all out guns blazing to get me back into my cage like a good little lab rat.

Like I say, this was not easy to keep them at bay, and Jolyon the medical professional to whom my wellbeing was entrusted to, used every trick in the book to make me stay.   

Whether you believe in the Devil or not, his moniker, Father of Lies has never made so much sense to me.

I was psychologically bludgeoned every which way, time and time again, to make me stay put. 

The ‘You don’t know what you’re doing because your damaged’ tactic. 

The guilt card for letting everyone else down. 

Raising his voice at me in order to make my lose my temper so he could regain control.

Promising to not try and make me stay if I came in for a exit meeting only to renege on this the second we sat down. 

The implied backing down without admitting guilt (‘Suppose you were right about Ann behaving inappropriately…’) in the hope that this would be enough to appease me and make me return followed by an immediate retraction when it didn’t work.

The denial of my rights. 

The refusal to hear my voice, my rational, honest, emotionally intelligent voice pleading for understanding and support, because my label of EPD meant that he though he was entitled to do so.

I thought my battle with my ex company was bad, but it was a walk in the park compared with this.  But I hung in there in stuck by my decision, and instead of passing me onto someone else like I requested (as if I’m that fucked up, I’d need a replacement ASAP, right?) I’ve been flung back onto an NHS waiting list by way of punishment.

But I can tell you with all honesty that I have yet to regret that decision.

Sure, there have been many bad days and my faithful old companion Fear is never far from my side.  I still have nightmares about my future, worry about losing my benefits and am still have to deal with the stress of trying to sell up and move.

But gradually things have gotten better.

And in the last week something extraordinary happened and for a week, I was made to feel how life could truly be if only I had a little faith.  More on that later.

But to all you BPD’ers, EPD’ers etc, I beg of you, if you can possibly avoid it, try to avoid giving up on life and throwing yourself upon the mercy of the NHS.  Because when you hand the keys and allow someone else to captain your ship, you only have yourself to blame when you eventually hit choppy waters in a land far away where there’s no shore in sight, and those fuckers don’t let you anywhere near the helm anymore.

I came very close to being Randled by those fuckers, but like the Chief, I’m only just beginning to know who I am again.

And this little egg, whilst still be cracked and streaked with guano, may still have a chance to release it’s potential again.

Namaste x


EAR WORM No. 26 – Genesis – FOLLOW YOU FOLLOW ME #socialmedia #narcissism

I sometimes think I should come off social media completely as everyone seems to be getting on my fricking nerves nowadays.

Unbeknownst to them, I’ve already blocked two women’s comments from my Facebook feed as I’m sick to death of their terminal narcissism.

‘OMG, soo funny, I’m walkin down the street and this guy says Giv us a smile luv so I do and he said i’m bewtiful an I said watchit im a grandma and he said “you never u only look 30” O my days, how funny is that?’

Not.  Fucking.  Very.


‘Blessings indeed, this director lovely James called me and said come back and work with us yr a ray of sunshine i said who me and he winked oh saucy, such a compliment being asked back AND paid feel like a Queen….’

Oh and these can pop up at about five or ten times a day.


I get honked by blokes in vans/lorries pretty much every time I go out (until they see me from the front – hah!) or winked at by builders, but do I bang on about it?


Because it means jack shit!  Most men would bang their wang into the office shredder if that was the only slot available to them, so I don’t really consider such behaviour as complimentary.

The only time I’ve posted about some finding me attractive was when some bloke tried to ‘friend’ me and when I clicked on his page, he had an AK47 slung over his shoulder.  Highly amusing.

If chilling. :-(

So male cat calling and flirting is merely a dick reflex, so get over yourself love!


The other one isn’t as big on words, but selfies?!  Oh my she aces in that particular field.

Again, five to ten times a day she uploads a captioned photo of herself.

On the train, smiling, looking, in all fairness, lovely – “All set for the challenges ahead!”

You go girl!

On the same train, smiling, with a croissant and a Pret coffee – “Breakfast!”


Standing outside her destination avec sunglasses, posing with arm behind head and leg cocked in the air, sending herself up to prove she does have a personality and sense of humour – “Here!”

Great!  Good.  Now can we leave it at that please before I…

Sat in a cafe with a panini and coke with a nearly-as-pretty companion, pouting – “Bitches be gagging for lunch!”

Then put the fucking selfie stick down and EAT, BITCHES!

Then there’ll be one of her working, travelling home, getting ready to go out in leopard print robe and hair in rollers (but full make up, can’t be seen to look minging on FB), and then, Oh God, numerous shot of her having fun with a gang of equally vacuous bints and a whole host of gay BF’s, all gyrating, posing, pouting, clutching Moet bottles (an empty from the adjoining table no doubt – miaow!) and mugging for all they are worth.

Kill.  Me.  Now.

And it’s the same every day.

I have no problem with people uploading photos from an event, party, or special occurrence in their lives.  Good for them!

The people who moan about a friend boasting about her new baby/lovely husband/new car don’t know how lucky they are.  This bird could make selfie-ing an Olympic event.

One to one, both ladies are really rather nice.  A bit boring, but perfectly pleasant.  And I sometimes feel guilty for momentarily despising them so much.

So I edited my permissions rather than de-friend them as I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.


Then my friends I get an invitation from Selfie bird inviting me to ‘like’ her new page.

Sigh.  Really?

Resigned to my fate, I click on it.  It says ‘Ditsy Dumbass – Official’ and she is categorised as a ‘Public Figure’ whatever that means.

I know she does some extra work so I assume this is self promotion, but why’s she dragging me into it?

It feels to me that (a) we are already ‘friends’ but (b) she is now letting me know that she is elevating her status over mine and (c) is now asking me to worship at her altar.

And, look, there are all the selfies I have managed to avoid looking at over the past month or so!

Oh.  Goody.

Deep.  Fundamental.  Joy.


How I LONG to message her and point out that if you have to ask someone to be your fan, then SURELY they’re not your fan in the first place, because if they were, they’d have sought you out of their own volition, no?  Especially when they have done everything in their power to avoid looking at you at all cost.

I don’t know why it gets to me so much.  But it does.  It does.

Social media has it’s place I think.  It’s great for keeping in touch with those friends you never see, it renders those boring Christmas card bragfests obsolete (because we already know all about your year, gobshite!), you can stay in contact with mates from overseas etc etc, but it seems to have turned our youth into a nation of self obsessed zombies, and let me tell you, they’re not content to keep their content to themselves.

This is ‘X Factor’ nation where everyone thinks they are oh so unique and special and that it only takes the desire to be famous (oh and perhaps the support of Simon Cowell, zombie god par excellence) in order to make your wildest dreams come true, and whilst I have nothing against self confidence and ambition, the hard work aspect doesn’t seem to have registered.

So now I have to click on ‘like’, be added to her ‘fanbase’ and once again, block her from my feed so I don’t have to look at all her tedious snapshots ten times a day.

THEN, before you know it, she’ll be asking me to share her stuff on MY page!  Well she can fuck right off, I can tell you.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I do NOT belong to this planet!

And there’ll be hell to pay when the powers that be discover their gross error.

Beam me up Scottie….please?!

Rant over.

Namaste x



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‘Coleman!  I’ve had the worst nightmare!  I was poor and no one liked me.  I lost my job, I lost my house and it was all because of this terrible (alter) ego….’

Yes, this actually happened to me.

Last night, I dreamed I was back in my old life.

The rose coloured specs version natch.

I was with friends in my favourite restaurant.  I was dressed well, my nails were manicured, my hair was recently highlighted.  I was still working.  A holiday in the sun was in the not too distant future.  I didn’t have to rely on anyone else’s charity.

And I was telling them that I’d had this awful dream where I’d been let go by Bastards Inc, had a breakdown, lost everything, I was poor, I had no friends yadda yadda…

And then I woke up.

For real.

Welcome to the ‘Feeling Worse Before It Gets Better’ phase of group therapy.

I’m sorry I haven’t been blogging of late, but it’s been a tough time.  Nothing but bad news and more of the same, and of course my writing, along with everything else that’s good for me, crumbled.  How many more times could I tell you the same story but in different words?

I was bored, boring and as in real life, didn’t want to bore the people I cared about with my tedious, self pitying shit.

Until today.  The irony of dreaming I’d dreamt the nightmare that was and is my reality was too ironically, cruelly amusing not to report back on.

And like Dan Ackroyd’s Louis Winthorpe III, I momentarily felt like I’ve had a life that was actually good, ripped away from me.  But unlike Louis I couldn’t blame anyone else.  Because it was down to me.  I cracked wide open from 50 odd years of trying to play the part of someone that didn’t actually exist at all, the shiny facade that passed for my real self.

And whilst I would and could never go back to such a life, I do miss aspects of it.

Being respected in a tough industry.  Having an impressive CV.  Being solvent.  Being able to have holidays.  Buy presents.  Pay my way.  Feeling financially safe.  Well, safer than I feel right now.

That said, whilst I liked and still do like nice things, I  have coped with the spending restrictions admirably.

But some things I cannot, will not accept.

Some of my fellow nutters suggested a group evening out after therapy at a free concert in London.

I was reluctant.  I hate crowds, central London and the band they wanted to see.

‘Oh come along it’ll be fun!   It won’t cost anything!  And we can go into Asda and grab some sandwiches and a couple of boxes of cheap wine….’

And there it was; the straw that broke this camel’s old hump.

Let me make this quite clear, I’m not a snob.  I know this because I have friends that are very snobby.  I on the other hand, love a bargain, buy vintage, am not impressed by designer labels and cannot tolerate waste.

But cheap wine?

As some of you will know, I love food and wine.  Food is how I comfort myself and have done since I was a child, but it has to be good quality.  I’d sooner have some fried left over potatoes with rock salt and home made mayo than a mass produced meal at a rubbish restaurant.

And let me tell you, cheap wine, like cheap chocolate, will never ever pass my lips.  I’ve had too much of the good stuff to go back now.


People drink cheap wine for the same reason as they drink moonshine, cheap supermarket spirits and meths; not because they like it, but because they want to get wasted.

And the idea of drinking something akin to warm vinegar whilst munching on mark down lunch time sandwiches that taste of nothing (and were probably made by illegal refugee slaves) in a public place for all the world to see just filled me with despair.  Especially as my infrequent but relatively consistent part time work has suddenly stopped dead.

Presumably due to something I did or did not do, or said or did not say.  I have no idea.

And then, after my oath to myself to do yoga every single day, I broke it on the fourth.

And whilst I’m not doing anything that good for myself, I’m trying really hard not to binge on food which is my first point of call when feeling this lost and lonely.

I’m even the odd one out amongst my fellow BPD-ers!

But I always knew that.

So.  What the fuck I am going to do now?

I don’t know.

And unlike previous posts, I’m not going to even try work out a plan and promise to do it.  As I’ll only fall flat on my arse and let you lot down yet again.

I just wanted to share.

I’ll drop by again when I have something to say.

Oh and this is the song that inspired today’s blog post title.

Pray for me please?

Namaste all xx




“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.

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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


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



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.


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.


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