Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….


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It’s going to be one of those days.  It’s 10 o’clock and I can’t get out of bed,in spite of the insistent pawing of my cats and an uncomfortably full bladder.

The flat is stifling as the heating is on too high, everything aches and the silence is deafening.  I can almost hear the blood running through my veins, some evidence at least that I really exist at all.

If I swivel my eyes to the right, I can see some of the outside world, the sky and trees and a passing plane.  Outside the world continues to turn without me thank you very much.  People are working, travelling, working, laughing, shopping, shouting, fucking, crying and I am not needed.  No one calls to ask where I am, no one asks me to join in, to help, to participate.  I could lie in this bed till I die and it is unlikely that anyone would intercept.  I’m not complaining.  Just observing.

It’s no one else’s fault.  It’s mine.

Will I make it out of the door this year?  We’re four days in and I’ve yet to succeed so far.  The beauty of this modern world is that you can pay people to bring you stuff, you have freezers to store food, TV to pass the time, and t’internet and social media so that you can kid yourself that you are popular.

I have nearly 200 hundred friends on Facebook of these:

  • 10 are family
  • 5 I actively dislike
  • 30 are ex work colleagues who think I’m bonkers
  • 15 I can’t even remember how I know them
  • Only 8 am I likely to see this month

How many of them have given me a wide berth since my own personal apocalypse in 2012?  I don’t know because I am (a) too paranoid to be rational and (b) far too scared to count.   Being loony is by all accounts a bit of a social no no.  Which is a shame.  Because the plus side of being loony, i.e. the so-called manic side, means we’re a fucking good laugh when we want to be.

Are they all bad, horrible, neglectful, self-serving bastards?  No. Not all of them anyway.  They have a life.  I don’t.  Simples.  I’m the one who freezes when getting to the front of the queue for the Ride of Life.  I’m the one who loses my bottle, steps aside and refuses to get on. Why should they try and persuade me otherwise?

Dexter, the slyer of my two little mogs has located the exact location of my bladder and has decided to all but Riverdance on it.  I wince.  He purrs.

I’m thirsty.  My mouth feels disgusting as I didn’t bother to clean my teeth last night, and I left my nightly glass of water in the kitchen.  Great.

Stomp, stomp. Lucky the pending menopause hasn’t caused my pelvic floor to give way yet, otherwise I’d have wet the bed by now.  The smug, self-satisfied purrs are getting louder.

The faint buzz of someone accessing the building causes me to start, and Dexter to freeze mid stomp.

And then I remember.  I may have a parcel arriving any day now.

I grunt (v feminine) as I upright myself wearily, whilst Dex springs gracefully onto the rug, giving me that perky ‘Hey!  The kitchen’s this way!’ look as he bounds out of the room, peeking over his shoulder helpfully.

It’s 2013 and one of my resolutions is not to inflict this on the poor postman, whose salary does not compensate for having to interact directly with a stinky, greasy hair peri menopausal emotional wreck, still in her old mans jim jams and covered in cat hair, with fetid breath and peepers full of eye snot. The poor man did enough of that last year, to the extent that he once did a double take and gave me a Carry-On-Esque ‘Cor!” when on one very rare occasion, he saw me in full make up and dressed.  In real clothes.  Not my pastel blue onesie, which makes me look like George Doors with hair, sans drumsticks.

I make it to the loo (my pee smells of Sugar Puffs – nice) turn on the bath taps, then stagger to the kitchen and chuck some Iams at my boyz.  It then occurs to me that eight good friends is quite a lot actually, especially after what they have witnessed, and that I am in fact, loved, in some way, shape or form.  Am I turning a tiny wee corner?  Or, more likely, is my medication finally kicking in?

My bath is full, warm, bubbly and fragrant, my cats are fed, my bladder is empty (and no longer being molested), a late Christmas present is winging its way to me and a hot mug of sweet tea is moments away.  Little things I know, but little things can all add up into one biggish, lumpy thing and for that growing mutant clump of nice stuff, I am grateful.

Now you must excuse me because I STINK, my bath awaits and I may have a male caller today (sixtyish, bandy, Nat Health gegs and fag stained teeth) so must pretty myself up, well, get clean at any rate.  I may even get my first ‘Çor!’ of 2013 if I can be bothered to put on some slap.



One thought on “PLEASE, MR POSTMAN

  1. Pingback: FEAR(LESS) | Phoenix Fights

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