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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I have this thing on my hand.

It started off the size of a pinprick, but was raised, hard and had ambition.  It didn’t fool me one iota.

Having been on Skin Tag Watch since I turned 50, I spotted it, I took a pair of nail clippers, braced myself and, wincing, snipped it off.

I’ve always had a huge aversion to anything like that, you see; when I see warts, hairy moles, and big raised wibbly, bobbly things, they make my arse clench with fear.  I’m a bit like Austin Powers in Goldmember when confronted by the ‘MOLEE!’ except I just about manage to hide my horror, and refrain for the most part from poking them with a stick.

I know this makes me sound like some kind of superficial Nazi, and I’m certainly far from stunning, but there is something beyond what they look like that fills me full of dread.  Is it because they generally come later in life and are part of the aging process?  Perhaps.  But not entirely.  I just know that if I was, in some parallel universe, a celebrity guest on Room 101, bobbles, warts and skin tags would top of my list of things to consign to that Orwellian hell hole, along with snotty egg whites, that skin that forms on the top of hot milky drinks and sticks to your lip, ‘space invaders’ on public transport, and big long breast feeding nipples when that bend and twang when they pop out of a baby’s mouth.  Eeeeeee!

So you can see that I would much rather have a scar where others would tolerate a, a….thingy.

But, wouldn’t you just know it; the tenacious little blighter was back within 24 hours. Undeterred, I snipped it again. It came back. Snip. Back. Snip. Back.

Each time it returned, it came back bigger, more painful and more resilient, so I took it to the chemist and on their advice, bought, gulp, wart remover. I have a wart?  How can that be?  Unclean, unclean!

I used the entire bottle of this stuff, but the bloody thing would not desist.  It got bigger wider, and harder.  So, rather than waste money on foul smelling medication, I would just cut shards of skin off it as soon as it got big enough to work with, sometimes trimming right down to bare bleeding flesh, but it would literally replenish itself almost overnight. 

I was then given some very caustic stuff by Dr B, and had been using that, and it seemed to be working, to the point where last week it loosened and all seemed to come off in one piece, leaving a raw, bloody crater, but no sign of a core.  I quickly slathered it with tea tree cream and covered it with a plaster, and slept with my fingers crossed.

But, wouldn’t you know it, it came back again, totally healed over, no crater in sight, so I attacked it again.  And again.  And again.

Dr B had a fit when she saw it.  ‘Are you sure you only used this stuff twice a day?’


‘I can’t even tell what it is anymore’ she said peering at the huge crusty, ragged hole the size of a 20p piece, then practically sprinted to the washbasin to decontaminate her hands, ‘leave it alone for a fortnight and come back and see me.’

But I can’t.  I am absolutely obsessed with it.

But that’s me all over. I am hard wired to ignore and take for granted all the good things and people in my life, and zoom in on the tiniest thing that is wrong and make it my everything, something Aunty C points out to me all the time.  So whilst I’m on waging war on this little blemish, I totally take for granted the fact that the rest of me (physically at any rate) is relatively healthy, that there are people blogging on here that are much worse off than I that would do anything to be able to get out of bed, let alone leave the house and get a job. 

Also, never mind that both of my parents died young of horrible diseases, so I have a scary genetic inheritance to overcome, my entire being is hunched over my hand, poking and jabbing at this thing in a blood thirsty frenzy, wart bothering bitch that I am, and days, weeks, years are flying by that I will never, ever get back again.

So family, friends, loved ones, if you ever get to read this (not if I can help it) given that I insist on playing Russian roulette with my health, I may well die young.  The odds are not in my favour.  But at least I’ll have a clear (if ugly) façade, if just a mite scarred, so please ensure that the mortuary make up artist uses a good concealer.

In all seriousness, I need to sort this trait out if I am to make any progress, so God, if you are listening, I’ll make a deal with you; if you must smite me with even more ugliness, so be it. I’ll try not to wield the nail scissors too much, and will put some energy into looking after this amazing machine that you have given me.  It may be a bit vintage, rusting in parts, creaking in others, but I will try and maintain it, feed it and nurture it the way I do for my cats, so that we all stay lean, mean purring machines.

In exchange, please give me the courage to make a good stab at life, and if it’s not pushing my luck, I’d sooner not have a shitty death where I deteriorate inch by inch, and take months or even years to kick it.  I don’t care when I die, but if I have any say in the matter, I would like the kind of spectacular demise that could have been featured in Six Feet Under and a wake that would put a Lindsay Lohan hen party to shame.

Do we have a deal?



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