Phoenix Fights

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



I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself tonight, and it’s ages since I did a Pity Party number, so here’s a bit of Cilla for you, singing the wonderful Burt Bacharach’s beautifully poignant ‘Alfie’

What’s it all about? 50 odd years on I’m none the wiser, let’s hope you are and you have enough love in your life to sustain you through the dark days and lonely nights x



My life continues to get stranger and stranger; I hardly know my arse from my elbow as I wake up of a morning, not only not knowing who I am, but who I’m meant to be that day.

Yesterday I ‘played dress up’ again so adopted a completely new persona, and today I had to answer yet another barrage of endless, annoying, personally intrusive questions from the lovely young Perkies (Looney Police) as prep for my therapy, blah, blah, bleugh.


‘How has your mood been in the last 3 months on a scale of 1-10?’

My answer?

‘Like the weather.  Variable, but generally dank, grey and grim.  NEXT!’

‘But how would you rate it on a scale from 1-10?’ she asks again helpfully, just in case I don’t get it,  ‘No?  Erm, OK…’

‘Have your sexual leanings changed/altered in the last 3 months?’

‘I don’t have any, I’m more or less dead between the legs, remember?!

Did I imagine those previous three and a half hours of interrogation the other week or has Perky 1 forgotten them?

Perky 2 shuffles uncomfortably somewhere to my right.

‘Do you have any negative interactions in your day to day life?’

‘Well me and my cats get on fine, for the most part.  It’s humans I have a problem with, but I’m not working so I don’t see many people to interact with.’

‘I know, I know…’

Well why are you asking me then?

Poor Perky 1.  She’s only doing her job.  Stop being a cow Sista, she probably has to ask the stupid things verbatim.

But the final question was a doozie:

‘Are you happy in your life right now?’


I didn’t bother to put anything into words, as it was evident that my expression said it all.  That and the previous 5 hours plus worth of answers I’d given her.

I swear to God, if things continue this way I’m going to have to drug myself to the eyeballs or I just know I’ll get very scathing and sarcastic as the weeks go by.

Doesn’t anyone in this area of medicine have any emotionally intelligence for fucks sake?  Also someone should explain to them that there are no black and white answers when it comes to the human psyche?  And how does working out your ‘average’ mood help anyone?  Is there any such thing when you can yoyo from suicidal to joyous, because then the average would be normal, something that does honestly not apply to me?

I know that this is the NHS and they can’t give me personal 1-1 treatment but at least vet/omit the fucking questions if you already have answers for them.

And I’m putting my future health in the hands of these numpties?

This is all very reminiscent of those ghastly CBT sessions I have when I first crashed and burned, and I feel like I’ve been deceived as I was led to believe that this kind of treatment would be very different.

And please excuse my frankness but it’s not my cuppa char.

Holy Moses, I’ll need to pray extra hard and ask for patience if I intend to last the course with this shit.

And on top of all of this, my neck and back are fucked and hurt like crazy.

One day at a time, one day at a time…

In the meantime, what were the good things that happened today?

  • Unlike many, I didn’t have to face commuting in the tube strike 🙂
  • It didn’t rain on me when I walked for 90 minutes to the hospital
  • I made a cracking loaf of bread for breakfast
  • I had lovely supportive comments on here when I logged on
  • There’s less than three hours of Tuesday 29th April to go

Namaste x




You know when you know that they know?

You do, don’t you?

The main giveaway is when someone’s demeanour towards you totally changes, and they now look at you with sympathy/pity/fascination or like you’re an unexploded bomb or a particularly action packed episode of their favourite soap?

I’ve been going to the same dentists for years now, and their current assistant/reception to chair escort/suction tube wielder, a very camp Morrissey lookalike with uber attitude, has always been aloof to the point of rudeness to me.  He would glance at me with a world weary, effete disgust, stalk about two metres ahead of me lest anyone see us together, and say not a word in response to any conversational overture I might make to him.

Each visit he got camper and snottier, and in our most recent encounters he resorted to using minimal, non verbal gestures and signals to get me to do his bidding.

A cursory nod meant I was to take a seat.

A flick of the finger meant he wanted me to put my head back.

A styrofoam cup thrust rudely into my hand meant he wished me to rinse out my mouth with that pink liquid.

All of which I duly ignored and did these things when asked by the dentist or in my own time.

Whateva Girlfriend!

Actually I never really minded him.  All of this was to get some kind of reaction that I was determined not to give him, and apart from finding it quite amusing it was water of this little black duck’s back for the most part.

Then, earlier this year, due to my relentlessly grinding my teeth into powder, I was referred to the dental hospital who immediately joined up the dots between my gnashing and my burgeoning mental health issues (durr!) and decided to make me a special bullet proof splint.  They sent me home, then sent a full report to my chap along with instructions to make a cast of my poor, deformed, traumatised little gob.

On attending this appointment today, it soon became apparent that something was amiss when my mincey little mate greeted me at reception like a long lost sister.

“Ello!  ‘Ow arrr you?  Isn’t it a loooveelly day?”


“Such a shame to be in ‘ere hey?  Just look at the SUN!”

Oh God.  He’s smiling.

I’d never seen his teeth before and I don’t think I ever want to see them again.  That faux rictus makes him look like a serial killer.

I nod politely and return the smile nervously.

“Not that we get to see ‘er in ere!” he chortles gesturing towards the treatment rooms, “these girls,” gesturing towards two lumpen, semi comatose heifers slouched behind the counter staring at him incredulously, “they sooo luckee to seet here all day een the sun!”

Poor things.   They’d seemingly never seen this particular side of him either.

And whilst I was firmly berating myself for drinking on top of my meds and tripping myself out, the penny dropped.


He was doing his politically correct duty and trying to be nice to the practice’s resident looney of the day.

He’d seen the report.

I seriously didn’t know whether to laugh or complain, about them not protecting my confidentiality, but settled on maintaining a dignified, polite demeanour in the face of his gleeful charade.


And as I took my place on that deceptively comfortable chair (“Pliss lady!”) and mentally prepared for those plastic trays filled with playdoh-like goop to be crowbarred into my tiny mouth, I acknowledged a barely perceptible wink from my lovely mischievous dentist as Mincey continued to babble on inanely.

And I’m supposed to be the odd one here.

Then my chap filled in another vast cavity that I created only the other night, gave my teeth a clean, and as I rinsed out my mouth with a cupful of pink stuff (placed gently in my hand this time) he told me to come back in about three weeks for the fitting.

I was desperate to use the loo, but my hero insisted on escorting me to reception personally (just in case I ran riot though the streets of North London with one of the drills I suppose) so I gave in as the thought of him listening to me wee, ear pressed to the door, grinning maniacally gave me the heebie geebies.

I smiled my thanks, bid him goodbye and finally exited onto the high street, heading towards the nearest cafe for a well deserved latte, some normal company and the opportunity to look miserable again.


But as I opened the door to this establishment and beamed at the proprietor I was greeted with a dropped jaw gaze, and as the table in front also turned towards me in unison like a mob of meerkats I felt my paranoia rise again.

WTF?  Did someone fax them a copy too?

Keen to escape even more rubbernecking scrutiny, I spotted a nice cosy table for two bathed in dappled sunlight.

‘Alright here?’ I asked, sounding like a slightly less pissed Withnail.

stare, stare, stare…


Slack jaw nods, and I stride over, plonk down my stuff down, place my order, and ask the yummy mummy on the next table (stare, stare) to watch my bags whilst I go for a wee.

What is wrong with people today?  The blood moon was last week!

But when I go to wash my hands, the explanation is staring me back in the face.

As said face is liberally splattered with that gloopy blue playdoh stuff.


I look as if I’ve just fellated a Smurf.


Thanks for telling me Mincey!

Cursing him, the waiter, and everyone else that just stared dumbly, I scraped off the mess, refreshed my lipstick and headed back to my table just to find Yummy trying to defend my table from a particularly rough looking couple.

This was the last straw.

‘EXCUSE ME’, I practically bellow, ‘that table is mine!’

The rather burly woman turns to take me on.  ‘We wanna eat, and YOU only have a coffee!’

Reasonable point.  But by then, quite frankly, I’m up for a row, but by some miracle, Slack Jaw steps in and says ‘I’m sorry madam, but this lady was first’.

Unspoken message being ‘Don’t upset the Smurf bothering nutter.’

And as I finally take my seat, sip my delicious beverage and nibble on my complementary biscotti, basking in the warm sunlight, it occurs to me that I could actually make this shit work for me.

Does anyone know where I can buy a second hand straight jacket?








If you really love someone, you want the very best for them.


I’m starting to realise why staying off Facefuck was no real hardship whatsoever.

Today is not a good day.  My neck is stiff.  I’m bloated.  Everything has gone quiet on the work front.  I’ve just paid a humungous bill and am very worried about money.

And someone who once was a close friend of mine is getting married next month.

I used to be her confidante in another life, and she, to a certain degree was mine.  But Beth, like many others (and let’s face it, like me), thought that my illness would magically disappear the minute I left the corporate world, and when she for the first time saw me, not even at my worse, but not a well bunny, she essentially bailed on me.

At the time, that hurt a lot.  And whilst she laid low for a long time after, I no doubt communicated my anger and disappointment to her telepathically, lest she think I didn’t mind.


i can do that y’know.  I know!  It’s a gift… 😉

In the year or so that has passed, we have made a number of half assed attempts to meet up, me being reluctant to see her because I was afraid of losing it with her, and she no doubt anticipated this, because each and every time she organised something, she cancelled on me, and each and every time was a sharp, rusty spur in my already severely lacerated heart.


I’m not angry with her anymore though, and in many ways I don’t blame her.  We have always been frank and intimate in our conversations in the past, and it would be hard, insurmountable even, to have to default to small talk as a means to avoiding the massive, cranky, marauding elephant that would plonk it’s arse down between us and trumpet deafeningly in our ears:

“Well?  Are you gonna talk about it?  You can’t not, can you?!”

“She,” it would say, pointing it’s trunk at Bethanny, “pretty much abandoned you, just when you needed her most.  You asked for the tiniest thing and she bolted like Sea Biscuit on speed in the opposite direction…aren’t you pissed off about that?”

“…and she”, turning on me now, the buck toothed bastard, “is even madder than you, is a total embarrassment and anyone hanging out with her will be found guilty by association, so no wonder you legged it!”


Ordinarily I would have no problem with pointing out the intrusive, fat fucker and discussing it till the cows come home, but the stumbling block would be that I strongly sense that Beth wouldn’t.

I think she feels bad for what she did or rather didn’t do, remembers the formidable, accusary Sista that would want to cut through that steaming pile of jumboshit and have it out with her.  This would be something that she would not be prepared to endure and therefore the least painful/intimidating option was probably to slate me to all our acquaintances for not being right in the head, going to ground and use that as a reason that we no longer see one another.

And, given that she is lovely, popular and ‘normal’ (and that I’m not in touch with any of them) they will have believed her.

So we stay estranged.

And never the twain shall meet.  And as sad as I am about that, I’m no longer angry and have left her be.   That said, I do wonder if she messes me around in order to get my attention.

Maybe she’s angry with me for not trying harder.  But I’ve had bigger sharks to fry.

But it’s not only Beth’s recent status that has upset me.  Or the bling on her finger.  Or the million and one friends (my ex friends included) that love her and are cooing and whooping at her glad tidings as we speak.

Indeed I was one of them myself.

It’s bearing witness to the hundreds, nay thousands of them and others that are living happy, successful, selfie/’like’/friend filled lives without me, as being able to witness their triumphs only serves to highlight the pointlessness of my own miserable existence.

Of course, intellectually I know that not everyone’s live is as peachy as they would have you believe on Facebook.  But when I’m having an off day like this, it all sound seriously idyllic and convincing to me.

And in my heart I’m truly happy that things are going well for her, and she has outgrown her self destructive tendencies and proclivity for colossally arrogant, misogynistic, self serving arseholes and has found a nice guy to spend her life with.  He looks like an absolute sweetheart.  I’m just sad that we’re such different people now, and that we’ve clearly outgrown one another.

And pretty soon, our weary old elephant will get up, fart in disgust, swish it’s weedy little tail and slowly walk away.

For the record, I’m glad I’ve changed, painful though the road has been.

I do miss Beth though.

Just not as much as I miss the positive, self righteous force that was my anger.

Sadness is so much harder to bear.

Namaste x





I think I’m being tested.

This morning, I received a very exciting email asking me to come into town this afternoon to discuss some paid work, and was asked to dress to impress.

It was all a bit last minute but it sounded very promising and I was most excited, and ran around like a mad woman (yes I know 😉 ), trawled through my wardrobe for the perfect outfit, washed my hair and put it up, trowelled on the make up, got done up to the nines, paid London congestion charge to take my car into the zone, so I wouldn’t get rained on, accidentally drove into a bus lane (SHIT!) because I was so nervous, paid a small fortune to a sweet genial man to park near the venue, refreshed my lipstick, took a deep breath and teetered over to the cobbles in my most elegant heels, trying not to perspire in the sunny, humid atmosphere and, for once, 20 minutes early, reported to reception.


And as I scaled the stairs to the interview room, I imagined that this was going to be the start of a new phase for me, a successful happy trouble free period where I would get a working life back on track, earn something akin to a living, and maybe even excel at something that I found fun and exhilarating.

Then as I approached the lady in charge, and before I even took my coat off, greeted me with this immortal line.

‘Oh dear.  You’re younger than we thought. I don’t think this is the right job for you.’

And that was it. Blown out of the water in less than a minute, with a bright smile and barely an apology for wasting my time, money and energy, when they knew my age and what I looked like from the onset and still asked me to attend, plus they almost seemed to take some kind of perverse joy in seeing my face fall at being dismissed so rudely.

I did myself proud though.

I did not let those arrogant, power crazy bitches see my disappointment. Not one flicker. And if they were waiting for me to grovel or plead my case, they were wasting their time.

I gave them a dazzling smile, thanked them for their time and exited with my head held high.

And as I drove home I realised that there would potentially be many more days like this, where I would have to interact with the ignorant, and I would have to roll with the punches and gird myself against letting the disappointments in my future overwhelm me into fully blown ‘dark days’.

Sure I would learn something from today and guard against any further invitations from this company and companies like them, but to be able to do something you like (well, don’t mind too much) for a living comes at a cost and such roles are hard fought for hence competition is fierce. I have however vowed that I will never let anyone see my vulnerability again, and I plan to stick to that, no matter how people treat me.

As for those who really overstep the mark…


Going back to today, all I can do is try and focus on the positives:

1. I look younger than my age. Apparently this isn’t perceptible from my photos, even those that have been photoshopped, but, hey, whatvs… 😉

2. I had the guts to grab an opportunity and run with it.

3. I didn’t get hit/killed when I drove into the bus lane (and hopefully won’t get fined, please God…)

4. A very handsome guy flirted with me en route.

5. My lovely friend was there to cheer me on when I told her the news, and commiserate with me when I was dumped, bless her heart.

6.  The lovely car park guy on hearing my hard luck tale, fully refunded my parking costs, how sweet was that?

7. After my Lenten deprival I can now fit into my slinky 1950’s Betty Page dress again!



8. I have about 2 kilos of high quality chocolate squirrelled away in my kitchen!  But will only have one.  Chocolate, not kilo that is. 😉

Those Oasis boys know a bit about rolling with it, and whilst they’ve had their ups and downs, they’re still out there doing their thing.  We’re a tenacious lot us Mancs, and as Liam has frequently demonstrated, not a race to be messed with!

Play this song when you feel down and beaten, and I hope it gives you inspiration.

Namaste x





This time last week I felt like I’ve been put though a mangle, after two, very different, but equally demanding, challenging, potentially exposing days liaising with strangers.

The first was being interviewed by two very bright, eager, shiny faced young medical students/researchers at my local mental health facility in preparation for my (pending) therapy this Autumn.

This took over three and a half hours in a windowless, airless room, not counting two visits to the lavvy and one five minute tea break.

The lack of breaks wasn’t down to them.  It was down to me.  Much like yanking a large, well established sticking plaster of an unwaxed, hirsute front bottom, I wanted it over and done with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

God, it was bloody.

Not because they were unkind, cold or clinical.

It was because they weren’t.

They were intent on making me comfortable with the process, and tried so hard to say the right things (urrgghhh!) that it just made it worse.  And the more they sensed my discomfort, the harder they tried.

Bless their hearts, but it was excruciating.


They were so frigging wholesome, so untarnished, so eager to please, so evidently loved that every time I told them something that they could never, ever relate to, their faces would pucker with confusion, compassion and pity, before hurriedly dipping their heads into their respective notebooks to frantically scribble down their observations, and I just wanted to die from mortification and embarrassment.

We were like chalk and cheese, oil and water [insert favourite cliche] etc.  The times that they tried to be jolly and smiley, I couldn’t force it or pretend to be, and when I occasionally spat out a wry but hopefully witty comment, it either went over their heads or they were too nervous to laugh in case they misread my intent, so instead of bonding, all I could feel was the vast chasm expanding between us.

I felt old, corrupt, soiled and a complete and total failure. These girls were young enough to be my kids and I was the helpless one?

I honestly cannot describe the shame.

And as I left that soulless hospital ward and emerged out into the bright sunlight that I finally realised what I had committed to.

2-3 YEARS of this?!  How will I bear it?

That said, I was grateful for my exhaustion as I had a very early start the next day and wanted to get a good night’s rest.


But whilst I did manage to get to bed early and nod off, nothing could prepare me for getting up at sparrow’s fart, aka before dawn.

On the plus side, I didn’t have to give much of a shit about what I looked like.  What a joy that was!  Up, shower, dressed and out of the door.

Good job I wasn’t being hired for my looks.  Or my personality really.


As, in complete contrast from the day before, I was essentially just a warm body to the people who employed me that day.  An anonymous drone.  Part of a rentacrowd.  I was totally insignificant to them and they neither wanted nor needed to know fuck all about me.

But it wasn’t dehumanising or horrible.

It was a massive relief.

Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t rude or unkind. Well there were one or two dickheads there, puffed up with a sense of self importance that was neither warranted or deserved, but I didn’t feel I had to kiss their arse or suck up to them, which is more than I could say for my previous employers.  Oh one woman was a bit short with me, because I’m pretty sure she wanted to impress certain parties, but to my astonishment I was able to let it wash over me.

It didn’t burn me.  I wasn’t incensed.  I didn’t hit her back with a barbed lash of my infamous tongue.  I gazed at her blankly and meekly walked away.  Result!

Plus I met some cool, funny people to chat with.  Transient, commitment phobe pretenders just like me, but so full of banter, gossip and anecdotes about the business that I could get away with giving very little away about myself, thus maintaining my anonymity and emotional distance.

I also learned that my usual tactic of finding a kindred spirit and sticking to them doesn’t wash with this lot.  One minute I’d be having a big old bonding session with one woman, the next I’d come back from the loo and she’d be in a different room chatting to someone else.  This kind of work will be a good opportunity for me to learn to do the same.

I have to keep reminding myself, I don’t HAVE to FIT IN.  I can flit too.

It was perfect.  Almost like it was tailor made for me.

And my indifference to the VIP’s, and their desire to distance themselves from us made me an ideal candidate to work alongside them.

‘Oh, so and so’s here!  I hope I get to see her!  Do you think such and such is here too?’ piped up one keen little soul, wide eyed with excitement.


Whilst I’m sure they’re both nice enough, I really couldn’t give a shit, so I wasn’t one of the crowd that was hovering around trying to get a glimpse of them.

Because these VIPs and the fawning, kow towing wannabes looking after them are to my mind, no different to the rest of us.

We’re all just warm bodies for hire.

They just don’t know it yet.

It was a long old day, but I was prepared for that and took stuff to keep me occupied.  We were well fed, well rested but it was gruelling, given that I had not worked properly for months, plus, after being grilled by the Looney Police for nearly four hours the day before, it didn’t take me long to get overwhelmed with all the small talk and forced interaction, and I frequently longed for my sofa, mogs and a bit of solitude.

Then at last, we were allowed to leave and I had to queue up with all the others to get signed off.   The blustery guy in charge (who was quite sweet really), relieved that all had gone without incident, in a fit of bonhomie added an extra hours pay to my form, countersigned it and handed me the pink carbon copy.

And there it was.

The first wage I have earned in nearly two years.

A fraction of what I used to earn of course, and once the social see it hit my account I may well lose my benefits which is kind of terrifying.

But for that moment, I was proud of myself for bitch slapping the FEAR into submission and getting through these two most vital of days.

‘Thank you’, I said smiling, ‘it was fun!’

‘FUN!’ he echoed, clearly amused that such a menial role could be entertaining to me.

But he had no idea.  How could he?

For after all those years I had to pretend to be someone I was not, barely ‘masking my contempt for the assholes in charge’, working with people I did not respect, and supporting policies that I did not agree with, to be able to embrace my inner Lester Burnham and do ‘a job with the least amount of responsibility’ was just bliss.

And the irony that I had to do less acting in this scenario than my previous roles did not escape me.

As I staggered gratefully to my car to hit the road, it occurred to me that, at the end of the day, we are at our core, all actors anyway.

I am no more Sista Sertraline than I am this vehicle.

I merely occupy it for this particular journey, and one day the engine will die, the wheels will stop turning and I will step out of it and move on.

In the meantime I wonder what the road might have in store for me tomorrow.  Living one’s life authentically and not walking the wheel sure is keeping me on my toes.

Nobody told me there’d be days like these.

Most peculiar mama.






Just in case you weren’t aware, we are less than 2 days from Easter Sunday, and I’ve been (mostly) off sugar and alcohol for over 40 days for Lent, and I’ve been trying to establish a healthy way of living mentally, physically and spiritually with varying degrees of consistency and success.

So what have I learned from this?




One of the first unsurprising realisations was that as much as I love the stuff, sugar and products made of sugar are energy killers, and when you stop eating it, you realise how prevalent it is in our diet, hence how much of eat we eat as a nation.  I know you’re probably thinking this should not come as a surprise to me seeing how much I bake, but I didn’t actually think about it when pouring glistening white heaped spoonfuls of it into a bowl for a large batches of muffins.

It’s only when I calculated the grams of sugar per serving that the penny dropped.  And it’s quite shocking.

This isn’t going to stop me baking or eating cake though.  I’m not a frigging saint!  I just won’t indulge as often as I used to, that’s all, plus I’ll replace the white stuff with agave or another less addictive sweetener wherever possible.



I actually missed my occasional glass of wine more than cake and chocolate, but similar story really energy wise, plus my frequent, trippy dreams totally stopped for the most part, which is annoying because I have a thing for hot milky drinks spiked with liquor before going to bed, so that’s one little habit I’m probably going to have to drop long term.

Again, I’ll still have the odd tipple, but will try not to drink alone and only in strict moderation.




I managed to stay off social media websites and to be honest I haven’t really missed it, and I can report that I’ve hardly seen or heard from any of my ‘friends’ whilst being incommunicado, so it’s been quite lonely for me really.  

I have made a little more effort to see more people, but I still seem to struggling to integrate and find my pack so to speak.  It almost feels like I’m deliberately being held back until I sort my shit out, which segways very nicely into….



I’m still using my rosary, sometimes, I have to admit, in a half assed fashion, but I do try hard to communicate with the big guy and it helps if I have something specific to say.  

Does it make me feel better?   

Sometimes.  I am, for instance, alone for most of this bank holiday, because, as per usual, any plans I try to make tend to get scuppered right at the last minute, but I’m trying to relax into it and be accepting and even appreciative of the solitude, especially after two gruelling days of being with strangers (more on that next post).  

I may even sneak into mass this Sunday.

No promises though. 😉



I’ve been to yoga at my local studio quite a bit, but still can’t bring myself to practice at home.

As for mediation…

FFS, what is wrong with me?!

Something to talk about with the big guy later…



Walking everywhere has been a bit of a revelation too.  My waistline has shrunk, my energy better and I’m probably saving a fortune in bus fares.

This is definitely a habit I want to maintain.


So in sum, I’ve kind of realised that my chances of having a good day are greatly enhanced if I look after my body, eat right, try and keep the spiritual pathways open and accept and make use of those quiet, lonely times in my life, i.e. most of the time, and be kind to myself on those days.

All good stuff, eh?

Except, today wasn’t a very worthy day at all.  I ate too many carbs, didn’t go out let alone walk, and feel strangely sleepy, sad and flat.

And whilst I hunted for a ‘not too religious’ (!) image to post atop of this article, and seeing all the images crosses and thorny crowns coming up on my search engine, I realise that today of all days is probably not meant to be too jolly, and perhaps my lassitude and endless introspection is appropriate in this instance.

And come Sunday?  Whilst I accept that my own personal ‘Good Friday’ may not be over for quite a while, I will try and give thanks for my life and make some kind of agreement with myself and God to take each day as it comes, be patient, and trust that it will all work out in the end.

Whatever that means.

Namaste x