Phoenix Fights

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




So, surprise, surprise, my old mucker FEAR has snuck back in to the crevice created by my tears and made a rather predictable appearance late last night.

Just as I was about to tidy up, turn off the TV and go to bed I realised that I had concertinaed up my body and was frantically biting down hard on my knuckle, every muscle of my body tense with dread and anticipation.

And, coward that I am, I quickly bottled on my resolution, and downed the tab of Sertraline I should have taken that day, waited for it to take effect, then got into bed, curling myself into a tight foetal position.

Then came the dream.

I’m in a hot country with my friend Jon and we happen upon some kind of attraction/activity, and when we get up closer I see that it’s some kind of zip wire contraption running between two little pod like rooms with a walkway that you have to walk over to get from one to the other, a bit like a motorway service station flyover. Below is a steep fall onto crags and rocks, but there is a sign saying that whoever crosses it wins $1M.  I distinctly remember that part as I was trying to figure out what that is in sterling.  There is a duffle bag filled with notes.  No one touches it.

I turn to look at Jon, but he’s a way back staring at me blankly.

It it true?  What are the legalities of it?  Will they really pay out if someone takes up the challenge?

Then I notice that the wire sags flabbily in the middle and that there is no security harness, just two handles to hang onto as you cross, as you dangle over the rocks below.

Everyone just stares at it. 

I’m thinking of how this prize will solve all of my problems.  I’d be able to pay off my mortgage, move to the coast and start again.


I look around again for Jon, but he’s talking to the others, not paying me any attention.

Then I think ‘Fuck it’ and go to pull the handles to my end via a pulley  and park my stuff next to the duffle bag.  As I do this there is some kind of commotion in the opposite pod as a stocky dark haired man dressed in white arabic robes gets up and peers across at me through the glass of the pod.

Trip trap, trip trap

I don’t like him.

His eyes

He’s creeping me out.

I know I’m not going to do it.

Then I wake up as one of the cats starts chewing my hair, keening for his breakfast.

God I feel shit today.  And piss weak to boot.

Why do bad days always follow good?

Who am I kidding?  Every day is the same, it’s like frigging Groundhog Day with a sarf London twist, and I’m going to go seriously doolally if I don’t get out of here.  Apart from the odd couple of days here and there, I haven’t this friggin’ cell for over a year now, and it’s really getting to me.  My friend has a place by the coast, and even though it’s usually unoccupied, for whatever reason he’s really weird about any of us using it, and I’m too proud to hint or ask him about it anymore.

I need the sea air in my hair, the sun on my body, and a different set of walls to stare at, and my credit card is bouncing around in my bag excitedly.

‘You don’t have the money!’

‘What about your mortgage?’

‘Get a job first!’

‘Don’t do it Sista!’

But I’m in a dangerous mood, fed up of relying on the kindness of others and tired of being afraid.

What is it with me and tightropes?

Oh bollocks to it, what’s the worst that can happen?  You’re a long time dead…


15 thoughts on “ZIPWIRE

  1. Go to the coast. Find a way.

  2. Haven’t commented on your last 2 posts – didn’t want to say the wrong thing – all of that. But the two things that sprang to mind were – make sure you go off the pills SLOWLY (preferably with medical supervision) – and I’m dead wary of psychological labels. Seems to me they too often make the symptoms fit a diagnosis for the sheer joy of popping you in a slot. (But then I admit i’m prejudiced. Started doing Psych 1 at uni when I was working as a hypnotherapist, and gave up because they were far more interested in the punctuation of the assigment’s bibliography than in seeing people as people. What bollocks!) You had a shit childhood full of emotional abuse and contradictory messages. No wonder you’re confused! Therapy/counselling is good stuff. Not sure being labelled, though, doesn’t blow it all out of proportion and make you feel a freak. Again, WHAT BOLLOCKS! Nobody as aware and articulate as you are could possibibly be considered a freak!
    As for a trip to the coast – do it! Look on it as an investrment. Again, I’m prejudiced. My two major lapses into serious illness weren’t reversed until I changed environment.
    So there you are – I’ve shot my mouth off – again. But only, believe me, because I care.
    (And just as a final hurrah – I’m not going off my happy pills EVER! I still feel. I still have down days. But I didn’t like the black hole, and I’m not risking a return visit. And if that makes me weak – bring it on!)

    • Lady, I don’t think anyone could ever describe you as weak! 😉 Maybe I moved too fast, seeing Aunty C AND Dr B tomorrow, and will plan my next move after that. If I could beat my self destructive shit, who knows what could happen, so I’m prepared to give anything a shot. Blah, bleah, blah, blah. Days like this, I’m just fed up with it all. Back to the sofa for me xx

      • Nobody could describe you as weak, either. You just don’t see it yet.
        As for the dream – why does it say you bottled it? I’d have thought you very wisely trusted your instinct about the man on the other side, who was probably going to refuse to pay you the million – or pay it on condition that you stayed forever to cook his meals and scrub his floor, no benefits.

      • Nah, it would have been much worse than that

  3. I hear you, and I understand.

  4. Sista, that dream was amazing! Do you know any Jungian therapist who could help you decipher it? It’s full of symbolism. Can you work out what it means? It sounds as if you’re game to make things work.

  5. Oh, pish-tosh, Madame.
    Nothing was bottled. You didn’t bottle anything. No bottling was perpetrated.
    I do so understand your feeling that way, but, from the outside, can see the sophistry. (Not that this will stop me from doing likewise sometime in the next eight hours.)
    Okay, fine—you did not keep to your self-imposed resolution and that will disappoint one. Yeah, sure.
    But, goddammit, Madame, we’re talking about the Fear here. This is not breaking a promise to oneself not to eat an entire Victoria cake, for crissake—It’s The FEAR. And, when it strikes, if there are legitimate and proper counters at hand, employing them is not weakness—not employing them is masochistic caprice. Of course, you know this, only, sometimes, we do need a reminder. (And, please, believe me, I am neither champion for nor stockholder in Glaxo-Smith-Kline and company.)

    As for your dysphoric reverie, is it anything short of a spot-on representation of your (hell, everyone’s) waking life?

  6. thanks for your support honey x

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