Phoenix Fights

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



You can push a person too far, and right now I’m at the end of a very long, frayed rope….

Yesterday, after months of saint like patience and extraordinary self control, I finally snapped tore one the Perkies a new arsehole (in the manner of Rorschach after a particularly trying day) when, on receipt of my desperate plea for timings and information re my schema therapy treatment, she let it slip that the start date had been moved AGAIN, (4 times to date) and my formal written diagnosis of my condition would not be sent out until everyone involved had completed their questionnaire sessions.

‘How do their answers have any bearing on your analysing and sending out mine?’ I asked in reasonable, if slightly strangled tones, moments before I flipped.

‘…I’m not sure, but I’m calling you back just to say…well…you know…we understand it must be soooo stressful…’

‘Actually I don’t think you do.  Because I’ve almost ran out of money and may not be in situ by the time you, sorry, they get their arse in gear and finalise a date.’ ‘Oh no’ she replied in those oh so familiar sickly sweet tones, ‘that must be sooo awful….’



‘You know what?  I don’t think you’re getting it.  I’ve had to put my flat on the market, I’m down to my last grand, I’ve just had 2 bills that will amount to, oh say around £10K that need paying this year, and I don’t have a fucking job!’

‘Right.  Oh.  I’m so sorry to….’

‘Sorry but I don’t want to hear it.  I don’t want your standardised scripted call back that you make “so they feel acknowledged and listened to” because it’s bullshit.  It’s like you’ve recorded the same droning faux sympathetic message and play it down the receiver to all of us, and it’s just not good enough.  This is beyond a joke.  I’ve been waiting nearly a year for treatment since his nibs charmingly informing me that I was BPD and I’ve had to deal with the fall out of that all on my own (sorry Aunty C) whilst you lot diddle around, putting us through hours and hours of the same stupid fucking questions, intermittently treating us to your best ‘oh dear’ faces in lieu of real empathy, and move the goal posts again, again and again….’

‘Oh, well I….’

‘….and in the meantime we all sit in limbo, either hanging onto our place in society for grim death or mouldering away at home waiting for SOME TANGIBLE SUPPORT….’

‘…yes, I….’

‘ the very LEAST you owe me is a formal written diagnosis so that at the very likely chance that I’ll be somewhere else by the time you get your act together I’ll have something to present to a medical professional in a new borough, where hopefully they might take it and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!’

‘I’m so sorry but…’

‘Look I know it’s not you, but for God’s sake if you don’t know when it’s going to happen, be HONEST because every time you move the dates, I promise you, it’s like a kick to the stomach to someone like me, and y’know what?  Not everyone is as outspoken as me, and let’s face it, the last thing you want is a suicide on your hands?  Just saying!’

I don’t remember who hung up, but I do know that afterwards my hands were trembling with rage, but felt curiously released and revitalised. Aunty C (my counsellor) laughed when I told her.

‘Good for you!  It’s great to that passion back! You are better off not relying on them, move forward, don’t hang around for them or you’ll be there forever!’

That was yesterday.

Today brought me back down to earth with a thunk.

Another service bill because they ‘under estimated’ last year’s. This is like some kind of conspiracy. How am I going to sell this place and afford somewhere near my friends now? I don’t know whether to explode again or sink into a sludgy puddle of lethargic, defeatist despair.


I swear if I counted Dr Manhattan amongst my close friends, i would happily volunteer to be ‘ink blotted’ right now, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit anymore.

I wouldn’t even notice his fine physique, Billy C jawline or his huge blue willy wafting gently in night air.

Nope. Just splat me dude, then fuck off back to tinkering around on Mars, ta muchly.


I honestly don’t know what’s going to come down on me next, but at this rate, I’ll be homeless.  I guess that’s when I’ll find out who my real friends are.

Look out for me sweeping up on my very own desolation row. I’ll be the one that ends up running riot with that broom in the direction of my local mental health facility.

Pray for me.

Namaste x



  1. This is absolutely bloody ridiculous! Waiting 12 months for therapy? No wonder they’re still completing questionnaire sessions! They’re constantly having new spaces to fill as earlier candidates shoot themselves waiting. As for the written diagnosis – it will obviously be full of serious labels and mournful chin-stroking, and worth about jack shit. Anyone who can keep patients waiting as long as that knows NOTHING about people, mental illness, hope, despair or any other bloody thing except esoteric psychological theory which relies on rats in mazes and getting the punctuation right in your assignment bibliographies. Counsellors talk sense. Psychologists talk jargon.
    This is not a cue for sludgy puddles, dear Sista! This is hope! The Schema idea has served its purpose and passed its use-by date. I love Aunty C. Kick the past in the teeth and move on. And kick me as well, if you like, I’m being presumptuous, but I can’t tell you how strongly I believe that once you’re out of your present hole, your whole life will open up.

    • After hearing all that AND me putting it in writing yesterday, one of the clinical psychologists called today and yes, you’ve guessed it, did and said exactly the same think as Perky 1 did. Just in a posher more entitled voice. Gave her the same short strift without hesitation.

      So fucking OVER these people Helen.

  2. It’s so good to hear you speak your mind and tell ‘them’ that you can’t be kept on a string swinging! I do hope you Aunty C will continue to see you if and when you move… she sounds like the real deal. You are certainly in my thoughts, with love, B xx

  3. What In Holy Hell? This has devolved into an obscene and grotesque farce!

    As was kicked around in the Comments section last month, verbal expulsion of venomous animosity can be a most therapeutic exercise. And, as direct response to one’s antagonists, it is too well deserved.

    And, this situation, Madame? A complete fucking abomination. If this Kafkaesque medical bureaucracy will not/cannot help, should it not at least NOT enflame the very things for which you have come to it? At minimum, shouldn’t it NOT induce anxiety and fear and enraged despair? Mein G-tt, this hot-house of foot-dragging suckholes could drive Tutu himself to thoughts of homicide.

    Hold fast, dear Madame. You can weather all of this, you will weather all of this. Please keep us apprised, as well as in mind. We do so love you. x

    • Ooh, I hope not to have overstepped bounds by employing the first person singular above. Apologies if that is the case.

      Also, Madame, I was thoroughly ignorant of this My Chemical Romance cover, but, whoa, daddy, the original may be my longest running ear-worm, clocking in at 32 years now. Thank you most kindly for the edification. 😉

      • Oh, for the love of Mike! Naturally, I meant “first person PLURAL”. The very last person to whom I owe apology is myself.

        And, let us be clear—No, I do not spend time admiring my fatuous old comments. I actually noted the above mistake as soon as it posted, but, needed three solid days of self-flagellation before making the correction.

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