Phoenix Fights

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




This week, after months of silence, upon receiving an invitation from my oldest sister, I put a veritable polecat amongst the pigeons by announcing to her and the family that I wouldn’t be there on Christmas day.

More silence.

Oh dear.

And as my Guilt and Anxiety rose, and dammit, despite trying really hard, I ended up justifying why and that I was going to be doing some volunteering for a charity instead.  I also suggested that I would try to be up later in the week if I had the petrol money when my other sister and her brood will be there.

The reply?

A curt ‘Yes, that would be fine.’

Oops.  Guilt and Anxiety are rudely shoved to one side as Anger, Indignation and Resentment are now in da house.

After all, it’s not like they don’t know about my financial hardship, no matter how much they’ve closed their ears to it, and the fact of the matter is, I just can’t afford them, let alone all their presents, cards, goodies that I usually pack my car with as I plan my pilgrimage oop North come Christmas eve.

So let’s break it down:

WHEN I NEED THEM, they ignore my subtle cries for help, compare my situation to ‘being a bit hard up’ and tell me that ‘we’re all struggling’ then lie low in the hope that they never have to offer financial aid, let alone a temporary roof above my head.  As if I’d ever accept it, given what they did the last time I had to stay at theirs.

Here’s a lovely, heartwarming Christmas story for you.

After a few weeks of staying with my sister some years ago, on leaving their homestead, I was presented with a bill.  You know, like one you’d get if you stayed at the ‘W’ Hotel or something except this was scrawled on exercise book paper.  That said the only thing missing was the gratuity.  I was billed market rate for the room, food, share of bills, council tax, old chipped mug that I broke, you get the picture?  Pretty much everything you would charge a complete stranger if they were renting space from you.  Except I was her younger sister, who had arrive back in the country post breakdown, didn’t have a penny to my name, and had only just secured a job and accommodation.  After that, things got even worse, with more financial demands and a total relationship breakdown, but sorry, I digress….

BUT come Christmas they expect to be able to dig me out, like a dusty old Christmas tree decoration, plonk me on the sofa, shove a paper hat on my head, prop me up at the table, drag me out to some hideous local carol concert, force me to watch an equally awful (no, actually it was even more excruciating) pantomime and then 3 days later, bid me farewell and neglect me for another 12 months?


Before you wag a stern finger at me and open your gob to lecture me oh my lack of good cheer, I’ll openly admit that it’s not all bad.

  • I do love to see them.
  • Christmas Day is usually a lot of fun.
  • The food, both mine and theirs, is great.
  • I even occasionally get a decent present or two, though never anything to get me really excited.  To be fair, I think you need be passionately loved, or at least fucking someone for that privilege.

So am I passive aggressively using this as an opportunity to hurt them for not supporting me in my hour of need?

Well I can honestly say, hand on heart, ‘No.’

Right now, my financial situation is so precarious that, if the money is not in my current account, I don’t spend it.  I stay in, eat from my freezer/cupboards and wait until my benefits arrive, so unless I want to hasten a move to a cardboard box underneath the arches for the New Year, I cannot risk buying presents, food and goodies for 13 adults and kids, something I have done for decades without a murmur of complaint (well, maybe one or two) even though, until recent years, I rarely got so much as a box of Ferrero Rocher or something ropey from the Boxing Day sales in return.


Incidentally, does anyone else think FR are pretty shit?  I think they suck and would personally sooner receive a six pack of bog roll than cheap chocolate, so the Ambassador can stuff them up his ring piece one by one (foil on or off) for all I care, but I’m digressing again….

THEN my other sister comes back and says she won’t be there before New Year so I wouldn’t get to see her anyway.

Suits me bitches.  I’ll spend the petrol money on M&S Christmas food and hole up with the cats for the week, so ‘Ho, frigging Ho’ to the lot of ya.

I know that despite all this, my family are feeling let down, and some how think they are justified in being frosty with me because I’m not playing ‘Aunty Presents’ this year, but fuck, what do they actually expect me to do? Get into more debt?  Plus i can do without any more unexpected bills right now, especially those written by hand on scrap paper.

I, in my way, am sad too.  But to be honest, it’s about time.

Aunty C (my counsellor) has been nagging me for years to start claiming back Christmas, making my own traditions and hosting my own dinners, because she, like me, fears that I’ll be going to my sisters forever, and in the end, I’ll be sat on a commode, dribbling into a plastic bib in between courses, dining on a lunch that has been put through a blender and spoon fed to me, then propped up in front of ‘Call the Midwife’ swimming in sherry, whilst the young ‘uns party, in the hope that I quietly pop my clogs and remember their kindness in my will.

Ugh.  An aged, incontinent, pathetic spinster Sister is one ghost of Christmas future that I’d sooner not ever have to encounter.

Maybe my future Christmases will be different every single year from now on.  Maybe I’ll host.  Maybe I’ll go away.  Maybe one day I’ll even spend the day in bed with a lover (HAH!).  What I can’t do any more is cling to my family and sit on the kid’s table just because I don’t have a life of my own.


What I will always do from now on though, is something for a homeless charity every year.  Because, right now, the ghost of Christmas Present still occasionally put his bony fingers on my shoulders and breathes icy air raspily in my ear as if to remind me of how close to destruction I have come, and if I ever get out of this situation intact, I will never, ever take having my own home for granted again.

My sisters’ kids are nearly all grown up now, and already are more mildly indifferent than excited at my arrival, which is how it goes when kids grow up,  and how it always will be.  Nothing wrong with that.  Plus they all get an alarming number of presents money and vouchers, so I’ll be amazed if they even notice the absence of either myself or my offerings.

And to requote Nanny McPhee “When you (sort of) want me and no longer need me, then I have to go. It’s rather sad, really, but there it is.”

So I’m standing firm on this one, for all our stakes and stepping away from that table of my own volition once and for all.


Always leave them wanting more, that’s what I say 😉  And let’s face it, in this supposed time of great austerity, where the divide between the ‘have’s and ‘have nots’ is ever wider and where the desire for more and more ‘stuff’ brings out the worst in everyone, isn’t it time to be grateful for what we already have and not only for one day?

Namaste x




I am a hair’s breadth away from de-friending one of my Facebook friends.

I say ‘friend’; I hardly know the girl, but I did like her when I first met her earlier this year.  Young, pretty, friendly, she seemed to know everyone and everyone seemed to get on with her.  We had a bit of banter too, so when she sent me a friend request, I had no hesitation in adding her.

Also, to avoid implying that I was misled by my initial impression, she seems as nice online as she was in person.  She has a squillion friends, posts lots of spiritual positivity memes, she can spell (yes I am a grammar pedant – sue me), never seems to have a bad word to say about anyone apart from the odd passive aggressive swipe (‘Haters gonna hate!’), but where it all falls down is her obsession with herself, in the form of daily, in some cases hourly selfies.

Just to be clear, I don’t mind a selfie in the way that I don’t mind a good old fashioned photograph. If you’re on holiday and want a photo of yourself in Times Square, at Sydney Opera House, or in the Blue Lagoon, that’s perfectly OK with me.  I’d love to see it.  Hell I might be jealous for a fleeting few seconds, but that would be more about your being somewhere cool and me being here, not how hot you look in your bikini.  You go girl!  I was young once, sigh….

And if you’ve just got engaged and want to share the happy moment, my day will peak with a little spike of happiness on your behalf.  I do not resent good things happening to other people.  I never have.

In fact any special occasion, why not share?  It’s one of the good things that social media delivers, especially if your family and/or loved ones are far away and need to see those snaps to still feel a part of your life.


And of course if you have one like this, tag me, ‘cos I really want to see it. 🙂

As for celebrities, I’m not even going to go down that road.  Let’s face it, they get on everyone’s wick, and whilst I get sick of seeing Kim’s big oily bum, Kiera Knightly offering to get her tits out and Jennifer’s nude shots and depressing reason for doing them (‘He’s going to look at porn or look at you!’  Oh dear.  Shall you tell her or shall I?), I guess that’s what goes with the territory in Celebville nowadays, and I can avoid looking at them, if I try really, really hard.

But this gal seems to outdo even the mighty Kim K.  Because these are not just mobile phone shots.  There are camera shots, reversioned shots, recoloured shots, make up free/just woke up (a.k.a. washed my face, applied some concealor, lip gloss and got back into bed) shots, old photos, new photos, photos from the future….just kidding.

But if it were possible, believe me Maisie would take ’em, get back in the Tardis, come home and upload ’em. It’s just a perpetual onslaught of Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, ME.

Maisy on the way to work, on the train, having breakfast, posing next to a film poster, posing with her friend at lunch, posing in costume, posing au naturale (see make up free/just woke up) partying, chilling, posing with her family, dog, in Starbucks, shopping in the supermarket, in sexy underwear, clubbing, dancing on a plinth, with the gas meter reader, getting a smear test, having a poo (OK I’m lying about the last two) and loads and loads of her posing and vogueing at home with her flatmates.

That’s right.  Her flatmates.  The people she lives with and sees every single day.

That’s like me grabbing my cats and taking a shot of me trying to hold onto them whilst boiling the kettle, them uploading it with the caption ‘Bitches be gagging for tea in da morning.  Word.’

Or one of you seizing your disgruntled, protesting partner when they arrive home from work, and taking a shot of the two of you staring blearily into the camera, caption ‘Me and my grumpy boo, waiting for the frozen lasagne to cook, better get the scotch out :-s’

Who does that?!  What is she trying to say?  That her life is so damn wonderful that every minute of it has to be recorded for posterity so that future generations can marvel at her fabulousness? If that’s how she truly feels about her time on earth, then I am actually envious.

Maybe that would explain my irritation every time I see her pretty little full lipped fizzog beaming up at me, every single time I check my Facebook feed.

For the love of Christ!’ I seethe inwardly, ‘Get the fuck over yourself!’

This perpetual narcissism gets to me more than I am comfortable with.  What is my problem with her exactly?  That she’s younger, prettier, and happier than me?  Well that accounts for most of the population, so unless I am kidding myself, I don’t think it’s that.

Maybe it’s my essential Britishness that makes her stick in my craw so much.  Unlike Americans, Aussies, and well probably the rest of the planet, we are taught to be modest and self effacing from birth, and if we do happen to have big tickets on ourselves, we’d better damn well hide it because the sheer audacity of liking oneself only makes others hate us.  It’s ridiculous I know, but deeply embedded into our collective psyche.

I also have actor ‘friend’ on there, an average looking guy who’s a ‘friend’ of a mutual ‘friend’ who added me, and in a moment of weakness I accepted him, even though I’d never met him in my life.  I then got an invitation to ‘Follow’ him. I am Fabulous

What?  WHAT?!  Who I am meant to be following exactly?

I clicked on his page, and on closer inspection, it turns out he isn’t an actor or even an extra.  He’s a wannabe extra/model.  But his self belief and confidence is such that he thinks I should fall at his feet and worship him.  I should have known from all the pouting.

Incidentally am I alone in finding men that pout deeply unattractive and laughable?  Surely no grown woman can take them seriously!  Haven’t they seen ‘Zoolander’?!

As I write this, I realise that I should be amused by him, and quite frankly could benefit from taking a leaf out of his book, but his audacity and presumptuousness made me so indignant I almost wrote to him to ask ‘Who do you think you are exactly?’

There are also a couple of people on here too that I’ve had to unfollow.  Not because I don’t like their writing; I’ve actually forgotten what and how they blog because every time they post, I get to see yet another image of them posing seductively, looking wistfully into the distance or gazing beneath their eyelashes Princess Di stylee, and I flick at my mouse with mounting irritation and whizz past them.

Especially if the post has a ‘I’m So Ugly/Unconfident/Alone’ heading.  Why?  Because (a) they are full of shit, (b) no matter how many ‘likes’, followers or ‘Oh you’re so beautiful!’s they get, it’s never enough to appease, and (c) even though they incessantly fish for positive affirmations, it’s clear that no matter how many they pull in it will ever, ever be enough.

Maybe, just maybe, they’re as unhappy as I am and I should feel empathy or even pity for them. But I seem to be unable to do so and think it’s only a matter of time before I block Maisie’s posts or even kick her to the kerb.


In a way she reminds me of one of my cats. My Charlie has this really annoying habit of jumping up at me like a dog whenever I’m working on my iMac and digging his claws into my legs if I ignore him. When I finally break my flow, stop typing and turn to him, his beautiful little face is staring raptly into mine and I want to kill him.  Because I know that within a matter of seconds he’ll run off with his tail happily swishing in the air, only to come back in five minutes when I’m reabsorbed in my work and do it again. And again. And again.

‘FFS Charlie, WHAT?’ I’ll wail in exasperation.  I know he knows it annoys me. But he doesn’t care.  He’s safe in the knowledge that I’ll never do any more than tell him off and tickle the top of his head. Because I love him.

Maisie, I barely even know.

And beauty without substance is transient and loses impact as time goes on. Pretty wrapping paper on a gift box.  That incredible picture on your wall, painted by a local up and coming artist that you barely even notice anymore.  The pair of Tiffany earrings that you forget you bought.  That gorgeous old boyfriend/girlfriend that you thought was such a catch, who ended up being so needy and in your face that you used to hide whenever they came round.

Hasn’t everyone had one of those in their past?  That guy or girl that thinks they’re so beautiful that they don’t need to have or do anything else, who after the lust dies down, bores you shitless?

I was also guilty of using my body and OK’ish looks to secure attention when I was younger.  Nowadays I can barely be bothered to put make up on.  And whilst I still get the odd wolf whistle from building site workers (usually the oldies/half blind geezers about a mile away), my metamorphosis into one of the ‘invisible’ is nearly complete, and to my surprise, there is much comfort to be gained from this.

All that pressure. All that make up. All that trying.  All that botox.

Did it ever bring me happiness?  I think not.

I genuinely hope that Maisie, the wannabe actor and the blogging narcissist are happy in their skin, and whilst they’ll never know how much they irk me, I’m sorry for my judgement, anger and impatience toward them.  After all we’re all on the same journey.

Some of us just got the better road map and a head start.

Namaste x





Sorry I’ve been a bit quiet, things have been very challenging of late.

Not going to bore you with all the details, but those of you who read this pile of piffle that I call my blog know what’s up anyway.

I’ve had to take a deep breath, gather up every fragment of courage I have left and tackle a couple of very scary things in the last ten days or so, but I did it, despite, whilst taking a very humiliating call from my bank one morning, bursting into tears and crying so hard that my nose bled all over my favourite top.


Where the fuck did that come from?

Even more embarrassingly, I couldn’t stop and couldn’t hang up until I’d sorted the situation out.  God it was bloody (quite literally), the operators kept changing to ones with softer/kinder tones and I kept trying to stifle my sobs, sighs and snuffles and grasp back some dignity, but to no avail.  At the end I could almost visualise them laying the phone gently down on the desk and backing away from the hysterical, middle aged madam on the other end, arms in submissive ‘don’t shoot’ position as they edged towards the staff room for a revitalising cuppa.

I just wanted to die of shame.  How didn’t I see that coming?  Yes I did lose my temper and scream obscenities until my throat was sore at the automated voicemail before being put through (as you do), but I honestly didn’t think I was on the verge of full breakdown.

Then I realised; I hadn’t taken my meds for four days. Two day’s of migraine hell accounted for the initial period (as I can’t mix those meds), and I guess the trauma of having to deal with all this shit had caused me to forget to continue afterwards.

I think I sobbed for a good part of the day until it was all out of my system, outbursts triggered by sad real life stories on ‘This Morning’, animals with shattered limbs surviving surgery in ‘The Supervet’, and even that frigging stupid, manipulative Sainsbury’s WW1 Christmas ad where the young, handsome British squaddie gifts his Sainsbury’s branded chocolate bar to his German counterpart during that legendary…(sniff)….Christmas day…(sob)….football match…choke…. 516d7_the-grinch-emotions


As my long-time Christmas anti hero the Grinch (Jim Carrey version) once said ‘What is the deal?’


And this is a big but…. ….I hadn’t noticed any side effects and after the howling had subsided, I felt kind of…


That afternoon I started to research a new estate agent, applied for a full time job and looked into doing some charity work over Christmas.

This is good, I thought.  Isn’t it?  I knew that I was supposed to talk to my GP about coming off Big Sista S and do it gradually, but hell I was on a roll, and might as well keep going.

Then wouldn’t you know it, some horrible little voice (of the mind monkey persuasion) kept whispering to me incessantly ‘If you’d done this two years ago, you would have saved all that money instead of living off it.  You would have gotten yourself a job, been able to sell your flat and not be on your uppers now, you dumb, weak willed bint!’

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

Too late for that now.

But it was right, as was Aunty C.  What else can I say?

Then last night when I went to bed, I woke up all writhing and fidgety, and could not get back to sleep.  I don’t know whether it was my long suffering sexuality trying to break through the hazy weakened SSRI barriers whilst I wasn’t looking and demand to be fed, but I swiftly got up, staggered to the bathroom and took a swift 50mg of my drug of choice and went back to bed.

There’ll be none of that kind of behaviour in my bed, thank you very much. Not at that alarming level at any rate.

So I might have to do the sensible thing and come off gradually, if only to ensure that I don’t end up dry humping some unsuspecting pub Santa for giving me a ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and a festive hug.

You can get arrested for that kind of thing in this country.

And hiding away in a drugged stupor ignoring the inevitable has gotten me into a whole heap of trouble, so I need to break free from my meds and be fully alert and lucid in order to save my miserable ass come 2015.

Even if I have to feel stuff.


Help me Saint Freddie, wherever you are….

Namaste bitches x



It’s still a massive trial meeting new people, even through something like meditation.  Because even if they appear flaky or weird they seem to have a life, ambitions and their shit together.  ‘What do you do?’ they ask.  And I’m at a loss re what to say.

Seeing people I used to know fills me full of dread.  Because I’m so ashamed that I haven’t made a success of my life since I last saw them.  And I know most of them avoid me because they have no faith in me, and are embarrassed to be associated with me.  ‘Hows the yoga training/job situation/book?’ they’d ask.  And I’d have to lie to save face.

I no longer want to see those I love either.  Because I’m too embarrassed to not be able to pay my way, go out to nice places or even contribute.  ‘How are you, how are things?’ they’d ask dully.   And I wouldn’t want to answer because they don’t want to even hear a response.

Hah!  Maybe I should make friends with my therapy group after all at least I don’t have to hide anything from them.

What is the difference between me and all these people?  Some of them at least must have had a rough start to life, how come they’ve managed to navigate the winding, blinding roads of life and get to where they want to be, or at least some place on the outskirts?

Probably because they’ve either (a) had love and support, (b) are made of sterner stuff than me, or (c) when realising no one is going to help, have got on with it themselves instead of waiting for someone else to save them.

‘Cos maybe, nobody’s gonna come and save me….

God after all, is gonna let me fall….





They apologised.

The appointment mix up was entirely their fault and they totally understood why I was upset and why I didn’t attend either session, so I calmed down, accepted it with good grace and went to the next one.

And it was OK despite my embarrassment.  That said I was unable to hide my coldness towards the assistant who fucked up even though I wanted to be more friendly and forgiving.  I still can’t see why she didn’t reply to my texts in a timely fashion, but even I should be able to see that she probably wasn’t trying to be antagonistic or disrespectful.

I say it was OK; I actually find these sessions bone achingly tiring and laborious.  The exercises. The machinations.  The manipulations.  The stupid props and ridiculous cheap felt comfort blankets. The unquestioning trust of the others.

I know that they are trying to help me. But I can’t help but see through it all.

There are revelations, confessions, laughter and even camaraderie.  I just can’t bring myself to feel a part of it.

Shrink No. 2 even tears up sometimes when the others cry because she says she feels our pain.  I try so hard to bite down my suspicion and cynicism, but I watch her watching me, and meet her gaze, unflinchingly dry eyed, as wary and mistrustful as a fox with it’s foot caught in a trap and think ‘It’s all an act.  You’re as transparent as a second rate actor vying for a soap award.  I don’t believe you.  Nice try though.’

I believe that her intentions are good.  I just can’t bear the dishonesty of it all.

Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by the honest one to one relationship I have with Aunty C, my counsellor of seven years.  But I have to acknowledge that despite her respect, tenacity and loving care, there is still something within me that isn’t working properly and I have to go back and work out what it is and how to manage it via a different psychiatric discipline.

Afterwards a group of them congregate in the car park, giggling and bantering, happy and grateful that they got through another painful ninety minutes, and as I try to sneak by, one of them invites me along to go for a coffee with them.

Oh Gawd.

I can’t do it.  I mumble and excuse about needing to walk the session off and head off in the opposite direction.

Fact of the matter is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be friends outside of this group, not just for me, but for any of them really.  We are all damaged individuals, and whilst everyone has been kind, friendly and respectful to one another to date, I doubt if it will always be this way.


Familiarity breeds contempt as the old saying goes, and I struggle enough having so many people know my shit, and I predict when the day comes that it all kicks off because one of us is forced to confront really painful feelings and failings that we have to take responsibility for, all those lovely familial feelings will shatter into a million pieces, voices will raise (“I thought you were on MY side!”), the air will fill with accusations and recriminations and the loss and hurt will be all the greater.

I for one, bitter old soothsayer that I am, want to survive as emotionally unscathed as possible, so it’s best that I expect nothing by way of friendship from any of them.

On the property front, nothing is moving, hence on the financial front things are rather desperate and I’m struggling to retain the illusion of stability and solvency.  And whatdaya know, Christmas is on the way!

And still I fall.  Down to the ground, down to the ground.

Ho frigging ho.

But I guess that whilst I’m stuck in this situation (well until I’m evicted anyhoo) I’m local to the hospital and can continue with the treatment.

And right now I’m looking for some work, any work to keep the wolves (bailiffs) from the door, and have no choice but to hope for better things to come.

I can’t even bring myself to think of how I’m going to conclude 2014 on this blog and plan 2015, as the more I plan to triumph over my trials and meet the new year in a blaze of glory, the more the fates remind me that I still have so very far to go, and when Sista plans, God rolls around on his fluffy white cloud and laughs his fucking arse off.

But I hope.  And hope.  And hope.

And whilst I’m at rock bottom in so many ways, I can now look back on my shit fits, re-read my written rants and can see how much I overreact to and blow up over the most trivial of things.  And when I think about how much I have done this for most of my life, especially in the working arena, it makes my face go hot with embarrassment and shame.

Ah the shame.  Is there any end to it?

The only thing I can take from this is that whilst 99% of my life lies in tatters around me, that 1% is awakening, shifting and hopefully flourishing so that I can start from ground zero and build a life worth living for myself.

It just might take years rather than months, that’s all.

Namaste x



Yes folks, we have a brand new song category.

Honestly I can’t think why it was so long coming, but it’s here, and about time too.

Because I’ve tried, you know?  I’ve bowed, I’ve prayed, I’ve meditated.  I’ve humbled myself, I’ve turned the other cheek, I’ve allowed myself to be dismissed, ignored, barked at, moved around like a living set piece, downgraded, but the final straw was today and now I want to take down the world.


Cos whilst I’ve been accepting of my new positioning in society, I expect a whole lot more from my shrink.  Maybe I’ve been spoilt by Aunty C who treats me like a human being, but if these aunts think I’m going to be treated like a nonentity, they have another thing coming.

These last few days, I’ve kind of given up on everything.  You get to the point you’ve been in that broken box at the bottom of a disused lift shaft so long, you do finally figure out that no one is coming, so the only thing to do is accept your fate.  Even the sage and loving words of C did nothing to shake me out of this stance, but I did agree that I’d continue with the schema therapy.

Yesterday morning was to be my first one to one with Shrink No. 1.  No matter that I was meant to go there come back then go back later that afternoon.  What a pain in the arse.

Can we do it just before the group session?

No. 1 looked as surprised and irked as if one of his dissected lab rats had raised it’s damp disinfected head and asked him to go easy with that scalpel there.


Well can we do it on another date?

No.  Same fixed stare.  Lab rats don’t have rights and therefore don’t get to ask for flexibility.

I’m peeved, make no mistake about that.  In my lowly, pitiful life, I still get to challenge, question, reason and yes, negotiate, but I urged myself to go along with it and accept these unspoken terms.  What other choice did I have?

So he tells me when we’ll meet and then tells me three times that his assistant will text me confirmation.

But over the next week I hear nothing.

So the day before I text her and ask if it’s still happening.


Evidently lab rats aren’t expected to text either.  I kind of get that as it would be pretty hard when your little paws are nailed to the bench, but I managed it and the fucking least she could have done was to respond.  But nada.

So, with superhuman control on my part, I text her again, not to take her down for her rudeness, but to say that I would assume that it was no longer happening but if it was she needed to give me some notice.

Thence follows one of the grimmest 24 hours where all hope was gone and I wished hard that one of those angry ancient Gods would just raise his massive hand and smash this world to pieces, cos I have had enough.

I slept, ate a little, slept, drank wine, slept again.

I was awoken the next morning at 8:30am by a text message, and even in my hungover, stinking befuddled state, I just knew who and what it was and it was as if that evil hand had shrunk down, reached into my core and turned my tiny, barely flickering pilot light up to max.

“REMINDER: You have an appointment with Shrink No. 1 at 9:30 today in Outpatients.  Please do not be late”


Oh man.  That bitch wants to thank God that she never had to deliver that message in person as I would have ripped into her like a wounded, half starved cougar.

Fuck you.



This.  Arrangement.  Is.  Over.

And for your information, this is not open to negotiation.  Us lab rats are not allowed that kind of freedom, remember?

I may have lost my therapy but I just got my power back.

Sorry Buddha, I’m done with you.

It’s Heisenburg time.

FYI for any pedants who don’t think this song is about anger, I really don’t give a shit.  It’s how it speaks to me and that’s what really counts.

Over and out.