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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THIS BOY IS CRACK’IN UP #CBB @PEREZHILTON

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I don’t know if any of you watch British Celebrity Big Brother, but this year has been a doozy.

The ‘housemates’ include hateful panto-esque Twitter villainess cum rent-a-gob Katie Hopkins, RuPaul muse and radio host Michelle Visage who was ‘weaned off the teats of drag queens’, 80’s soulster Alexander O’Neill, plastic surgery casualty Alicia Duvall, creepy ‘comedian’ and actor Ken Morley, serial womaniser and reality TV star Callum Best, and hyperactive Baywatch star Jeremy Jackson.

And whilst this colourful cast of characters might not sound like a sure in recipe for trouble to you, this shit has gone nuclear.

We’ve had sexual inappropriateness, racism, sexual harassment, bullying, sleep deprivation, bitch fights, al fresco simulated solo sex and a bunny (ornamental not real) beheading, and I’m not gonna lie, it has been riveting viewing.

But there comes a point where someone has to cry ‘Enough!’ and pull the plug on this shit.  Or at the very least remove the walking wounded.

Ken and Jeremy are gone (see http://bigbrother.channel5.com and the tabloid press for info), but undoubtably the ‘star’ of the show has been the increasingly dysfunctional, terminally annoying Perez Hilton and he is still cavorting around the old town of Elstree tormenting everyone in sight in the hope that he can be booted out and get to keep his no doubt exorbitant fee.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2913983/Don-t-judge-gay-community-Michelle-Visage-makes-public-plea-Perez-Hilton-strips-enacts-sexual-positions-CBB.html

He even goaded Alexander into calling him a ‘f****t’, something I doubt he would have done had he not being pushed, but the house now consists of the participators, the interferers (yes I’m talking about you Nadia Sawalha), the ‘I’m keeping well out of this shit’ers, and, as of Friday night, unlikely peace envoy, model and business woman Katie Price.

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Sadly though, I think it’s gonna take more than magic wand wielding KP in fairy godmother mode to fix this cursed domicile.

She may get a gratis polite 12-24 hours if she’s lucky, then once again, all hell will break loose, as Perez has alienated nearly all of his housemates now, and having heard the cries ‘Get Perez Out!’ from the general public that were meant to love him, he wants out.  And he ain’t going empty handed.  And Big Brother/Endemol have no intention of paying and releasing him, not until they allow him to push himself to the brink, crank the viewing figures up even more, giving them the opportunity to milk this demented cash cow to the max.

The trouble is, to my mind, this boy is crack’in up and he’s putting money before his mental health and the retention of the last shreds of his dignity.

Plus, after days of being on pretty much her best behaviour (well for her anyway), the repellent, sadistic bully Katie Hopkins is out of her box, has tasted blood and runs around nipping at his heels trying to expedite his downfall, kidding herself that this will raise her profile and likeabilty with the British public, whilst he bellows at her bull like, as they reenact some particularly dark episode of ‘Cow and Chicken’.

This is not entertainment.

It’s ugly and by watching it we are mocking the afflicted.

Hell, even Danny Dyer has dismissed it on Twitter as being ‘Like a snuff movie.  Or holding hands with Max Clifford.’

And it brings back painful memories of my own psychological downfall back in 2012.

Whilst I was not working in the same kind of environment as Perez or getting anything like as much exposure, I could feel people watching me like I was a soap opera on legs.

And whilst I did not seek expose my condition or deliberately draw attention to myself, the longer I stayed, the more the gossip fed mob goggled at me, in the office, in the cafe, in the lift, hotly debating what might happen next.

And whilst I wasn’t holding out for a pay out, a pay out would have to be negotiated in order for me to survive post expulsion.

And whilst I didn’t walk, because I was determined to be heard, I could have.

And maybe, just maybe I should have.

It’s hard to determine whether I did the right thing for myself back then.  I believed I behaved with dignity and hung on because I was not going to be intimidated and forced out by a huge American company who had allowed me to be bullied and mistreated and I was determined that, even if I did not survive the outcome, that this would never happen to anyone else after I was gone.

However the 18 month battle invariably left me with scars that are today, nearly two years later, still scabbing over and not yet healed.

Which is why I implore Perez Hilton’s advisors to bust him out of there, fee or no fee, before he does something even more stupid to himself.

Which is why I implore Big Brother/Endomol to meet Perez and his people half way and facilitate his release because the quicker he comes out, the less damage limitation he’ll have to do and his career, in the US at least, may survive this ugly, humiliating charade.

Because nervous breakdowns do not great headlines make.

Suicide even less so.

Think about it Endomol, do you really want his blood on your hands?

Or, if I really want to reach you where you live, do you really want the doors to that house to close for the final time this month?

Who wins?

You decide.

Namaste.

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I’VE GOTTA BE ME? #BPD

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I just had a bit of a spat with one of my closest friends, and for once, I had no idea where it came from.

I knew he was pissy with me because of his silence and lack of ‘How are you?’ texts for a few days, but when I sent him one telling him that I just got a days work with a well know steak restaurant, he totally killed my buzz by replying:

‘Well being a vegan you can’t expect me to cheer about it’.

Alrighty.

And because I was a bit peeved by his passive aggressive silence and for pissing on my bovine BBQ, especially as (a) he’s not normally so easily offended, and (b) lives with a carnivore, (c) knows how financially strapped I am, I replied with a sarky but humorous:

‘You?  A vegan?  Really?  But you’ve kept so quiet about it!’.

Because out of all of our circle of friends I am the most supportive, helpful and facilitating of his lifestyle choice.  I send him recipes, I eat in veggie/vegan restaurants with him (something one of our close buds wouldn’t even contemplate) buy him vegan friendly gifts, make him vegan food and treats, and even baked him a vegan ‘cake’ for his birthday.

But then the real reason for his snippiness came out.  Apparently I had offended his partner by the tone of an email I had sent to our circle of friends.

I was dismayed.

‘It was banter!  Surely the exclamation marks and winky faces gave that away?  Anyway Bruce hardly has a subtle sense of humour, surely he should be able to put his big boy pants on and suck it up?  As for your being a vegan, I never forget that and am always willing to work around it, but I eat meat, always have and I need the money!  Can’t you just be glad for me?’

Then I was hit by a barrage of venom about how insensitive I was, how eating meat was like child abuse (interesting, does that mean that beef biting Bruce is his live in nonce?), how it’s my fault if I got the tone of the communication wrong, and if it was such an effort I shouldn’t bother to try work around his eating habits.

Gotcha.

The thing is I’ve know this individual for nearly 20 years so he should (a) be able to tell when I’m joking, (b) be able to automatically give me the benefit of the doubt if he thinks for one minute that I’m serious, and (c) talk to me like a man before jumping to conclusions.

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But I’m starting to fear that coming out as EUPD and depressive has given certain people a ‘Get into Jail Free’ card when it comes to deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, because I know for a fact that when I was younger, my humour was much more caustic, unforgiving and in your face.  But because in their minds I was more or less ‘normal’ then that was just down to my strong personality and everyone took it on the chin and gave back as good as they got.

But now that I’m officially a ‘Bunny Boiler’ and more emotionally vulnerable, then they can allude to me being a bit mental as a get out clause when they want to win an argument.

I also remembered that I forgot my meds that day which may have led me to being a bit more hyper than usual.

Fuck.

So I asked another very outspoken member of our crew if she thought my email was rude, she was emphatic that it was not, and that she read it as, not just my sense of humour, but our collective sense of humour. This was and is how we roll, both in written form and face to face.

Right!  Exactly!

And to be honest, would it be such a terrible thing if I actually came off my meds and then be even more myself?

Whilst this wouldn’t be the best idea right now, it is definitely a long term goal as being perpetually tamped down makes for a very boring Sista indeed.  My passion is part of who I am, and in order to live my life to the fullest, I gotta be me, regardless of what anyone else thinks or how they choose to judge me.

Si’s behaviour does feel like something of a betrayal though.  A less healthy Sista would have cut him to shreds, held a grudge for months, been much less flexible and not bothered to make any kind of effort with the friendship moving forward.

But I’m bigger than that nowadays.

Well I will be in a few days as I need time to simmer down as I’ve just cut my medication by half.  Yay!

Look out world, the largely undiluted, allegedly annoying, takes no prisoners Sista is coming atcha so you better put meat on your argument, or prepare to be roasted in the process! 😉

dr seuss

Peace to all and Namaste x

http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/sammy_davis_jr/ive_gotta_be_me.html


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I’M BORED

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I’ve missed my last two group therapy sessions.

Not deliberately, but whenever I plan my journey to the hospital something always seems to go wrong, and I’m starting to think the universe is trying to tell me something.

And after the last one I attended I was late and felt even worse afterwards, which was not because anything struck a chord with me, but because I almost felt as if I was resented for my non weepy, rather detached mood.

Told Aunty Clara (my counsellor) and she asked me how I felt whilst in the sessions.

‘I dunno.  I don’t trust the shrinks, I don’t have the relationship with them that I have with you.  The exercises they give us seem so obvious and cliched.  I sit there, listening to everyone’s woes, foot jiggling with frustration, and when I sometimes crack jokes to cheer people up and relieve the sheer unadulterated fucking misery that’s in the room, I’m told that it’s some kind of avoidance tactic!’

Aunty C laughs but when I ask her if I should keep going she gets serious.

‘You know that I never approved of you writing yourself off as BPD, and whilst you might think the the diagnosis applies to you, I think you have done all the digging you need to do, and I’d rather you pushed forward and established a new life for yourself.’

‘So why can’t I do what I need to do?’

She smiles and gives me an affection shove ‘Because it’s hard!’

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I frown.

‘Do you think I’m in denial here, and I’m trying to get out of this because something painful is coming up for me?’

‘Do you think you are?’

‘Don’t you start, you sound just like him!’  We both laugh.  ‘But the answer is, no.  I’m the only one in the group that has never cried during a session.  I totally feel for them, and see aspects of myself in some of them which has been helpful but I feel like I covered this ground years ago, and I’m seriously bored!’

As Iggy Pop might say, I’m Chairman of the Bored.  Actually no.  I’m the SVP/majority shareholder.

‘How was Christmas?’

‘OK, but, well, boring.  It’s just the same old shit whoever you spend it with really isn’t it?  I just made polite chit chat, ate loads, watched TV and tried not to fart.  I actually enjoyed the volunteering more than Christmas Day!’

C grins at me.

‘I know it’s me.  Other people like the traditional and predictable, but I feel like a kid that has no one to play with!  I want to have FUN!’ 

C clasps her hands together with glee.

‘There now!  Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?’

And that’s true, she has urged me to make time for play, but what happens if no one else wants to?  Playing alone is a sad thing, especially if you had to do it for most of your official childhood.

And that’s when it struck me.  If my existing pals aren’t up for high jinks due to work commitments, kids or in some cases, good old fashioned ‘can’t be arsed’ syndrome, I have to find new ones who are.

So I’ve got a business idea.  Nothing major you understand.  Alan Sugar can rest easy. But a way of attracting equally infantile souls whilst making a bit of pocket money, or if nothing else, covering my costs.

Like many other ideas I’ve had in the past, it’s been popping into my conscious intermittently during the past week, and to date, those horribly negative mind monkeys (word to the wise – not all primates are fun) have rubbished it, like they have every single venture I’ve considered in the past, and given me every reason not to try it.

Mind Monkeys

‘IT’S A STUPID IDEA, IT’S PATHETIC – HOW OLD ARE YOU, IT WON’T WORK, YOU’LL LOOK LIKE AN ARSEHOLE WHEN PEOPLE FIND OUT, YOU’LL LOSE MONEY, THEN LOSE YOUR HOME, WHAT IF YOU MOVE, WHAT IF YOU ATTRACT PSYCHOS, …SHRIEK, SHRIEK, JABBER JABBER, SCRATCH SCRATCH….’

But fuck those flea ridden fuckwits, I’m going have a go and see what happens.

Watch this space and let the wild rumpus start!

As for the group, I’m going to suck it and see if it keeps sucking.  If you know what I mean.

Wish me luck?

Namaste xx


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EAR WORM No. 24 – Duran Duran – THE REFLEX #bodydysmorphia #eatingdisorders

I have this morning ritual that I wasn’t even aware of until recently.

Actually it’s more of an unconscious reflex, hence this bloody ear worm.

Every morning (OK, sometimes afternoon) when I get out of bed, I go to the loo then afterwards swing past my full length mirror, lift my top and examine my midriff.  Then depending on state of said abdomen I flinch, pull a face, remain impassive, then stumble off to put the kettle on.

Given that I have a history of eating disorders I’m guess that I’ve been doing this shit since my early mid teens, but of late I’ve doubled up to twice a day as, due to a lack of exercise, and, let’s face it, my extreme attachment to the sofa, my girth has expanded somewhat.

Back in the day, a.k.a. Duran Duran’s hay day, when I was a gym obsessive I would work out fervently, ever striving for that elusive six pack, then I’d lift my top and scrutinise my sweaty midsection, crunching my sunbed bronzed abdominals in an effort to justify that super strenuous 90 minutes of pumping iron.

Flex, flex, flex, flex, flex..

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But despite what watching bystanders might have thought, it wasn’t out of vanity that I did this.  There is no doubt in my mind that looking back 25 years ago to that time, I must have looked good, but all I saw were the imperfections. To be honest, I could have been a cross between Rachel McLish and Jamie Lee Curtis and I still would have pinpointed something that was pudgy, pathetic, or disproportionate that needed work, so the endless search for perfection became an obsession.

And whilst the net result brought me attention, it was only ever of the physical kind and no one ever saw or wanted to see who I really was.

Now I’m not even desired for my physical appearance, so I no longer use it, let alone bruise it. And whilst this in some ways is an enormous relief, in a way it is the death knell for all of my hopes and dreams to be loved, have a family etc. etc.

At least when you’re young you have hope.

And time.

But to this day, whenever I can make myself work out, I take myself into another world where my body sings with gratitude and all my mind has to worry about is counting the reps and committing to the burn, which if I’d realised it at the time, was the real benefit to pumping iron, and not to attract a life partner out of the bunch of muscle bound boys whom my protein shake brought to the yard, who only wanted to bump up their ever inflating ego by ‘conquering’ me.

Which, in fairness to them, unbeknownst to me, was all that I could offer at the time anyway.

Back to the present I’ve decided that if i’m going to do this damn fool thing every morning that I might as well go back to the weights room, and then at least I’ll have a fighting chance of not having to greet my reflection with a grimace of disgust every day.

And I’ll be giving something back to my ageing, neglected, much maligned carcass in the guise of self love, the only kind that counts when it all boils down.  And whilst I know it won’t bring admiring gazes anymore, it will bring me physiological release, endomorphin hits and great bone density.

27 years ago I found myself in London fucked up and lonely with no friends which is coincidentally where I find myself today. But it was getting out and indulging my obsession that brought people into my life, so I’m hoping it works second time around.

So wouldn’t I use it?

Namaste x


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CHEQUE, MATE!

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As promised, I started this year in the spirit of fun, optimism and hope, which was only reinforced by this article by Shakti Sutriasa I read on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/shakti-sutriasa-lcsw-ma/whats-your-one-word-for-2_b_6400994.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000030

Trust.

It almost seemed like an instruction from the universe.

A tall order though, as I am inherently mistrustful of most people, especially men.

Which brings me back to my Cockney admirer from my last post.  Because whilst all the underlying bullshit detectors twitched like a rabbit’s bum whilst he bombarded me with attention and compliments and offers of a lobster dinner at an upmarket restaurant, I did kind of blossom in light of his attention, regardless.

Even when he said the following:

‘Me last bird was a 54 year old ballet instructor.  We broke up because she was insecure abaat me goin’ orf wiv younger women, but I used to say “What would I want wiv ’em, when I got you?”‘

This, as I recall, hung in the air like a the greasy aroma of that morning’s breakfast, and I could not ignore it….

And?  You think I’m also an insecure 54 year old that’s just waiting to be taken advantage of?  Think again Del Boy, think again!

…but I chose to put it on the back burner.  So he likes older women? So he recognises that they can be insecure about dating younger men?  That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s a chancer.

I did make a point though, of telling him that I’m not into relationships right now as I have trust issues and I need to be friends with someone first before I’d even consider going out with them.

And when I wouldn’t give him my mobile number, he seemed genuinely upset, so, soppy me, my heart went out to him, and I allowed him to give me his, then texted him as a friend to see if he was doing any more shifts as he was a lot of fun to work with.

What followed then over the next few days was a torrent of compliments, statements that he couldn’t believe I was single because I was ‘stunning’ and a ‘goddess’, what he would do for me if he were with me at that moment (romantic, not sexual), and repeated requests for me to tell him if I ‘missed’ him or not.

What?  How can I miss someone I don’t even know?

I would answer them with reservation but it seemed as it he wanted me to respond with the same kind of passion.  He also asked me why I was so cautious, which i obviously didn’t disclose.  Duh!!

He also mentioned that he had had a tough, painful life and my antenna jerked madly with alarm.

In an attempt to calm all this down (as it all smacked of bullshit to be honest) I suggested our meeting for a coffee the following afternoon (NYE), as we hadn’t even had a proper conversation and I wanted to get a glimpse of the real person.  This he could not do as he had commitments right into the evening (fair enough), but not long after midnight, I received a text saying more or less the following:

‘Happy new year, if I wuz with u, I’d have bought you champagne, roses and kissed u at midnight.  R U MISSING ME?’

Yup.  And if I had a dick, I’d be Mista not Sista.

All words, no action.  Who said I wanted such grandiose cliched gestures anyway?  I’ve dated men who brought all the smart dinners, expensive presents and plush hotels already and it doesn’t mean shit if they’re not right for you, so even if he was in a position to take me out, I’d be asking for the cheque and paying my own way, as skint as I am, thank you very much mate.

And what am I supposed to be missing exactly?  Cleaning out cupboards at a refuge with you?

I then wished him HNY in a more conservative fashion, hoped he was having fun and told him to carry on partying.

‘Nah, I ain’t partying, I’ve been in all day’

?  I thought you had arrangements?

Hold on Sista, I told myself, stop getting drawn in.  So he’s lying to you. What is he to you anyway?  Why do you give a fuck?

Because, I think, I got a sense of the real person, the wounded, battle scarred, frightened little boy beneath all the bluster and my heart went out to him.

That said, I gently withdrew and have not contacted him for a day or two.

That said, when I was cozied up on the sofa watching a late night movie with my cats last night, I did wonder where he was and what he was doing.  At home with his wife and kids?  Out on the town with his mates?

Or, as I’ve started to suspect of late, lying on a single bed in a hostel, penniless, lonely and desperate?

And would it be such a terrible thing for me to invite him round for supper and watch TV warm and content in a man’s arms for a change?

Well, for me, yes it would.

Because when a friendship starts on a tissue of lies, AND on the assumption that the other person is lesser because of their age and therefore vulnerable and malleable, that sends my self protection system into overdrive, and the inevitable game of relationship chess ensues.

check

And I am nobodies fool, because, like anyone else, i want to be liked and loved for being ME and not just a soft place for some desperado to fall.

So I NEVER lose those games.

Except I do.  Otherwise I wouldn’t have been on my own for so many years.

Trust.

Whilst I like the idea of the ‘golden hammock of God’s love’ very much, I’m not sure whether it’s fully operational here on earth, and picture myself slipping through a large concealed rip in the side and falling flat on my back, bruising my arse and hurting my pride.

Besides, if the universe wanted me to do ‘trust’, why keep sending me shysters who think I’m stupid and want to take the piss out of me?

Or maybe it’s about seeing what I see without getting angry and trusting that my instincts will protect me, and then, only then, might I attract the good guys?

Ooohh….my brain hurts…..too much to think about….

I liked the idea of ‘Try’ for 2015, but that’s too weedy, even for someone as risk adverse as me.  I even brazenly considered the word ‘Dare’.

But both of these require ‘Trust’, which is my biggest bugbear, so i guess the decision has been made for me.

And I’ll stay in touch with Del Boy as a friend if he so wishes, without exposing myself to humiliation or danger, and for once keep the big baby and ditch the bathwater.

TRUST.

My God, what have I done?

Heres to the most challenging year ever.

Namaste x

http://www.decidedifferently.com

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/12/31/2015-the-year-of-get-happy/