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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SONGS OF ANGER 3 – GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE – Elbow

Last stop Despair, the next stop is Anger Central.

Stand clear of the doors please!

Today has been and is still a very ANGRY day for me, for some valid reasons, but none of which should fill me with a burning rage that is currently boiling and humming beneath my surface.

If you were in my local Tesco Extra earlier, you’d have seen a normal, slightly harried looking woman looking for something to go with her home made pesto.  You might even have smiled at me (some bloke did), and I would have returned that smile (and I did), out of politeness, but you would not have probably sensed that it would only take the very slightest provocation for me to take your head, plus the entire roof off the building with my soaring, volcanic, bottomless rage.

The cuss word commonly known as ‘see you next Tuesday’ seems to have taken the place of the word fuck, and is getting pretty commonplace here in ye old London town, that said, I don’t tend to use it very often.  Let’s face it, if c*** replaces fuck, what replaces c*** when you need to say something really offensive?

But today, my friends, must have been St. C’s day as there was a lot of it about.

Like one of the shrinks that kept asking me questions she didn’t like the answers to, then used every passive aggressive trick in the book to get an apology out of me.

She didn’t succeed.

Like the bloke on eBay who claimed the item he’d bought from me was substandard and scratched, when the photo of it showed that it was neither of those things.

I proved him to be a liar but gave him a refund, confident that the universe will take it off him tenfold.  I hope.  It had BETTER.

Like my brother and cousin who constantly block me from their little clique, just to get a rise out of me.

I won’t try and engage anymore.

Like the woman who spoke over and interrupted me every time I tried to speak at a group lunch today, simultaneously spraying me with spittle whilst doing it.

I refrained from forcing her cake and napkin AND fork into her ignorant, tactless, intrusive gob, and escaped as soon as I could.

Like the guy who nearly knocked a little girl off her bike, such was his hurry to park.

Vinnie-Jones-Lock-Stock-2

I dragged him out of his car and slammed his head with the door repeatedly, Big Chris stylee.

Actually I didn’t. But I did give him the ‘dickhead’ salute by way of compensation, much to the approval of said kid’s justifiably outraged mother.

It seems everyone jars with me right now, and that I’m incapable of tolerating my own species, but I’m the only common denominator, so I’m starting to think that divorcing the rest of the populace is the only answer.  Or turning to the bottle.  Or leaving this life altogether, which led me to this little number.

Now where’s my cocktail shaker?

And now one of my cats has just puked all over my bed, the little….sod.

C***?  No siree.  Not my Charlie.  You see, I love him so much that I’d probably forgive him anything.

There may be hope for me yet 🙂

So, Life, things had better change, you’d better stop rejecting me at every turn otherwise we’ll be going before the courts tout suite.

And it won’t be Judge Rinder.

It will be JUDY, OK biatch?

You have been warned.

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elbow/groundsfordivorce.html

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PITY PARTY TRACK 23 – RUN AWAY – SALSOUL ORCHESTRA FEAT. LOLEATTA HOLLOWAY

I swear this has to be the most upbeat ‘Pity Party song’ EVER…

I mean it should be in ‘Optimistic Mix’ or even ‘Ear Worm’ as I can’t get it out of my head.

So, I came by this blast from the past after watching ‘The Paperboy’ movie on TV, then looking up the awesome soundtrack online, then went on a bit of a disco binge, and it all came flooding back to me.

The disco era, the late ’70’s when I had just started going to clubs, when I’d just discovered my womanly wiles, could just about afford make up and was too uninformed and afraid to know how mentally fucked up I really was.

When I was poor and stuck at home.  When I was all buck teeth and National Health glasses.  When I was borderline bulimic and didn’t even know what that meant.  When all in the world I wanted was a boyfriend and feared that no one in the world would ever love me.

When, unbeknownst to me, I had the whole world at my fucking feet.

That, my friends was nearly 40 years ago, and now the future is so very bleak, I honestly wish I could run away.

Now I’m stuck in this flat.  I’ve got marginally smaller, yellowing teeth and reading glasses.  My eating habits have gone wildly dysfunctional again (pathetic, I know).  I have no partner and am now pretty 100% sure that no one will ever love me again.

I am so stuck, and there’s no way back and no way forward.

God let me go back.  Give me another chance.  I swear I’d get it right this time.

Let me do a ‘Peggy Sue Got Married’ and wake up in the morning in my svelte, 17 year old body and give me the chance to steer clear of all of the mistakes i ever made?

As fucking if.

Namaste x


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MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER, BAKE ME A MATCH…

Let him eat cake

I’ve recently been back in touch with a very old friend via Facebook.

I used to be very close to this person, and he knows i have some mental health issues, so I was surprised and bemused when after some general chit chat about how life has been for me of late, to received the following missive:

Hi hon

Read this and thought of you.

Maybe you should try this out as from what I can tell from Facebook, you still make exceedingly good cakes 😉

Jamie x

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/apr/11/i-tried-baking-my-way-to-romance?CMP=share_btn_link

“I tried baking my way to romance”

‘Audrey Shulman was good at baking but less confident talking to men. She decided the way to a man’s heart might be cake – and her whole life changed’

Essentially, in a nutshell, this courageous young lady, desperate for a boyfriend, hit on the idea of using her baking to pull, and committed to baking 50 cakes, and taking them to 50 different LA bars in the hope that the numbers game would pay off and she would happen upon her other half.

Bless her.

Bless Jamie, the old romantic.

Aww, dontcha just love the normal folk who think that the answer to all life’s problems is getting a boyfriend/girlfriend and finding true lurve?

I don’t mean to tease, I honestly don’t.

But seriously.

Do people really think that the bone aching, excoriating loneliness of someone with BDP/depression (or any other alienating condition) who has never, nor will never, ever fit in, and feels like an alien on their own planet can be cured by romance?

To be honest, I am really going through the mill right now in nearly all aspects of my life, group therapy is twanging on my last frayed nerve, so I would not inflict myself on my worst enemy, let alone some poor, hapless bloke.

As for sex, I am no where near trusting enough to allow anyone access to my body.

Also, jiggy jiggy is not a cure all!

My father used to have this rather horrible saying about physical relations, which went along the lines of…

Sex might fill your belly, but it won’t fill his!’

…the old charmer (is it any wonder I’m so fucked up?!), which roughly translated means that sex isn’t everything, and you have to be cautious and practical and not get carried away by chemistry.

In other words, ‘Don’t get knocked up, or you’ll not have a room under this roof young lady, so you better hope that laughing boy has a job y’hear?’.

But believe me, it could only ever be a minor distraction when you have a huge hole at the core of your heart that needs to be filled with some kind of self love and self belief, and it must be healed before you can even consider unleashing yourself upon the males of this world.

But he, Jamie that is, meant well.  it’s not his fault he’s lovely, loved and loved up, as opposed to fucked up.

The twat.

So I replied:

Hi Jay

A) Cute article thanks for thinking of me!

B) Hell, no

This is mainly because:

1. I have very little trust in you penis owners, and have been this way all of my life, but I am however working my way through these issues *

2. In my experience, men do prefer savouries.  In this respect your predilection to pink, iced bakes is unusual.  Anything to tell me there, Twinkle?!

3. I want to be liked for myself and not be some bloke’s cakey come up, thank you v much!

* platonic winkies are fine, so stop tucking it between your legs, you look like Buffalo Bill!

Sista x

That said, as most of you know, I love baking for friends and loved ones once they’ve made a place in my heart.  But this privilege has to be earned!

Ladies, would you go offering your coochie for free in your local pub?  No?

Like it says in the Bible “Do not cast your pearls before swine, lest they gobble them up like starved dogs, burp, then turn back to their 6th pint of swill and ‘Match of the Day’ with nary a backwards glance, the ungrateful b******s”

Or something like that anyway.

I also don’t believe in hunting for a mate.

The proof of the pudding is that this lady did not find true love via ‘cake barring’ (and she’s young and pretty!), but she did meet someone when she was least expecting it.  Oh and she also landed a book deal, which, as David Dickinson might say, was the real deal, as far as I’m concerned. 🙂

David-Dickinson

Finally there are worse things than being single; this credo was fortified and embedded even deeper into my psyche after witnessing my friend’s fiancee (a distinguished Head of Chemistry at a very prestigious college no less) throw a 5 door slamming tantrum that would make a 3 year old blush with shame, ruining her birthday party, and causing everyone to leg it as soon as they’d finished their last drink.

Except for me that is.  I’d had too much to drink to drive home, hence was stuck with the pathetic little fuck for the rest of the evening.

How I held my tongue, i’ll never know.

And you best believe that the next morning at 6.30am I was up and outta there, and 60 minutes later, at home luxuriating in a fragrant moisturising bath, with a nice cuppa, some soothing music and two happy purring kitties, who were very pleased to have their momma back so early.

Seriously.  Is there anything worse than warring couples?  And why do they save their scraps for their single friends to witness? Do they consider it entertainment?

Who needs that shit?  If I’m not getting the benefits of a loving partner, I certainly don’t want to share the down side, so unless your beloved is going to service me, pick me up from the airport after a holiday, take out my trash, take me out Valentines Day, bring me breakfast in bed and paint my ceiling, you can keep the horrible stuff to yourself!

As for sex, Madame Sertraline has all but killed that urge off for me, so when a very cute rugby player half my age tried to come home with me the other day ‘For dinner and “afters”‘, I laughed and gently declined.

Did he honestly think I was going to stuff him?  Sorry, typo, I meant, did he honest think I was going to stuff him with carbs out of gratitude because he’s younger and prettier than me?

Sorry hon.  Even before i was drugged up to the eyeballs, sympathy fucks have never been an aphrodisiac to me.

But one day I’ll be better and maybe the universe will provide a kind, funny, ethical, passionate chap to share the rest of my journey with.

pie-389852

And you best believe, when he does finally rock up, he certainly won’t starve!

Namaste x


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SUGAR ME…

Sugar-depression

...wanna get my candy free’ sang diddy blonde songstress Lindsey de Paul back in the ’70’s, and I have to say, come Easter Sunday I was on exactly the same page, having being starved of the sweet stuff for nearly six weeks.

And I was ready.

Yessir, I treated myself to some posh chocs, made myself some fruit cake (not chocolate? Should have been a clue really) and at the last minute, made myself a batch of the best ice cream ever.

Because I’d been missing my Haagen Dazs.

I didn’t lose as much weight as last time, due to a knee injury, but my jeans were looser and, as it transpires, my energy levels were much better.

So Easter Saturday, I kind of cheated as I had to taste the components of said frozen ambrosia in order to get it right, but I’m sure the risen Christ would forgive me such a small transgression.

I decided to create my own version of HD’s Strawberry Cheesecake variant.

I made my own almond shortbread.

I made my own strawberry coulis instead of using jam as some recipe had suggested, with berries, a bit of sugar and a dash of cassis.  I mean, jam?  Shit, that’s a bit excessive, even for me.

I also cut down the sugar in the cream cheese ice cream after someone who had tested another version said it didn’t need as much.  I used 60g instead of 100g and it sure tasted sweet enough to me.

I also had some HD salted caramel and chocolate in the freezer, so was looking forward to a nice scoop of each after Sunday lunch.

So when Easter Sunday dawned, I had a cupboard full of goodies, but actually felt a bit intimidated re how I was going to eat them all after doing without so long.

I enjoyed a slice of fruit cake for breakfast, and had a small slice of chocolate orange cake after lunch at my friends house.

But when it came to my much anticipated ice cream sundae, I was in for a shock.

As I tucked in, I realised that my lovely concoction tasted of nothing next to the HD salted caramel chocolate which was tooth achingly sweet.  One scoop did not complement the other, they clashed horribly and it was then I realised how much sugar must be in the HD range.

For anyone who doesn’t cook, ice cream before frozen is essentially a custard, and considering that it had 15g sugar per portion (not including the shortbread and coulis), I don’t even want to think how many grams per portion is in the bought varieties.

Not only that, but after a three day dietary blow out, I was hit by a stint of severe depression not experience by me for quite some time, which only goes to verify what sugar does to one’s mood and state of mind, as per the attached article about how sugar affects the brain.

And this is with reference to normal folk, so imagine what it does to crazies like me?

Which is why my beloved Haagen Dazs is in the bin, and my freezer is packed with home made ice cream and cake waiting to be consumed another day.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ll always appreciate a good doughnut (old school, not those insubstantial super sugary, highly processed Krispy Dunkin monstrosities), a nice slice of home made cake, one chocolate with a cup of tea, and being able to finish a good meal in a fine restaurant with a dessert.

But gone are the days of ‘treating myself’ to a tub of shop bough high end ice-cream whilst telling myself that it won’t hurt me, or scarfing a packet of marshmallows (which are essentially pure sugar and gelatine) and congratulating myself for choosing a fat free treat.

Don’t get me wrong, the high is great; but the come down just isn’t worth it.

Haagen Dazs, we’re through!

And don’t let the door hit your big fat ass on your way out.

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Lesson learned.

Namaste x

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/06/sugar-brain-mental-health_n_6904778.html