Phoenix Fights

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


ONE FOR THE ROAD #bpd #sex

dr love

Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.

Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.

But now there is a physical aspect to it.

I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.

The situation was intolerable for someone like me.  The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space, and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I inevitably sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.

Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.

This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.

But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.

prostate test

For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things, it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting flesh.

Plus we have to do them every year.

Every.  Year.

Yes?  You there yet?  God.

I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.

Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.

And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.

I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire any time soon.

dr love

To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.

That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.

I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.

Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space.  Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.

It will  have to be on neutral territory.  Maybe in the back of my car even.

It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.

But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.

Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.

Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted.  In the meantime, pray for me please!

Namaste x




They’re ba-ack…

And I’m not talking about poltergeists either, and quite frankly they’d be more welcome than the return of… periods!


Men (or women for that matter), look away now if you’re squeamish…

And it’s not minimal I’m-just-dropping-by-on-my-way-out kind of flow either.  Nope.  It’s a gusher. 😦


No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!!

This would explain a lot about those strange, excessive sexual urges and my recent turbo bout of ‘woe is me’.  A PMT /depression/meds cocktail is a  pretty formidable thang it seems.

Fruitlessly I search for a tampon, but there are none to be found.  I stare accusingly at the cats (who were, and probably still are, skilled ‘white mousy’ kidnappers/torturers) but they return my gaze with their standard wide eyed ‘Who me?’ look of cute innocence.


Hmm.  I’m sure there are a few mangled fluffed up corpses around here somewhere, but it’s not like I can put them anywhere near my mimsy now.

So I curse under my breath, and continue to turn out the contents of my knicker drawer onto the floor.


I am so not going to buy more.  No sir.  That would be tantamount to admitting that they were back indefinitely, which is something I do not care to consider, which is why I’m mincing around gingerly with the equivalent of an adult nappy (i.e. an enormous jam rag from my previous ‘endo’ years) rustling away under my gusset.

And of course the thing about a towel is that unlike with a tampon, you can feel your flow exit. God it’s disgusting.  How do we women put up with this shit for all of those years?

What is the deal here?  Is it a final gore-tastic finale before it bows and leaves the stage forever?  Can periods come back for a defiant, futile second innings?  Seems to be I’ve been ‘peri’ forever…how do you know when ‘post’ happens?

Anyone who’s come out of the end of the menopause, please help as I am in no mood to start buying things to stick up my foof again now that I’ve had a taste of freedom, so will continue with the diapers if the end is actually in sight?

Is it?  Please tell me it is!

In the meantime I’m jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’ and I wish I that I could say adieu…





You know, I’m one of those people who is always cold.

It’s something to do with metabolism but also my build.

I’m quite tall with long arms and legs, so I perpetually have cold feet, even in Summer, and whilst I don’t miss sharing my bed with a man at all (all that snoring, grunting, farting, chest hair shedding etc.), they can make great hot water bottles.  And I have very fond memories of creeping into the bedroom cold and naked when my ex was fast asleep all toasty and warm, lifting the duvet and suddenly launching myself onto his back like a malicious little spider monkey and listen to him scream like a girl :-).

So, even though it’s allegedly Summer over here, I still have to put on the electric blanket on for a few minutes just to take the chill off the sheets before I hop into bed.

So when I woke up last night burning with heat, my hair soaked with sweat, my first thought when I fumbled blindly for the glass on water on my bedside table was ‘Shit!  Trust me to get the lergy in frigging July!’

It didn’t even cross my mind that it could be a hot flush ‘cos I’m cranked up on enough HRT to stun a gorilla.

But when I woke up the next morning snot free with a severe case of bed head, I realised that someone had chucked a few extra logs (and about 3 cans of lighter fuel) on my ‘Phoenix  Rising’ bonfire.


I’m struggling enough with the ageing process as it is without Mother Nature upping the ante any more.

Unsure as to whether my current cocktail of youth/juice/libido retaining chemicals is working (clearly not) I did a bit of a Google search and found this delightful diagram of hope and inspiration.


Something to look forward to, hey girls?!

Well I tell you what, I’m not ‘aving it….

I’m fighting back.

Because, whilst I no longer expect to look younger than my age, I certainly want to look and feel my best for as long as I reside on this wretched planet.

So, let’s break this down and see if there is any escape from this proposed, post menopause shitty-end-of-the-stick:


Headaches and hot flushes/flashes (depending which side of the pond you live)


HRT, drugs, lots of water, good nutrition and dietary supplements


Thin, Dull Hair


Diet rich in vitamin D (nuts, seeds, oily fish), good hydration and tons of product including leave in conditioner, hot oil treatments and serums. Oh and sun block and/or a hat when in hot climates!


Horrible teeth/smile


Diet high in calcium, flossing, whitening treatments. And if all else fails, falsies or veneers!  Fuck the expense/mortgage/your kids inheritance, because I have no intentions walking around look like a crone from Tudor times just so someone coins it at my funeral….


Pancake titties with weird, kiddy like nipples.  Really?!


I have been sleeping in support vests/bras a la Marilyn for years, as my boobies have been keen on going on an expedition due south for some time, so I only really ever let them out for bathing and sex. And I/they have quite frankly forgotten when we last did the latter.  And whilst the nipple thing sounds a bit creepy, it probably wouldn’t bother me that much because big, long sticky out ones <shudders> have always freaked me out anyway….


Risk of Heart Disease 


Good nutrition, watch your cholesterol and get some exercise.




Yoga, walking and, <drum roll>  massage!  Because it’s for medical reasons, right?  And it would be rude/impractical not to get a facial and mani pedi at the same time would it not? 🙂 🙂


Dry/Rough skin


An oil rich diet, exfoliation and layer after layer of moisturiser.  Put a layer on; if your skin gobbles it up, put on another and another and another until it is satiated. Because I for one will not be walkiing around with skin like a badgers arse even if I live to be 100.  So there.


Losing muscle tone


Exercise, belly dancing and good orgasms (HA!, she laughs bitterly….).  And if all else fails, its a damn good excuse to wear Spanx/granny knickers.  


Simian-like body hair.


Jesus, that is grim…..  Dunno.  Buy stock in Gillette? Mass electrolysis?  Live in a onesie all year round? Fuck, this shit is mean….


Incontinence. Hopefully of the No.1 variety only?


Pelvic floor exercises, good orgasms (ha! again…) to strengthen your perineum.  If that doesn’t work, Tena Lady.  Or Pampers if there’s No. 2 involvement? 😦


An itcy, arid, receding front bottom


Aw, c’mon!  Really?  God, you really don’t do yourself any favours do you?  And don’t give me all of that Adam and Eve shit, do we women really deserve this nonsense?!  So, OK, Lanacane for the itchy, lube for the chafing and if your flaps are receding, give yourself a round of applause because quite frankly I would welcome anything that would hitch mine up right now….


Weak bones


Good nutrition and pumping iron. The former will strengthen your bones and the latter will increase bone density and help you work off the fury from being put in this position in the first place….


Dowdy clothes syndrome (see illustration)


Wear. Whatever.You. Want.  

Do you know, I’ve spent the last 10 years worrying about looking mutton and erring on the side of caution, when quite frankly I should have just rocked it, wore low cut tops and skirts up my arse before varicose veins set in. Who the hell are people to judge? The media judge you anyway either for looking like you’ve ‘let yourself go’ or for dressing like your teenage daughter, and anyway I’d like to see some of the faces and bodies behind those reporter bylines because most of them would turn milk sour.  Hypocrites.

So I say, if you like something, wear it.  

If you have long hair, keep it.

Want that black leather biker/mid life crisis jacket? Buy it.  I did and whilst I don’t wear it in the traditional way a la Chrissie Hind, I wear it and will wear it until it drops off me or I drop off this mortal coil.  So what if people smirk?  Worse case scenario, I get mistaken for Alice Cooper and even then, I’ll get upgraded to First Class when travelling via plane or get a good table at the Ivy. 🙂

Check out these over 50’s chicks:


Look at Fern Britton! After losing near enough five stone, there’s just no stopping her, let’s give her a round of applause!


Look at Patti Stanger with her long hair and short, shorts! This gal does not give a shit! Let’s give her a patti (sorry) on the back!


Look at Vivienne Westwood rocking her long hair and her, erm, very interesting ensemble!  Let’s give her a rousing cheer, a pair of knickers and thank God that for once, we can’t see her vajayjay, shrunken or otherwise….

Joking aside, let’s face it, these ladies would never let Father Time beat them.

They’d bare their disturbingly white/snaggly yellow teeth, raise their tiny, inappropriate skirts and kick out, scream, and lob their £500 pot of Creme de Mer at his old beardy head, then have him escorted out of the building by their bouncers.

I’m not saying that if your personal style is more along more traditional, elegant lines that you should start dressing like Rihanna; just don’t think that you have to subdue whatever your image is now, or start to dress down for the sake of respectability or ‘good taste’.  God knows that Mother Nature neutralises our beauty enough as it is when we hit middle age, so feel free tap into her rainbow and shine.

Buy that cobalt blue coat, rock that burnt orange tunic, work that perfectly cut black pencil skirt, and swathe yourself in that faux leopard stole when the weather turns cold.

Ladies, to quote Dylan Thomas:

‘Do not go gentle into that good night; old age should burn and rage at close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light’

And keep an extra large glass of water handy by the bed for the next time naughty Mother Nature lights that fire under your ass. 🙂





I’m going to say this quietly as I don’t want to scare it away (yet), but it appears that my sexuality has slunk back in the door and is sniffing around, growling quietly to itself and sharpening its claws on the cat post in the corner as we speak.

Know how I know?

Well apart from the weird horny dreams I’ve been having of late, I am finding my encounters with some of my partners at ballroom lessons a whole lot more uncomfortable/exciting.

Since I hit 40 I’ve always managed to persuade myself that women who pray on younger men were tragic, and to date I only ever viewed boys as (a) little brothers (b) amusing/irritating in equal parts, or (c) a target for any tiny shreds of maternal instinct that I have left.

I have nephews, my friends have adult sons and I’ve had to deal with young, handsome men in the workplace for years, but my role was never in question then.  My natural instinct was to ‘Auntie’ them, that is to say give them the benefit of my experience of the world when needed/requested/essential (not in that way), cuff them around the head occasionally and bung them a tenner or the odd bit of cake when the mood took me.


Everyone knew who they were and what their roles were.

Until now.

Now I find it increasingly difficult to look some of my partners in the eye whilst lumbering around the dance floor.  Especially one young, doe eyed Latin bloke who, like most mediterraneans has no problem with intimacy whatsoever, and locks eyes with me flirtatiously whenever we partner up.

I like to think that I am a sexually confident, formidable, sophisticated woman of the world who is beyond being unsettled by any man, let alone some little slip of a thing that can just about grow a beard, but the other night, quite frankly, I barely knew what to do with myself around him so I alternated between avoiding him, being silly (cue mad, overly dramatic tango promenades), and locking eyes with him, pretending to flirt and then being totally unnerved by the genuine chemistry that sprang up between us like, well, like a big, happy, bobbing man’s member.  Eeekk!


I know I should be pleased that my Mojo has returned and I haven’t totally dried up like an out of date vanilla pod, but I find this attraction to men young enough to be my son absolutely mortifying, as it is something I never dreamed would happen to me.  In fact whenever I’ve seen an older woman slobbering over some kid (I had to use eye bleach for months after one  particular holiday in the Gambia – don’t even ask) I’ve told friends that if I ever did anything like that to put a bullet between my eyes.  Right. Between. My. Eyes.  Don’t even think about firing a warning shot or winging me, because if I’m behaving like that, I’ve already hit the slippery slope (missus) and there will be no coming back from it.

Not only that, but I’m not even good at going out with good looking men of my own age, let alone half of it, because, as a very insecure women who has little trust in those of the male persuasion (romantically albeit), I don’t like being the less attractive one, as, as far as my twisted logic is concerned, the odds are higher with regard to my being hurt.

Plus waking up next to someone who looks like a Caravaggio saint, whilst I look like Bette Davis in ‘Baby Jane’ is quite frankly, my idea of hell.

And then, if I had any doubt about it, the final bit of evidence came to light today, as I have spent most of this evening tearing various BT operators limb from limb because their service is shit.  In the end I had to put the phone down because I was shaking with anger and frustration, and my higher self was scared of what I might say, and that they might end up calling the police or needing therapy or something.

As I sipped a G&T to help me calm down, it struck me that I haven’t lost my temper like that for a long, long time, and then the final bit of the puzzle clicked into place.

My most angry, resentful, temperamental time on this earth has been during my potential child bearing years.

Anger = passion.

Passion = sexuality.

Sexuality – jiggy jiggy = cranky + Scary Man Juice = homicidal rage.

It’s official.  Somehow my Mojo has been rejuvenated and amped up my tendency to fly off the handle, and now, something that has teeth, claws and appetite is stalking around the periphery of my flat, glaring ominously and demanding to be fed.

But how?  Scary Man Juice hasn’t really worked before now?

And then I remember.  I haven’t taken my meds for two days.  And whilst I’ve always been aware that Sertraline is hardly an aphrodisiac, this is clear proof that it has been having a libido stifling, bromide like effect on me.

So I face an interesting dilemma; Sexuality v Sanity.

The choices here are:

1. Release the Kraken and potentially unleash a scarier, more unhinged Sista on the world?


2.  Keep taking the tablets?

This I need to think about.

Lives are at stake here….




I had to go back to the Doctors this morning, and as the cold Bank Holiday took its toll and left a multitude of casualties in it’s wake, they couldn’t guarantee me an appointment with Dr B, but I ran out of meds on Sunday, so I had to take part in the free for all that is the ‘Drop In Clinic’.

This is something of a new initiative for my surgery, but even I was taken aback at the number of people crammed into the waiting room.  It looked like a home game crowd at Stamford Bridge, albeit less chanting and hooliganism and a whole lot more sniffing.

Grateful that I’d brought a book, I squeezed along a row, into a plastic chair and hunkered down for the duration.

Two hours I waited.  Two. Hours.

In the meantime I was surrounded by people sneezing, coughing, hawking up snot into hankies (is there a sound worse than that?  It makes my blood go cold), wheezing, burping, screaming and running around.   The latter two, kids were the culprits of course.  Apart from one old boy who couldn’t find the exit…

Did I mention elbow nudging and seat kicking?  What is it about people that they don’t know or don’t care that they are impinging on someone else’s personal space?  Back in the day, when I was a little less tactful, if anyone entered my aura when I was reading or leaned on me on the tube, I would glare at them witheringly until they edged away.  Today, I bit my lip, held my tongue and tried to concentrate on my book.

Unfortunately that book was Stephen Kings ‘The Stand’.

You know the one?  The post apocalyptic horror story where 99.4% of the population of the planet gets killed off by the ‘Captain Trips’ flu-like plague?

The plus side of this was that I got to listen to free sound effects whilst reading, on the minus side I started to get quite paranoid about catching something.  If anyone was feigning illness to chuck a sickie this morning, they sure as hell wouldn’t be feigning by the time they left that place.  It was teeming with bugs.  I discretely inched my pashmina over my nose and mouth and prayed to whoever was listening for that knackered old tannoy to call out my name.

Then the woman behind me started talking about her sons nits (head lice), how he got them at a kids soft play area, infected the entire family, burning towels, prescription shampoo, blah, blah.  My head started to itch.  I put up my hood immediately causing the conversation to cease and resentful muttering to start.

Whatever.  Don’t know what they were bitching about, it wasn’t them sitting there looking like the oldest hoody in town.

Then ninety minutes in, the smell of excrement suddenly filled the air.  What?  Really?  Could this possibly get any worse?  Is nose picking, snorting up mucous and hacking away and spraying strangers with snot not gross enough for these bastards?  Has one of them shat himself?   Med-less and beside myself, I turned to glare in the general direction of the stink in order to communicate my distaste, and my eyes immediately locked with those of a sweet, saucer eyed infant who beamed back beatifically at me.  This little bundle of joy had clearly produced it’s own body weight in poo and dropped it’s guts with a happy gurgle into it’s nappy.  His/her mother seemed not to notice.

Nonplussed and charmed despite myself, I smiled back at it queasily.  How can something so beautiful stink so bad?

Then just as I was about to give up and go home, my name was called out.  I staggered into the waiting room, beyond agitated, twitching and itching from head to foot.

The GP was unsurprisingly not Dr B, but a nice, plump, smily lady who beamed at me encouragingly.  No mean feat as she must have already seen at least a hundred people since the surgery opened.

‘I need 100’s.  I can’t reduce my meds,’ I declared defensively, ‘I have tried, but I either get angry or frightened or very, very sad, and the Fear has come back at night.’

‘OK!’ she replied, brightly.

Really?  No lecture, no quizzing me about finding work?  No pushing me to do the dreaded CBT therapy?


It was a breeze.  I left that snotty, nit infested sewer of a surgery for the chemists and by the time I got home I was dosed up to the max, stoned and serene.   I forgot all about contracting noro virus or SARS, armed myself with my knitting and settled down to an afternoon of watching my boxed set of ‘Six Feet Under’.

So guess which episode I was up to?  Yes that’s right, the lovely, cheery ‘Invisible Woman’.

‘The Invisible Woman’ opens with a single lady in her forties sitting down by herself to a ready meal dinner and choking to death on what looks like a piece of chicken.  Her body isn’t found for a week by which time it is badly decomposed, fly blown and beyond tarting up.  Not only that, but she had no friends, no family and no one was willing to come to her funeral.  Ruth had to pick out her burial clothes and force her own family to witness her farewell.

The Fisher family spend much of the episode trying to figure out what was so bad about this woman that she could be allowed to depart from the world without having anyone in her life.

Well it’s actually quite easy, Fishers.  It goes something like this:

  • If you’re over 30 and single, you are immediately handicapped.  You’re at an age where most of your friends don’t/can’t go out much anymore so your social life suffers.
  • It is also very hard to meet a partner unless you are willing to settle for the sake of conformity.
  • Also as a single person, you don’t get invited to the soirees couples are, unless of course you are invited as a plus one to pair up with some other poor social pariah.
  • If you get tired of being the one to make all the effort, and stop trying, people don’t notice that much and it is very easy for you just to slip out of peoples lives, off their Christmas lists and into obscurity.
  • If you are not working that has something of a stigma attached to it and people are wary about inviting you to things in case you can’t afford to attend.  Or they see you as just not very interesting anymore or lacking identity.  Because, in some peoples eyes, how you earn a living is who you are.
  • Speaking of stigmas, if you have mental health issues and it gets out, you will probably shed at least three quarters of the people you know in one fell swoop.
  • Family also get a bit wary if you’ve been ill as they don’t want the responsibility of looking after you should anything happen, so can also keep their distance a bit.
  • It also doesn’t hurt if you are hard to live with, outspoken, extremely paranoid and sensitive and don’t suffer fools gladly 😉

Et voila!  Guaranteed isolation, lone demise and closed coffin.

This heartening little episode would have finished me off had I watched it on Easter Sunday.  But today, thanks to my 100mg of super Sertraline I am back in La La Land, where I quite frankly do not give a fuck. Bollocks to 50mg.  One day I hope to be off meds for good but right now?  It ain’t happening.

Granted it makes me feel a bit muzzy but you know what?  Sometimes it’s good not to feel anything.  And it works which is more than I can say about praying.

My aim is to improve my situation in all aspects, but I don’t want to think about all of the challenges ahead, or the effort it takes to make and keep friends.

Right now?  I just wanna hang with the Fishers.  ‘Cos they make even me feel normal.

Would anyone notice within a week if I died and was half eaten by my cats?  Probably not. But at least the cats wouldn’t starve.

How many people would come to my funeral?  More than did for poor Emily, out of guilt if nothing else, but not that many.

How many people would miss me?  That I cannot say.  But probably not many.

At the end of the day, will dying alone make the experience worse?  I doubt it.  There are some places we go where others cannot follow, and whilst there may be comfort in someone being there holding your hand, I don’t think I need that.  I think I’ve done it before, I don’t think there’s anything to be afraid of, and I think I’ll curl up and roll into death nicely, gladly, gratefully as if into the folds of a cashmere throw.  Even if Captain Trips taps me on the shoulder one day.  I’ll also specify that I want to be buried in a onesie or my body be donated for plastination, so that’ll save some Ruth Fisher type raking through my wardrobes.

I have no idea what the future holds.  But I think dying alone is the least of my worries.  Like I’ve said before, it’s living you’ve got to watch out for.

I do have plans for my death and funeral though.  Inspired by those old black and white Ealing comedies, I plan to have a very inventive will which requires potential beneficiaries to go on a wild goose chase around London performing random, embarrassing tasks treasure hunt stylee in order to inherit the most amount of money.

Might as well get some fun out of it, and that way, they’ll never forget me 😉 !

Like the old saying goes, it’s not how you start, it’s how you finish…..

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Apologies for the Facebook style brevity of this post but I just had to share!

Whilst trying to squeeze the last bit of Scary Man Juice (aka testosterone) from it’s tube this morning, after five minutes of struggle, I resorted to bending the flattened body towards the metal cap and pushing hard.

This resulted in it spurting out of the cap, and with startling velocity, hitting the bathroom window with a SPLAT!

I don’t know, you know what they say, you can take the juice out of the man……..I’ll let you fill in the rest….

I’m just pleased it didn’t go in my eye, or, worse still, on the head of my toothbrush….. 😉




So, I’m still applying Scary Man juice (testosterone gel) to try and hot wire my libido back to it’s former glory.

The good news is I haven’t grown a moustache :-).

The bad news is that I’m not getting any real urges down below to spontaneously follow up on :-(.

Take last night for instance. I went to a Latin American style dance show with a friend. We had great seats so were only about five rows from the stage. The dancers were fantastic and had amazing bodies. The men were largely topless and I could smell fresh male sweat in abundance, something that always used to give me something of a high.

So did this get me off? No. I watched unaroused, smiling indulgently like a proud nana as these ripped gods shimmied past me as they sambaed down the aisle before intermission, whilst simultaneous analysing their physiques in my head (the ex personal trainer in me) as they passed.

‘Great delts, has neglected his triceps though…that one’s a little lean, needs to develop his traps……Bar body! Do something with your legs sweetie, you look like Johnny Bravo…..yup, practically perfect in every way, which reminds me, I must take up dancing again…..’

The question is, if these magnificent specimens don’t float my boat, is a man closer to my age going to be able to?

So, I left shaken (forty dancers jumping around does that in an old rickety London theatre) but not stirred.

Which is probably all for the best as far as they were concerned, as no one likes to see a lecherous old woman drooling over chicken unless it’s with her Sunday roast covered in gravy.

So then, if it is the case that I’m no longer aroused by young men, how is it that instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour last night, I spent a good hour, maybe even two, watching videos of the boy band 5ive performing their hits on You Tube?

And that’s not the worst of it. I wasn’t watching them as they are now on the Big Reunion i.e. in their thirties. That would be bad enough. No, I was watching clips of them from about fifteen years ago, at the height of their fame, when they couldn’t have been older than, erm…. 22?

God, WHAT IS THE DEAL HERE? I tell you something, I don’t embarrass easily, but I’m actually blushing from sheer unadulterated shame whilst typing this….

There have been times when I have really wanted to share my blog with various people in my life, but today I am fervently grateful that no one knows who I am as this is so cringe worthy! My friends would give me major shit if they knew about this (I can just hear them shrieking ‘Ohhh, young man!!’) and I would bloody well deserve it.

Please believe me when I tell you that despite how this appears, I was not turned on whilst watching this footage. Honestly. Why would I lie? At the height of their fame, I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in 5ive. They were, and are little boys when compared to me as far as I’m concerned.

But I did feel something. A couple of members of the band would have been my thing when I was a teenager (ruggedly handsome rough diamonds for anyone who doesn’t know who they are) so this was probably part of the reason I was watching them instead of, say, Take That.

The more I think about it, whilst I was kind of marvelling at their beauty, sexual pungency, sheer vitality and potential, there was also a sadness, an element of mourning to it I think.

It was kind of like saying goodbye.

It also felt eerily familiar. Have I been in this place before? Is there such a thing as reincarnation? If there is then please God let my next life be one without depression where I could look at my 19 year old self, if not with love and admiration, then not with hate and loathing, and look at boys such as these and think ‘I am as worthy of this person as he is of me’. Because right now, in the world as I know it, there is no going back and living this life again, no chance to see boys as friends not enemies, and no chance to believe in young love and all the enrichment it brings.


As for the state of play re my orgasm, I still have no urge to masturbate and only do it once a week if I remember, rather like going for a run on a Sunday morning to get the papers. But the last time I did it (it was not last night, I swear) it was the same as last time.

Using motor racing terms, it was pretty much 0-60 in a matter of seconds, flying past the chequered flag at record breaking speed, a bit of a buzz, a thrumming engine I couldn’t turn off, so nothing worth getting RSI of the wrist for.

This is the point where I could very easily pull out of the race, bail on this project and forget all about jiggy jiggy, but there is one thing that I haven’t tested yet.

I haven’t been close to a real live man of my own age (as in on a date) for a good year or so, so actual erotic interaction with a real life specimen might be a different thing entirely.

You know I told you that I’d rejoined that online dating site? And had two guys contact me? And I swore I’d get back to them?

I lied. I didn’t :-(. Sorreee…

But I will. Today. Well they’ve probably buggered off by now, but I will interact and be open to meeting someone on there. For experimental purposes only.

I was also told by a very reliable source that marijuana is very good for helping the medically impeded climax, so I’m off to see a man about a dog, let’s hope I don’t get arrested….

Bye for now!

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Not the messiah

Another long but fruitful day of yoga training completed.

I got back into the flow, worked muscles I didn’t know existed, and in a couple of days time will be back on a normal balanced diet, and this incessant urge to shit all the time should go away.  Please God.  Seriously,this macrobiotic yin and yang malarky is all very well, but I don’t want to chew my rice (or anything else for that matter) 100 times before swallowing, I love sugar and dairy, I like so called ‘nightshade’ vegetables thank you, and producing huge coils of poo three or four times a day can’t be right, can it?

It was strange going back to this group as I wasn’t given that friendly a reception  initially, as during the last session there was a little incident where I felt (and was actually) judged harshly which caused me to panic, and as a defence mechanism, I shut down and probably appeared very cold and aloof which did not create a very nice atmosphere. I don’t do it on purpose, but when I feel maligned and rejected, I reject back hard.  I was so disappointed because I thought I’d found my clan, a safe place where I could feel at home and free to be myself.  Myself, it appears, is an acquired taste and acceptance in such circles appears to come at a price; complete acquiescence.

So suffice to say, I was very guarded and cautious when I arrived at the yoga venue the other day.

I can’t say I was met with open hostility because I wasn’t, but I wasn’t embraced as warmly as the other participants, and there was a certain distance between myself and the teachers.

Then I remembered.

I had rejected their Guru when I did not let him stay in my home that time, and I was also stupid enough to confide in him about my illness.  No doubt he shared both experiences with his generals if you will, so that would explain the tangible wariness I sensed.

Then again, I am as paranoid as fuck so I could be wrong; but I don’t think so.

I was dosed up on the highest dose of meds in anticipation of this, but I naturally still wanted to get in my car and leg it.  I went to the loo, and as per Aunty C’s advice, tried to channel my ‘Good Parent’.

Sitting on the plastic seat, bare feet rapidly cooling on the tiles, I hissed ‘They really don’t like me now!  I knew I should have let their bloody Messiah stay! And they know I’m ill! They’ll have a field day with that!’

‘Now you listen ‘ere’, screeched GP, a la Monty Python, making me jump, ‘he’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy!’

I grinned inwardly despite myself, thinking how ridiculous it all was. WTF?  How do I get in these situations?  I’m a paying customer, I didn’t ask to be part of this Woodstock Hippy ‘my house is your house’ shit, just fucking teach me yoga bitches, manage your expectations and block book your hotels on!

‘Exactly!’ soothed GP, ‘just go out there, learn what you came to learn, interact with them as much or as little as you want and don’t feel any further obligation to them. Allow yourself to be you!  You deserve it. Everyone does.’

‘Why can’t I be normal? Why do I always have to be the odd one out?’

‘You can’t control the way that people feel about you. You can only control your response to it. Be yourself and fuck them if they choose not to accept you exactly as you are.’

Girding myself, I left that lavvy head high, entered into the lessons, and half way though this block of sessions, apart from the odd eye roll at something I said and a few barbed comments, I have survived to date. Oh and the little impromptu homily post shavasana about how the mind plays tricks on us and it’s the same for everyone. How topical.

What also didn’t help is that I discovered something I have long suspected and that is that I could be perceived as a story topper.

When people are around a table, in a pub, having a gossip, they trade stories.  I love to trade stories and because I have a lot of life experience I have a lot of stories, and when you are as isolated and solitary as I, when you have an audience, you kind of get a bit nerdily over excited and all the untold tales and anecdotes tumble out of your mouth lest you never get an opportunity to tell them again.

I guess it is true that there are people who just have to be the best at everything, that always have the best wedding, the most successful husband, the biggest house, the newest BWM, the most intelligent cherubic kids, but if you have been reading this blog, you can make a pretty safe bet that I am not one of them.  I’m not the best at anything.

Not that long ago, I watched this year’s Celebrity Big Brother which featured ex model Paula Hamilton.  She seemed, it has to be said, very hard work to be around and live with, and she did tend to try and out anecdote everyone, but whilst everyone saw her as a sad old story topper, I saw a lonely, solitary, strong but isolated woman, desperate to be liked, to be accepted, and to make friends and positive changes in her life. She also had mental health problems and is routinely dismissed as an eccentric, annoying, menopausal nutter in the tabloid press.

Not wanting to be tarred with the same harsh, super judgemental brush (says Judge fucking Judy herself ;-)), I try hard to contain myself and calm down the hyper, manic side of me when I’m in new company and to not get too carried away, but it is a challenge when you enjoy making people laugh and try to take advantage of participating in camaraderie and conviviality whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Plus, it could be argued that the person who accuses you off this, could also be suffering from the same condition :-).

So if you will humour me just this once, I’d like to ask you a favour; the next time you’re at a gathering and someone gets on your nerves because they seem to be telling one too many stories or anecdotes, before you give them short strift or bitch about them behind their back, you might want to consider that they just want to be your friend and part of your group, and if you explore that opportunity and get to know them, they might just calm the fuck down and be more bearable to be around.

In the meantime I might just open the first branch of ‘Story Toppers Anonymous’, invest in a job lot of earplugs and throat lozenges, some comfy armchairs, cushions and blankets, burn some midnight oil and make me some big bucks and a whole lot of people very, very happy.




So just to update you on my Scary Man Juice (aka testosterone gel) treatment, since applying it (albeit tiny amounts as I am fwightened) I have, of late, felt something of a stirring down there……

I’ve also had strange, random, erotic dreams, (which, you will be relieved to hear, I will not go into on here) and, as I can’t blame my usual mixing alcohol with my meds habit, I think it’s fair to say something is happening.

So whilst I wouldn’t go as far as to say I feel horny, last night I had a bit of a tingle, and as I couldn’t get to sleep, I decided to have a play and see if my orgasm was working again.  For the sole purpose of reporting back in this blog of course……

Please don’t close this page, this isn’t going to be some female porno wankfest, I promise!

So  initial signs were promising.  Arousal was swift and it was fair to say that pretty much from the onset it felt like orgasm was only seconds and a slightly firmer stroke away.  But, again for science purposes only 🙂 , I dragged it out as long as possible, hoping for a better return as it were.

The overall sensation stayed the same.  Very intense, almost peri climatic, but pretty much ‘Get on with it, I’m ready to go here!’ rather than the slow, steady, gradual but amazingly rewarding journey I was used to.  So as soon as I realised this, I listened up and went for it, hoping for a glorious return to the heaven I once knew and loved.


OK, if I’d never had a proper orgasm before, I might have thought this was fantastic.  But I have.  So I didn’t.  ‘Cos it wasn’t.

Let’s use the Rollercoaster analogy again.

If my real orgasm was a rip roaring, ride of thrills, spills and excitement with lots of different levels, dips and climbs that once it got started, seemed as it it would never end, until eventually, breathless, exhausted, totally satiated, you just  had to come down before you passed out?

An my pre Scary Man juice orgasm was an ancient old rollercoaster where the rusty old car slowly and painfully chugged to the top of the lowest peak, then, just when you thought it might make it over, it rattled, creaked, groaned and broke down leaving you stuck, totally dissatisfied and wishing you’d never got on the damn thing in the first place?

In this orgasm the car raced you to the top so fast you almost got a nose bleed, then just as you hit the peak, and almost flew over, it then ran out of gas, hissed as the tyres deflated then slid slowly into the dip below and stayed there.  Rocking, throbbing and humming annoyingly.

In sum, ‘It’s an orgasm Jim, but not as we know it.’ 😦 😦

And it might be enough, if a nice big willy slid in there afterwards and added a whole new dimension to the experience, but as it is I’m just left squirming and arching, trying to rid myself of an unsatisfied throb/burn that didn’t abate for a good half hour or so.  Grrr.

So, on the plus side, things seem to be going in the right direction.

But riding solo?  No go.

Never was a woman, so alone, so alone 😦

I don’t normally request comments, but please if there are any peri or postmenopausal women reading this I’d love to know how you are faring when it comes to the Big ‘O’?

Also, anyone whose anti depressants or other meds are affecting them?

In the meantime, I’m off out to buy some shoes, get some Haagan Dazs, and punch a passing traffic warden or something.

Over and out.

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OK <deep breath>, this is where I stop skirting around the subject and get down to brass tacks.

I think, well, I know I’m going through the menopause.

(Men you are permitted to leg it if this is all too much for you.)

I’m not sure what the stages are, I know it starts with peri, then you’re then smack bang in the middle of it, and you’re only done when your periods totally stop.

Mine haven’t yet. That said, I went on HRT the minute I thought it was happening, so I haven’t had that much in the way of hot flushes (flashes?) or night sweats, mood swings are par for the course for me, as for vaginal dryness I haven’t test driven her for a couple of years so not sure really, but I don’t think so….

There’s a well know adage that says ‘move it or lose it’, well clearly I haven’t moved it enough because I went into this quite young, and now I’m being deprived of something that has been seriously important to me all of my adult life.

So what’s actually bugging me apart from the pending loss of my periods, which have incidentally been the bane of my life?

Well, apart from the message from the gods to tell me that I might as well kiss my sexual attractiveness to men goodbye (for what its worth), along with my waistline, skin quality and libido, my orgasms are, well, fucked.

One minute they were still earth shattering, the next, barely worth the bother.  From a bang to a whimper.  A massive earth shattering expulsion to a tiny mouse like nearly-sneeze, you know, one of those ones that is all ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah…’ and no ‘Tishoooo!’.

No one tells us about this part, do they ladies?

This was and is a big deal; whilst I don’t date that much and I haven’t had a lasting relationship for a number of years, I do masturbate, I’m very good at it, and it was very good for me.

Concerned, I went to see my gynaecologist who hummed and haa-ed and eventually came up with ‘Well sometimes that’s what happens, it’s part of life.’

WHAT?  I was incensed.

‘Would you say that to me if I was a man?! Would you forgo yours just because ‘it’s part of life?’’

He swallowed and fiddled with his specs, clearly flustered.

‘Would you say that to your wife?  Or is it not a problem to her?’

Clearly stung by my implication that his missus didn’t get off, he just upped my progesterone prescription and wished me luck.  Twat.

I went back to my GP decrying this misogynistic quack, and she, equally outraged, sent me to a new one, whom I saw for the first time (oh the irony) on Valentines Day morning.

Whilst I suppose a lot of women might be intimidated about talking about the quality of their climax with strange men, I went in feisty, belligerent and determined to be taken seriously, but I did not have to worry; Dr FG was a very different fish indeed.

Rather suave and dapper with a little smile ever hovering around his lips, Dr FG had the air of someone who held a woman’s gratification in the palm of his hand like a glowing little pearl that he may or may not hand over to you.

‘You do know that your anti depressants are likely to be having an adverse effect on your libido don’t you?’

‘Ye-es, but this isn’t my libido, this is what happens or rather doesn’t happen when I actually masturbate.’

‘So, what happens when you try?’

‘Well…it’s like being on an ancient roller coaster creaking to the top of it, then the car breaks down, you’re stuck, agitated and disappointed, and you wish you’d gone on the big wheel instead.’

He smiled a world weary smile of a man that has heard far too many ‘women’s problems’ jokes, then took out a box and handed me a small tube.

‘I suspect your testosterone levels are low, so let’s put you on this for a while and see what happens  I’ll write you a prescription.’

Testosterone?  I look at the instructions and read aloud ‘Apply one tube daily’.

‘Ignore that; this isn’t normally prescribed to women so they are the instructions for a man.’

Huh?  What am I, a fucking guinea pig?

‘You just need to apply a pea sized blob every day and one tube should last you a week.’

I try to sound casual ‘So this is the, erm, only solution?’

Dr FG breaks out his best reassuring, urbane smile, and tilts his head ‘What is it that concerns you Ms Sertraline?’

Facial hair.

‘Erm, are there any side effects?’

A big, sticky out Adams apple.

‘There shouldn’t be as long as you use the prescribed dose, but any that materialise are totally reversible.’

A huge clitoris like those steroid fuelled female bodybuilders get.

‘OK, I’ll, well I’ll give it a go!’

He smiled and shook my hand, holding it a couple of seconds too long, leaving me in no doubt that Mrs FG undoubtably gets off as regular as clockwork.

So that is that, I have to apply this stuff every day and risk ending up looking like a pre-op trannie, and for what? Vanity?  Sex appeal?  Physical gratification?

Whilst I would never admit this to anyone in real life, I think it’s about hope.

Because right now I feel like a battered little rowing boat stranded out in the middle of the lake, trying to ignore God on the megaphone shouting ‘Come in No. 6, your time is up!’ because I’ve blown all my chances of a happy loving relationship he has given me so I need to come back to shore and hang up my oars so to speak.  Any sexual powers I ever had are rapidly diminishing, the market is narrowing and I still haven’t met someone with whom I can share my life.

I know I’m being a bit hypocritical here as the whole premise of my doing this is to rise like said Phoenix from the ashes of my old life and embrace and develop the new, but in reality the thought of losing my womanhood makes me feel like a wizened old air dried duck.

Questions fill my head at night; will I ever snog anyone again? Will anyone need me again?  Will I ever have sex again without the aid of lube?

That said, a friend wanted to fix me up with a friend of her lover (who demands and gets sex from her up to five times a day) and instead of jumping at it, or at least being open to it, I was horrified!  What if he’s like U (her man) and paws at me morning, noon and night like a whining toddler?

I know, I know, I’m very, very confused…..

I know being single isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I know I’ll never be a mum now, and I’m OK with that but I don’t want to be on my death bed not having had another significant love in my life thinking ‘Was that it? What was it all for?’

I have so much love inside I just need someone to give it to in some way, shape or form.  But I guess I need to fix myself before releasing it upon an unsuspecting world.

In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on my man juice medication and the hopefully imminent return of my mojo.

Look out world, ‘cos one day this is gonna blow…..