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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CHEAP WINE AND A THREE DAY OATH

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‘Coleman!  I’ve had the worst nightmare!  I was poor and no one liked me.  I lost my job, I lost my house and it was all because of this terrible (alter) ego….’

Yes, this actually happened to me.

Last night, I dreamed I was back in my old life.

The rose coloured specs version natch.

I was with friends in my favourite restaurant.  I was dressed well, my nails were manicured, my hair was recently highlighted.  I was still working.  A holiday in the sun was in the not too distant future.  I didn’t have to rely on anyone else’s charity.

And I was telling them that I’d had this awful dream where I’d been let go by Bastards Inc, had a breakdown, lost everything, I was poor, I had no friends yadda yadda…

And then I woke up.

For real.

Welcome to the ‘Feeling Worse Before It Gets Better’ phase of group therapy.

I’m sorry I haven’t been blogging of late, but it’s been a tough time.  Nothing but bad news and more of the same, and of course my writing, along with everything else that’s good for me, crumbled.  How many more times could I tell you the same story but in different words?

I was bored, boring and as in real life, didn’t want to bore the people I cared about with my tedious, self pitying shit.

Until today.  The irony of dreaming I’d dreamt the nightmare that was and is my reality was too ironically, cruelly amusing not to report back on.

And like Dan Ackroyd’s Louis Winthorpe III, I momentarily felt like I’ve had a life that was actually good, ripped away from me.  But unlike Louis I couldn’t blame anyone else.  Because it was down to me.  I cracked wide open from 50 odd years of trying to play the part of someone that didn’t actually exist at all, the shiny facade that passed for my real self.

And whilst I would and could never go back to such a life, I do miss aspects of it.

Being respected in a tough industry.  Having an impressive CV.  Being solvent.  Being able to have holidays.  Buy presents.  Pay my way.  Feeling financially safe.  Well, safer than I feel right now.

That said, whilst I liked and still do like nice things, I  have coped with the spending restrictions admirably.

But some things I cannot, will not accept.

Some of my fellow nutters suggested a group evening out after therapy at a free concert in London.

I was reluctant.  I hate crowds, central London and the band they wanted to see.

‘Oh come along it’ll be fun!   It won’t cost anything!  And we can go into Asda and grab some sandwiches and a couple of boxes of cheap wine….’

And there it was; the straw that broke this camel’s old hump.

Let me make this quite clear, I’m not a snob.  I know this because I have friends that are very snobby.  I on the other hand, love a bargain, buy vintage, am not impressed by designer labels and cannot tolerate waste.

But cheap wine?

As some of you will know, I love food and wine.  Food is how I comfort myself and have done since I was a child, but it has to be good quality.  I’d sooner have some fried left over potatoes with rock salt and home made mayo than a mass produced meal at a rubbish restaurant.

And let me tell you, cheap wine, like cheap chocolate, will never ever pass my lips.  I’ve had too much of the good stuff to go back now.

DrunkTornado

People drink cheap wine for the same reason as they drink moonshine, cheap supermarket spirits and meths; not because they like it, but because they want to get wasted.

And the idea of drinking something akin to warm vinegar whilst munching on mark down lunch time sandwiches that taste of nothing (and were probably made by illegal refugee slaves) in a public place for all the world to see just filled me with despair.  Especially as my infrequent but relatively consistent part time work has suddenly stopped dead.

Presumably due to something I did or did not do, or said or did not say.  I have no idea.

And then, after my oath to myself to do yoga every single day, I broke it on the fourth.

And whilst I’m not doing anything that good for myself, I’m trying really hard not to binge on food which is my first point of call when feeling this lost and lonely.

I’m even the odd one out amongst my fellow BPD-ers!

But I always knew that.

So.  What the fuck I am going to do now?

I don’t know.

And unlike previous posts, I’m not going to even try work out a plan and promise to do it.  As I’ll only fall flat on my arse and let you lot down yet again.

I just wanted to share.

I’ll drop by again when I have something to say.

Oh and this is the song that inspired today’s blog post title.

Pray for me please?

Namaste all xx

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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


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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.

sizwqikzcgjyatxpyl7n

Lesson learned.

Namaste x

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


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“EVERY DAY TAKES FIGURING OUT ALL OVER AGAIN HOW TO F*CKING LIVE” – Calamity Jane, ‘Deadwood’

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“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

Hi all.

Yes (those of you who know me) I’m still here.  Kinda.  Hanging on by my fingertips actually.

But here.

For those of you who don’t, a very brief potted history:

2012-doomsday

Walked out/sacked from my job after being bullied by my boss after confiding in him about my depression.  It was 18 months of hell, but fought my corner, negotiated a pay off them promptly collapsed into what one might call a breakdown.

2013

Launched ‘Phoenix Flights’ on the stroke of midnight New Year’s eve 2012 as a way to vent creatively, work through my aims and complete recovery (scheduled for December 31 2013) sharing with y’all what I did and how I conquered all my demons and why I am such a huge success today, with my great career as an author, my cottage by the sea, clan of like minded friends who adore me, first class travel to exotic locations, loving partner, wrinkle free skin, hair that doesn’t need blow drying anymore etc, etc.

<ahem>

Yes, I was that naive.  I knew I had problems, but it was because of the environment, the stress, backstabbers, etc. and now I was away from all that, I truly believed would discover my inner being, find peace and true meaning and direction for my life.

Until I was diagnosed with EUPD (border line personality disorder by any other name) in December, just in time to wreck my  Christmas, thus squishing my plans for a celebratory New Years Eve party (hah!) but also confirming why I was the way I was.

Bottom line, I could not deny that so much of it rang true.

Ho, ho, fucking ho…

New Year 2014

So another older but wiser Sister signed on ‘Blogging for Mental Health 2014’ as ‘Phoenix FIGHTS’, but made another stoopid mistake by veering wildly in the opposite direction.

Instead of believing that I could do mastermind my own recovery all by myself, I decided that I was too sick to cope on my own, regressed somewhat and resigned myself to the care of group therapy with a couple of eminent psychiatrists who would fix me, and then I would sally forth into the great unknown in a couple of years time and have that great life, with the great career, state of the art beach house, nose job, great friends, blah blah.

And given that the therapy would be on two midweek days, there was no point in me getting a real job.   No, I would just saunter on, in the sure and certain knowledge that this time i was on the right path, and for that reason God would supply me with a delightful array of part time job opportunities to finance me through these lean times, and all would be well in the end.

So I waited anxiously for news of when my therapy would begin and my life could begin again.

And waited.  And waited.

And waited  Month after month after month.

After lot of questions, form filling and preparation, we started in Winter 2015.

So my life had pretty much been on hold for 75% of the year during which time, my money had run out, I lost more friends because I could not afford to socialise, became even less employable, and I finished the year even older and wiser than ever.

2015-tendencias

I say wiser.

But to be honest, I still don’t really have any answers for you and I’d be doing both of us a disservice to pretend that I do anymore.

In a lot of ways I’m very much worse off than I was prior to that fateful summers day in 2012 when I walked out on the life that I knew for the last half century.

Was I right to wait for the therapy?  Probably.  But not to rely on it solely, nor that the gods would provide and support me whilst waiting.

Also the group dynamic isn’t quite what I thought it would be.  I thought it would lessen my loneliness and bring me comfort to be around ‘my people’, but we aren’t all kindred spirits.  Some I like.  Some I don’t.  Some really get on my tits sometimes.  So I keep my distance because, if anything, it’s even more politically fraught than any corporate environment.

snarling-wolf-referance

Plus they know too much, so I can’t get close to them, because if they ever used this information to hurt me, there would be hell to pay. 😉

It’s also not an enjoyable process like it is with Aunty C (my previous/current psychologist counsellor), because we have a relationships and rapport, whereas I don’t entirely trust the shrinks or their motives, and sometimes I feel patronised and humoured as they are not at all good at being sincere.

Not to mention I get bored, depressed, irritated and downright amused by the absurdity of the exercises we are given to do on a weekly basis, and it is nigh on impossible some days not to take the piss out of them.

But I soldier on.

What else can I tell you?

Things that help?

The usual.  You know.  All that annoying shit bandied around on memes via Twitter and Facebook.

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Mediation, exercise, good nutrition, lots of sleep, not too much sleep, support, contact, connectivity, mindfulness, creativity dancing, helping others, yoga…

Sigh.

If only we loved ourselves enough to make us do these things for ourselves sometimes, right?!

But on the days I do do them, they are a triumph.

Other pluses?

I am kinder, more tolerant, people seem to warm to me more, I am more patient (most days) and I’m actually learning to understand my fellow man a whole lot better.

But every day is a new day, and most of them i wake up groaning that I’m still here and have to find a reason to stay, let alone get out of bed.

But things can only get better.

They have to.  Don’t they?

My writing has suffered of late because sometimes it feels like I’ve said everything I have to say, and nothing I scribe has any worth anymore.

But this platform has just given me reason to keep going.

Namaste bitches x

http://blogformentalhealth.com/2015/01/30/blog-for-mental-health-2015/


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YOU CAN GO NOW, SISTA… #bpd #depression #cocksuckers

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3 days into Lent, so many aims and ambitions (most being dietary/health related), but I’m taking it it slowly and starting with the main ones (giving up sugar and alcohol) and aiming to add extras as I progress, in order that I can get a life or something.

I’ve also being tasked with writing a positive message to myself every day (a schema therapy activity) and putting it in a pretty box.  To date most haven’t been too inspiring or ambitious (‘Managed not to shriek at benefits people this afternoon – yay me!‘), but today I was proudly able to scrawl ‘I have been to yoga for the first time in 2015′ onto my little pink post-it and pop it into my receptacle.

Progress indeed.

I didn’t like it very much, the yoga class.

It ached, my balance is all fucked up, and even my hands hurt.  And when I went into shoulder stand, all the lard I have cultivated on my belly squidged unattractively into pale sausagey wedges, and I felt a surge of hate and disgust infuse my entire being.

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How revolting it is.  And the more I look at it the more anti veggie/vegan I feel, as let’s face it, at least if someone dines on big slabs of flesh, it’s useful, as unless you really look after your body you end up looking and feeling like a factory farmed heifer.  I was watching some footage from the Meatopia fair this afternoon and I thought ‘Yes, that’s it Sista!  Donate your piggy body to the next festival!  There’s plenty on there for everyone and crackling too!’

My body, for it’s part, is sulking, hence it’s protesting twinges, total inflexibility and generous cultivation of blub.  My fault for not coming out of hibernation, gorging on comfort food, indulging my addiction to expensive hot chocolate and watching back to back DVD boxed sets, not to mention gross neglect on all levels.

That’s what I’ve been doing all this time y’know.  Watching TV.  I can’t really afford to do anything else (yes I know that’s no excuse), and let’s face it, the people who populate HBO TV series have so much more interesting lives than mine.

My current passion is ‘Deadwood’ and I am besotted with the two male leads, anti hero Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock, the latter for rocking a moustache like no other, and very nearly bringing my libido out of it’s coma like state.

Much good that will do me right now, as I wouldn’t wish this blubbery carcass on my worst enemy.

The former however, fascinates me like no other.  His anger, toughness and sharp tongue resonates heavily with me and whilst I don’t go around spitting profanity at all and sundry, I sure as hell used to, and then some.

I’ve just finished Season One, and in the first few episodes, I hated him, but having watched the last episode last night, I saw a different side to the homicidal whore house owner, and it had such an impact on me, I watched it twice and replayed the heartbreaking scene between Al and Reverend Green again and again.

These characters seemed in that uniquely intimate moment, when Al did God’s job for him, the two sides of the same coin;  One world weary and filled with spleen and hate, the other devoted to his Lord and oh so desperate to believe that he was still in his light and his appalling suffering was not in vain.

And when Swearengen tenderly muttered to the dying priest ‘You can go now, brother’, as my throat closed up, I felt a pang like no other.  Whether it was sadness, relief or just sheer envy I know not.

To be sheer conscious and nothing else.  To shed this bag of blood, flesh and bones.  How freeing that must be!

But that scene touched me and stays with me 24 hours later, as did crippled Jewel dancing in her leg brace with Doc Cochran.

And whilst I am in my own gutter, muddled with medications, looking to movie stars and fictional characters for meaning and inspiration, I know that I at least, unlike poor Reverend Green and Jewel, I can get up out of the puddles, stagger to my feet and move on.

It’s a question of wanting to, really.  Maybe I have it too easy.  Maybe you have to be physically fucked up or super angry to give a shit about this world.  But I’m not allowed my anger anymore, as unlike Al, it did not and does not help me succeed in this world.

But I’m still trying to get to my feet and ease on down the road.  In my own feeble, reluctant way.

My home is now on the market, I’m going to try and get back into favour with my body and brain, and hope there is a life worth living ahead of me.

XuR45gt

Once upon a time, my philosophy was not that dissimilar to Al’s, and my anger did push me forward in the world, but in the act of trying to manage that part of my nature via therapy makes me more passive, and drumming up passion and the will to live is now ironically harder than ever.

But the notes box is both beautiful and roomy and I’ve still got lots of paper, and I’m at least inching forward towards my destiny.

Ready once again, to face up to the black hats of the world, and take my pain like a man.  But also to hope, like the Rev.

Namaste Cocksuckers, namaste x


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5 MINUTES AND YOU’RE NOWHERE NEAR #TIME TO TALK DAY #EUPD

Christian-bale-pulls-an-american-psycho

Friends, Britons, moneymen, lend me your ear.

If only for 300 seconds.

For today, I’ll have you know, is national ‘Time to Talk’ day, and you are impelled, nay, obliged to take 5 minutes out of your day to talk to your pet office nutter, or at the very least, talk about nuttiness or the deranged to your peers in general.

http://www.time-to-change.org.uk/timetotalkday

And just in case you run out of stuff to say and are tempted to welch on the deal, you have to log your five minutes on line, so don’t even think about it, sane person!

Oh my. 🙂

This is one of the few times I’d love to be back in the corporate world watching everyone squirm like a fish on a gaff, trying to say something relevant and politically correct, whilst eyeing the clock frantically until the final seconds tick past  Or worse still, patronise the nearest depressive (simultaneous outing them) whose name they can’t quite remember, who they’d never normally talk to anyway as they are so far down the food chain.

‘Erm yes, hello young, erm Janice, so you work in accounts…sorry, of course you’re my PA…..yes, I know, 5 years now….well don’t you worry about your depression at all OK? My wife’s second cousin was once hospitalised, but we all talk about it now and go and see her at least once every five years and…erm…well at weddings and funerals.  Just try and smile a bit more!  What’s that song that American with the mountie hat sings, yes buy a copy of that, that’ll cheer you up!  Don’t worry be happy! <guffaws, then looks up>

Is my five minutes up yet?  Book me a cab will you?’

To be honest, as a card carrying crazy myself, I’m not even sure how I’d broach the subject.

Check people’s bags for medication?

your-votes-count

Host a game of all staff ‘Name that Mental Health Condition!’ perhaps?

Ask for volunteers to talk about their experiences?

Excuse me if I just smiled to myself here 🙂

Because as we all know, no one ever comes clean about having depression/bipolar/BPD etc. if they want to maintain their career and a roof over their head.

Unless you’re stupid like me and believe that honesty is the best policy, and that as long as my condition didn’t effect my work that I’d be allowed to carry on whilst continuing manage myself, and take annual leave NOT sick leave when I felt the black dog approaching, because as most of you know, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Silly, silly, silly Sista…

What I’d have liked to have done was out all the psychopaths at senior management/board level, but that would never happen, because guess what?  The sickest folk of all don’t even know they’re sick, because they have no conscience or empathy whatsoever!  They want what they want, and don’t care who they need to stamp all over to get it.

And they’d probably implement and deliver their 5 minutes of faux support talk to some unsuspecting pill popper, words flying off their tongue, as slick as greased weasel shit, and then walk away looking like a hero.

I know some of you normal folk will be thinking ‘What a cynical, miserable old cow, what’s wrong with this campaign?  At least  they’re trying to open a dialogue about this awkward and potentially alienating subject matter?’

And you’re right.

But 5 minutes of patronising small talk is nowhere near enough my friend, even if you were lucky enough to find someone mad enough to be ‘out’ and tolerate your enforced waffle.

Because any real change in the work place will only be implemented from the top down and would take someone with a fine set of balls, a bit of moral courage and some vision which as we all know is sadly lacking when it comes to most companies.

Because it might cost money.

It might affect productivity.

It might create a need for flexible working hours.

They might flip out if I shout at them!

I won’t be able to sack them without looking like a total prick!

Someone might attack me like that bloke in American Psycho!

Calm down bitches. Little do you know, but that guy is probably already on your dream team 😉

It might mean that the powers that be would have to entertain the idea of valuing honest people with honest feedback as opposed to ass sucking, greasy pole shinning, silver tongued spin masters talking crap in order to justify their huge salaries whilst hundreds of normal working people get laid off.

Because if people continue to be ousted from the workplace and pushed to the sidelines just because they once had a breakdown, are on medication, have to have the odd duvet day, or all of the above, then companies are missing out of working with brave, competent, highly skilled, deeply creative individuals with excellent emotional intelligence and the highly underrated talent of being able to recognise one of they own and support them in their time of need.

And I can put my emotions to one side and be objective about this.  I know the potential pitfalls of hiring someone who has a history of mental illness.  I’m a bit mad but by no means stupid.

I know certain people wouldn’t flourish in highly pressured roles, boring pedantic jobs or jobs where one has to compromise their integrity, or be willing to fall under the bus whenever deftly pushed by their blame adverse line manager.

But everyone has something they are good at, and if they work in an environment of acceptance and understanding (or the willingness to understand at the very least) they will flourish, contribute, think outside the box and bring no end of benefits to a variety of industries.

Does everyone really want team after team of ‘yes’ men who kiss their asses and big up their ideas and strategies, even when said strategies are not performing?

I have recently had the great satisfaction of now knowing that all the initiatives and target deals that I was meant to bring in three years ago, never came to fruition after all, even when worked on by men three levels senior to me.  The projects they blamed me for not ‘negotiating properly’.  And now, having no one to dump the blame on, they are being let go, and everything i predicted has finally come to pass.

Karma-Meme

But joking aside, that didn’t have to happen.  And whilst people for a while questioned my sanity, there was and is absolutely nothing wrong with my business acumen.

So to the Alan Sugars, Richard Bransons and Peter Jones’ of this world, please step up to the plate and start creating jobs, even part time or casual positions for people with actual mental health conditions, setting an example to others in this country, and prove that we can be valuable team players.  In other words…

Put your money where your mouth is; or you ain’t saying nothing.

And, to reversion that old Stranglers song:

I need a job where I can live what I said
I need a place that understands my head
Where the boss doesn’t curse and wish me dead
if you don’t hassle me mister I won’t lose my head

Five minutes and you’re nowhere near
Five days and I’ll address my fears
Five weeks and you might see
What an asset I might be

Five months and I’ll still be there
And you’ll be pleased you took my dare
Five years and you’ll forget why
You ever thought I could not fly

Namaste

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I’M BORED

where-wild-things-are-rumpus

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!’

arnie-levin-well-i-feel-some-of-you-in-this-group-are-heavily-into-denial-new-yorker-cartoon

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