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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SOMEWHERE THAT’S MEAN…

flower

It’s beautiful here in my little village oop North.

It really is.

And I HAD to get out of my London flat because in the end I had no choice; not if I didn’t want to end up in severely dire financial straights, and I am lucky to be here and have my own home.

Lucky.

So why do I feel so low?  I’ve had several colossal bouts of depression of late, and it’s only recently that I’ve figured it out.

Everyone is sooo nice in this area; well on the surface anyway.  I’ve been to a couple of social thingys and everyone smiles ever so nicely but I do sometimes detect judgement flickering under the facade of one or two local’s fizzogs.  Whereas in London, no one would bother to hide it; they would just flick shade at you Minage style, so no ambiguity there.

nickiminaj

And that’s a positive thing?  Well yes.  Kinda.

I went for coffee with some ‘ladies’ a few days ago, all around my age, and it was ever so pleasant, grown up and civilised.  Some were working, some semi retired, most had a kids, a penchant for gardening, the W.I. and a nice scone (Oh naughty, but nice!), and, blow me down if I didn’t feel like breaking into a ‘Bridesmaids’ style fit, if only to break the monotony.

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I’m going to admit it.  For some reason I miss all the London bitches, crazies, potty mouths and degenerates.

I know it sounds ungrateful and contradictory as I thought I wanted a more peaceful life Somewhere That’s Green, but I’m bored.  I’m the Chairman of the Bored. 😦

I feel like a 17 year old trapped in a 50 odd year old’s body and locked in an old folks home.  Get me outta here!  I want fun!  I want action!  I want to play!  ANARCHY!!!  But anyone worth playing with around here is probably half my age and would die of embarrassment at the mere thought of being my partner in crime.

That’s the other thing; I thought I’d still be able to do my random, exciting part time job up here, but there’s nothing doing.  Nada. And I cannot fucking bear to get a little part time job in a charity shop or something, but if I don’t get work soon, I’ll be back where I started,  in trouble with a capital ‘T’.

I feel like I’ve put myself on a fast track to the grave, cos in this neck of the woods, everyone acts their age.   Even the younger women are like a cross between ‘Stepford Wives’ and ‘Desperate Housewives’.  Well minus all the exciting stuff.  Or maybe there is something interesting beneath the pristine make up, sparkling ranges, angelic children and manicured lawns, but I ain’t spotted nowt yet.

Oh and here’s another thing; everyone’s so frigging proper here, that if I so much as say ‘Shit!’ in anyone’s presence, I feel like I have to clasp my hand over my mouth, retreat to the naughty step and beat myself into a state of contrition with a large twig.  Someone said the ‘C’ word on TV the other day and it actually made me feel nostalgic. What is that about?

What the fuck have I done?

Evidently you can take the girl out of London, etc. etc., and I feel no more at home here than I felt 3 months ago.

So I can’t go back and I can’t live this way, what’s a girl/alien to do?

I don’t have a plan, I don’t know what it will take to make me happy, but things cannot continue the way they are.  I will NOT stay SMALL and I WILL NOT BE DENIED the right to be as out there as I please.

Maybe it’s time to shake things up around here…

Feed me villagers!  Feel me ALL NIGHT LONG.  Audrey III is in town.

Namaste x

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2016 – The Year Of ? (Make Plans, God Laughs)

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Is it that time again already?

Yes folks, it’s the start of yet another 365 days on planet earth and I’m still here.

The good news is I’m nearly 24 hours into it and nothing horrible or stupid or disastrous has happened yet 🙂

That said I have been wrapped up in a Christmas/New Year comfort blanket where normal people take a break from their jobs over the holiday so I am forced to put all the stressful shit on hold until they are back in the office on Monday.  Not that I haven’t taken full advantage and put everything gratefully on the back burner, but I am more than aware of the rather urgent pending challenges that await me this month.  On Monday to be precise.

But, so far, 2016 has been OK!  Only another 8736 hours or so to get through  😦

This year, dear readers (if I still have any) you will find me an older, sadder and wiser Sista and therefore I’m not going to be giving 2016 a name, positive motivational theme, or even to go through specific resolutions.

It’s not that I don’t have any; it’s just that my lofty aims and ambitions can so easily fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces.  And then I read back my previous posts and feel like a total arse, hence my long periods of absence on here in 2015.

Another reason is that not a lot has changed in the last year.  I’m still not working full time.  I’m not fit.  I’m older and fatter.  I’ve left my group therapy.

And I’m more frightened than ever.

But I think I’m softer, kinder, less abrasive, I’m taking less medication and, like I said in my last post, changes are afoot whether I like it or not.  The Universe has ran out of patience with me, and as on previous occasions is winkling me out of my hidey hole an propelling me bodily out into the great unknown.

This, my friends, will happen in some way shape or form, so I have no need of a specific resolution.  I have to pull down my oxygen mask, assume the crash position, and kiss my ass goodbye just in case I don’t survive the landing.

Getting past this stage is the only resolution I can deal with right now, such is it’s magnitude, stress inducing propensity and urgency.

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Once I’ve done that it’s more about setting up a new life for myself and not, I repeat, not hiding away in my little cottage and getting pelted with rotten fruit by the village children who proclaim me resident witch.

Which is massive, as I managed to be a recluse for most of 2015 in London, so the temptation to tuck myself away and fester will be enormous.

Enter Aunty C (my counsellor and literally my life saver) who promises to manage me from the 200 odd mile distance and pep talk me over Skype for as long as I need her.

Leaving the few friends I have is a terrifying prospect, but my gut tells me that my London days are over and my future lies elsewhere, so it will be interesting to see where and how I am doing in 12 months time.  If I was going to theme 2016 I would hazard a guess that the word ‘Changes’ would be most relevant.

But, I reiterate, I make no resolutions or promises this time. I’ve let both you lot and myself down too many times for that.

In the meantime I wish you all an amazing 2016 and hope that it’s a good one.

Namaste bitches

SS x

 

 


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ASHES TO PASHES

disney-cinderella

I bought something today.

Not food shopping but clothes.

And it wasn’t second hand, and it wasn’t discounted.  It was full price.  And whilst not a flash, ‘look at me’, attention getter, it was my style but brighter, made of beautiful fabric and not at all ‘background’.

I allowed myself because I worked my butt off for six gruelling 12-16 hour days on a job that left me changed as a person.

Because, even though it was something that is usually low key where I can stay anonymous, I was somehow miraculously made to feel important.  I was actually called ‘important’.  As in ‘No, sort Sista out first, she’s important.’

If this makes me sound pompous, then I’m not telling it right.  Because I’ve never really felt important to anyone, and I know for a fact that no one has ever told me that I am.  And I know it was a throw away comment from a young person who has no doubt forgotten of my existence as we speak.  But somehow, some way, I was dragged out from the shadows and put into a scenario where it was crucial that I attended day after day after day.

You can always tell when this is the case, because instead of receiving computer generated ‘if you can do additional days please tick this box’ emails from the agency, I was getting personal communications saying ‘it would be amazing if you can do Monday’ and ‘I know you must be tired, but you’re doing a fantastic job and we really need you to do just one day.’

I was bumped to the front of queues.  Interacted with the real important folk.  Heard my hero speak to me by name.

And I was totally one hundred percent comfortable with my environment and with what I was being asked to do.

Giddy stuff.  And whilst as a usual rule of thumb I get twitchy after being on a job more than 3 days (because that’s when relationships start to form) with it came a shot in the arm of pure confidence, and with that came a cumulative positive series of side effects.

I became more aware of my behaviour.  I was less spiky.  I made new friends.  I even attracted several members of the opposite sex.

However, on that note, there was one shaky moment when one very pushy guy (who was chatting up all the women) sensed my reticence and instead of backing off, laid siege to me. 

This was a disastrous move on his part because the more people pursue me or try to force me to approve and/or pay attention to them, the harder I try to avoid them, and in the end I was a hair trigger away from punching him in the face and screaming at him to get the fuck out of my aura.

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Why do people do that?  If I get one inkling that someone isn’t into me, I leg it before they do.  But everywhere I turned he was there, feet, inches, centimetres away from me staring anxiously into my eyes, voice at full, deafening volume (for God’s sake someone, pass the remote) and breathing his stinking, full English breakfast miasma into my hair.  At one stage he even laid the full length of his hand creepily onto my hip to make me turn around and face him; I could feel the disgustingly intrusive heat of his palm through the silk of my dress, and how I didn’t break his face right there and then I’ll never know.

But I digress, as typically Sista style, I am giving more attention to that one negative in a veritable ocean of positives.

Because somehow I held my temper, and merely treated him to an icy excoriating glare before being rescued by a fellow female and carted off to play scrabble with less sleazy members of the crowd.

Don’t get me wrong.  I never forgot that this was an enclosed, faux fantasy world, and that the real world was waiting for me outside, with all it’s banal, draining, terrifying challenges, and that within a matter of hours I would be transformed, Cinderella style back to that anonymous, grey drone that everyone ignores, discounts and under estimates again.

And that, dear Reader is what came to pass.  I am back home in rags, grovelling around the ashy fireplace, surrounded by many chores.  No one is pandering to my needs, clawing for my attention, fluttering around me or calling me ‘important’ anymore.

But I feel a change has taken seed and I learned a few lessons which are as follows:

  • You don’t need to be pushy to be noticed.  Really you don’t. Whether it be pure fluke or that my sang froid was mistaken for confidence, and ‘don’t look at me’ attitude to be pure insouciance, I was chosen out of a flock of beautiful, talented, qualified young things to have a key role.
  • If someone really important likes you, others follow suit. Whether this be in a work environment, on social media or in a social situation, people are sheep and will come trotting after you trustingly if the popular folk approve of you and what you do.  This can either be extraordinarily, depressingly predictable news or something that can be used as a tool.  Sure, don’t kid yourself that all of these bleating masses are going to become your forever friends but you can potentially cherry pick along the way.
  • If you pretend to do something for long enough, you can almost make it feel real.  In other words, fake it till you make it. I had to flirt with some guy for six days, and whilst I was initially at an emotional distance, he was a fun person to work with and a real chemistry grew which almost certainly brought ‘the boys to the yard’.  Not only that but my libido woke up howling and demanding to be fed. Oh dear….but maybe it’s about time?  Not with him I hasten to add; he’s attached, hugely popular so categorised as ‘dangerous’ in my book, but maybe just maybe I’m not destined for the relationship/sexual scrap heap just yet?
  • Contact with the human race gets easier the more you do it.  The same principle applies to hiding away so we have a choice.  Don’t get me wrong.  I said ‘easier’ and not ‘easy’.  I did not find 6 consecutive days surrounded by my fellow homo sapiens easy.  There were other people as well as Mr Needy who grated sorely on my nerves, and I find that after about 3 days, people run out of small talk and start asking questions that are difficult for me to answer.  Like:
    • ‘What’s your main job?’ (I don’t have one.  It’s challenge enough for me to do this)
    • ‘Where did you go for your holidays?’ (Holiday?  From what?  I haven’t had one for years because I can barely afford to feed myself)
    • ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ (No idea.  My relationship with my family is tenuous and fraught with danger.  Two friends have invited me and I’m going to end up pissing off one or both of ‘em if I accept either invitation.  Plus I may even end up on my own in a new house in a new town with 2 stressed out cats and an M&S turkey pizza for one.  Ask fucking Santa, as right now, anything might happen)

In other words, you get asked normal questions that apply to normal people.  The kind of questions that could potentially expose me for being the freak that I am.

What do I do in those circumstances?  Lie like I used to?  Make up some kind of creative adaption of the truth.  Avoid answering and turn the question back on them?  I’m not sure. But I can’t let that stop me moving forward.

And I wasn’t spotted!  As the most amusing thing of all was that several people chose to confide in me about others in the group that they suspected to have ‘mental health issues’.  Oh the irony….

So I am trying harder this time.

I’m trying to do all the stuff that I’ve aimed to maintain throughout the life of this blog.  Work out, get out, make myself look attractive, take chances, interact more with people.

Get a life.

I can’t promise you or myself that I won’t stumble and fall again, as the humiliation of failing to successfully climb out of my painful pit of doom during the years that I have been blogging is one of the factors that made me abandon it and stop writing.  The shame.  But I’m trying to scale that slippery scratchy wall once again, and one day I will make it.

As being kinder to myself and others is all part of the plan this time.

As perhaps I don’t have to be a witch to get what I want out of life.

And maybe just maybe I’ll get a snog from my very own Prince (OK, so, maybe some dastardly old uncle is more to my taste) before the year is out.  I can but hope.  I may even don that silk dress again 😉

Namaste x


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Daily Prompt: CRINGEWORTHY – “TONIGHT, MATTHEW I AM GOING TO BE….CRINGY!”

brucey

“Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?”

Oh Lord, are you kidding me?

If anything I actually feel more uncomfortable than the person making a tit of themselves.

Not only that but my eyes water, which is a dead giveaway to anyone who knows me well, that someone should just sit down and shut the hell up.

I’ve suffered from this affliction for as long as I can remember, at least since very early childhood.

If my drunken Dad got up to sing at Butlins dubiously named ‘Talent Night’ to sing (especially if he did Al Jolson’s ‘Mammy’.  Oh God, just thinking about it make my arse clench), or my Mum sang along to a chart song (with all the wrong words, natch) dancing around the kitchen, I’d practically shove my head up my own sphincter in a vain attempt to escape the abject humiliation.

I used to die inside when the theme tune for ‘The Generation Game’ used to strike up on a Saturday night, as I knew that from the first cringetastic Brucey pose (“Alright m’loves?”) right through to the end credits, my eyes would stream as couple after couple would be made to perform all kinds of humiliating stunts and tasks, such as dancing with a samba troupe, making some strange, messy European delicacy or acting in some God awful play whilst Bruce eye rolled, goaded and jeered, for the delectation of the viewing public.

I think my sister has an over sensitive cringe gene too, as she would actually disappear into the pantry and put a tea towel on her head, such was her distress at British Light Entertainment in the 70’s, and this became the alarm cry for approaching mortifying moments in our house.

So whenever someone cried out ‘To the pantry!’ we would all scatter and do what we could to avoid the eye watering event whenever possible.

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Nor did this affection abate as I got older.  I could not, would not, watch ‘Stars In Their Eyes’.  I tell a lie I watched about ten minutes of one episode and when the contestant announced “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Richard Marx”, I just knew that the hellishness was just moments away.  And sure enough when some bloke emerged from the dry ice with a mullet wig and a dopey grin to the soppy strains of ‘Right Here Waiting for You’, I seriously, honestly wanted to fucking kill myself.

I can’t bear it when people are being duped and refuse to see it (ref Paul McCartney/Heather Mills).

I die inside if someone is trying to be funny but isn’t.  Especially if they don’t even know it.  Yes I’m talking about you, ‘Newzoids’ (impersonators are some of the worst offenders)

And of course I can’t stand karaoke.  When I was working in the corporate world, I used to get dragged to these fun filled ‘team building’ nights that would end in some manky hole of a club in the West End, where we would be forced into a grubby room with sticky carpet and fag burns in the leatherette sofa, and forced to warble into the mike (“No no Sista, you have to do at least one!”) alongside some twat you despised, which would then be uploaded onto Facebook or You Tube for added humiliation.

For that alone, I should have walked out a long time before I actually did.

Again, I tell a lie.  I’ve done it once or twice.  But ONLY with people I like, who made no effort whatsoever to make it sound nice.  We just bawled ‘Living on a Prayer’ like a pack of howling wolves, and that was alright.  We knew we sounded shite.  We took the piss out of ourselves, played mock air guitar and shook our heads Wayne’s World stylee and that was, if not enjoyable, then tolerable.

It’s when people try and think that they’re actually good at it that opens my tear ducts, especially when they’re really earnest about it and then feign modesty when everyone tells them how good they were (with fingers firmly crossed behind their back) when they are just GRIM.  That is absolutely torturous to me, and I don’t know whether I feel sorry for them or wish them to spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

Oh, how could I forget?

For the life of me, I have yet to be able to sit through all 4 minutes of this, especially the last minute:

Absolutely.  Agonising.

I have no idea why I take on other people’s humiliation so eagerly.  I mean it’s not like they benefit or appreciate it.  In fact they probably just gaze at me, puzzled, wondering why I’m crying and/or looking so pained.

I am HSP and empathic though which may account for some of it.  Quite why I syphon off people’s humiliation instead of their confidence, triumphs or good luck is a mystery, but I’m putting down to my BPD and probably a whole slew of shitbag karma.

Hell fire.

Here’s hoping this life is my last shift.

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.

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

Namaste x


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REALITY REPLAY

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So, a month has gone, and despite all of my good 2015 intentions, each days rolls into the next, as uneventful as the one before.

Unless a job comes through.

And then I jump to it because (a) I can, (b) I don’t have to reveal anything about myself and (c) it pays.

But, apart from that, it’s generally a more boring version of Groundhog Day.

I still haven’t gone to yoga.  I still haven’t gone to the gym.  I still haven’t put my flat on the market. I haven’t written anything, not even my blog.

I have been reading though, and have just finished a book called ‘Life After Life’ by Kate Atkinson where the protagonist keeps coming back and reliving the same life time and time again, a concept which I found pretty horrifying.

I mean I’m willing, well, resigned to sticking this incarnation out, but coming back?  I mean surely it’s like the Big Brother house?  Once you’re out, you don’t have to go back in?

Or if you do have to come back, can’t you choose another more advantageous person/body to be for your three score years and ten?  For a start, I wouldn’t be a woman.  Fuck that for a game of soldiers.  I didn’t even get to procreate this time.

Or an animal?  I’d happily be some kind of four legged creature, ideally in the wild please?

Or even a different woman?

But to come back as me?  Again and again and again, fucking up left right and centre, until, on my eightieth incarnation I actually nail it? Maybe.

That’s just fucking mean.  Because I know I’m not hitting it out of the ball park this time around.

And I still haven’t really got a plan.

My ad hoc plan is currently living vicariously through the housemates in this year’s Celebrity Big Bro, which is fucked up because (a) it’s shit TV, (b) they’re nearly all even more mental than I am, and (c) I actually found myself arguing with some other freak on Twitter about whether being amused at Perez Hilton’s jibe at Calum Best (‘I’m gonna stick my dick up your ass!) means that I supported rape or not.

Given that I myself was a victim of a real, honest to goodness, pin-you-down-force-cock-in-fanny assault, that rankled somewhat.  Especially as it was an insult not a threat, and big butch Calum would squish effete little Mario like a bug if he even glanced in his direction.

So I found myself arguing online on a Sunday night with a complete stranger over some pitiable, pathetic, narcissistic ‘celebrity’ who neither knew I existed and would probably care even less, and that’s when I realised that I could spend the rest of my life doing this wasting shit, and no one would intervene and save me from myself.  Not only that, but there were more of my kind out there desperately following and emotionally buying into these crappy shows so that they didn’t have to face how pointless and meaningless their own lives are.

So I closed the conversation and stopped watching reality TV.

Oh and I’m eating!  I’m eating loads and turning into a right little butterball, so I now have a goodly layer of fat to protect me, along with my other avoidance and repelling tactics. That should keep the men at bay!

Yes, F-E-A-R is still in da house, peeping nervously from behind the burly, threatening bouncer like frame of my ‘Angry Protector’, whilst his erstwhile brother the ‘Avoidant Protector’ turns on the box, breaks out the boxed sets, shovels cake in my gob, and does everything he can to keep me in the Colditz of my own making.

But unlike those POWs and indeed, unlike those ‘C’ listers in the CBB house, I can actually leave this place if I want to.

And I’d love to round this post off by promising you that I will walk out and stride forth and get involved in my life of my own accord.

But I say every day that tomorrow will  be different, but then tomorrow becomes today and all bets are off.

Plus, if I’m gonna have to come back time and time again, what’s the rush?

It might be Colditz inside but…

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Namaste x


3 Comments

THIS BOY IS CRACK’IN UP #CBB @PEREZHILTON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not entertainment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe I should have.

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

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

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

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

Because nervous breakdowns do not great headlines make.

Suicide even less so.

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

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

Who wins?

You decide.

Namaste.