Phoenix Fights

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


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SONGS OF ANGER 3 – GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE – Elbow

Last stop Despair, the next stop is Anger Central.

Stand clear of the doors please!

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t succeed.

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

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

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

I won’t try and engage anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now where’s my cocktail shaker?

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

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

There may be hope for me yet 🙂

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

And it won’t be Judge Rinder.

It will be JUDY, OK biatch?

You have been warned.

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


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SONGS OF ANGER 2 – WHAT IS IT ABOUT MEN – Amy Winehouse #bullying #intimidation

Having spent the last hour on Twitter ranting furiously at people bemoaning the sacking of (ex) BBC bully Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson, I realised that something had been triggered for me personality, so decided to take a deep breath, make a soothing mug of tea and figure out what was really bothering me.

So there I was cuppa in hand, pondering my emotions carefully and it turns out that…

…nope.

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It’s definitely Clarkson.

Theres nothing I hate more than a bully.  Especially in the workplace.  In a position of authority.

As I was at the mercy of one of them for about 3 years.

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Plus, it’s a shame I didn’t know that punching someone out in the workplace was OK, as I’d have had a field day on my exit interview 😉

Then this song came to mind, Amy Winehouse’s sublime ‘What is it about Men?’.

More to the point, what is it about me and men?

This might sound like an obvious thing to say, but I’m not good with shouty, violent, threatening men.  Right, so I don’t suppose anyone is, but my reaction tends to be different to most people’s when confronted by them.

Instead of being afraid and cautious around them, I want to get in their face and scream at them.  Mainly I suspect it’s because I was too small, weak and vulnerable to defend myself properly when I was a kid.  it’s put me in danger a number of times, but when the volcanic rage erupts I don’t tend to care about the consequences.

Sertraline helps. Thank God.

Something else added fuel to the fire the other day, and whilst I didn’t think it affected me at the time, I suspect I’m pretty tense about it now.

To cut a long story short, the other day in group therapy, one of the guys pulled out a knife.

Shocking, I know. That said, I immediately recognised that he was doing it for attention.  Whilst always very needy and attention seeking, he is generally good natured, but this time I sensed his moodiness and resentment when we all were sat in reception waiting to be picked up by our shrink.

Anyway, this guy drinks green tea (or something suspiciously murky anyway) and always adds a slice of fresh lemon to his brew whilst we’re getting settled, but to date a knife has never emerged.  The other day however, he rather theatrically took out an entire fruit, produced a serrated paring knife and proceeded to carve a slice mid air, smirking arrogantly whilst doing so.

A couple of the younger girls looked pretty unnerved, as they have also been abused in the past, and, by all accounts this guy once killed someone, but I was never going to give him the satisfaction of showing any kind of reaction whatsoever.

My suspicions that it was all for show were confirmed because even when he had his segment, he kept it out and at one stage even held it between his teeth.

The shrinks froze.

I glanced at him in derision.

What the fuck are you doing?’ I asked, ‘you look like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean.’

He grinned knowingly ‘Ah sorry about that!  I just have to have lemon in my tea!  I wasn’t about to go on a, um, another killing spree…’

‘Well if you are, feel free to start with me.’

He then put it away and we continued with the session, but every now and then he’d punctuate the conversation with some aggressive aside or comment.

Afterwards the girls were concerned, as he has kicked off in therapy before (never in front of me) but I tried to reassure them.

‘Don’t worry, it’s all for effect’ i soothed, ‘he’s just trying to get attention.’

But over the last few days, I’ve become more and more angry about it, and I just know I’m going to confront him next session.

When I started group therapy, I was under the impression that all the participants were female, so when i turned up for the first session and saw two men sat there, I was not comfortable.

Don’t get me wrong.  I get on with blokes very well socially and as friends.  I’m just not good at showing any vulnerability in front of them.  But I gritted my teeth and got on with it.

And now, six months later, one guy has issues with me, and gives me sly little passive aggressive digs because I don’t want to have contact with him outside the sessions (something the girls have no problem with).  And now this little turd thinks he can bully us into indulging his demands for friendship and love, facilitate his excessive neediness by tolerating the the long, boring, droning monologues that he foists on the group.

And more and more, I feel that I can share less and less because of the male presence.

It’s not like I didn’t try, but me, men and trust go together like lemons, salt and paper cuts.

I could let this slide, of course.

I could accentuate the positive as another song goes.  Make lemons into lemonade and try and give him the attention he so craves.

But right now I’m more inclined to stick those lemons in the freezer, and when they’re hard, take them out and peg them at his stupid, smirking fizzog next time he pulls a stunt like that.

I hoped it might do me good to work with both sexes, but it’s honestly not working out that way.

How the hell am I supposed to build solid bridges with my male family?  Accept authority from a male boss?

Let a man access my body, and more frightening still, my heart again?

I know I have to speak up, but if I do I’m going to try and address it with integrity but there is no point of me attending these session if they’re making me worse.

It’s a lonely place without intimacy with beings that make up half the population.

Men, I miss you; do you think we can work this out?

‘It’s bricked up in my head, it’s shoved under my bed
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?
My protective side has grown a mile wide
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?

What is it about men?

sour-puss-lemon-face


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SONGS OF ANGER/FURY/RAGE 1 – EVERY YOU EVERY ME – PLACEBO

Yes folks, we have a brand new song category.

Honestly I can’t think why it was so long coming, but it’s here, and about time too.

Because I’ve tried, you know?  I’ve bowed, I’ve prayed, I’ve meditated.  I’ve humbled myself, I’ve turned the other cheek, I’ve allowed myself to be dismissed, ignored, barked at, moved around like a living set piece, downgraded, but the final straw was today and now I want to take down the world.

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Cos whilst I’ve been accepting of my new positioning in society, I expect a whole lot more from my shrink.  Maybe I’ve been spoilt by Aunty C who treats me like a human being, but if these aunts think I’m going to be treated like a nonentity, they have another thing coming.

These last few days, I’ve kind of given up on everything.  You get to the point you’ve been in that broken box at the bottom of a disused lift shaft so long, you do finally figure out that no one is coming, so the only thing to do is accept your fate.  Even the sage and loving words of C did nothing to shake me out of this stance, but I did agree that I’d continue with the schema therapy.

Yesterday morning was to be my first one to one with Shrink No. 1.  No matter that I was meant to go there come back then go back later that afternoon.  What a pain in the arse.

Can we do it just before the group session?

No. 1 looked as surprised and irked as if one of his dissected lab rats had raised it’s damp disinfected head and asked him to go easy with that scalpel there.

No.

Well can we do it on another date?

No.  Same fixed stare.  Lab rats don’t have rights and therefore don’t get to ask for flexibility.

I’m peeved, make no mistake about that.  In my lowly, pitiful life, I still get to challenge, question, reason and yes, negotiate, but I urged myself to go along with it and accept these unspoken terms.  What other choice did I have?

So he tells me when we’ll meet and then tells me three times that his assistant will text me confirmation.

But over the next week I hear nothing.

So the day before I text her and ask if it’s still happening.

Silence.

Evidently lab rats aren’t expected to text either.  I kind of get that as it would be pretty hard when your little paws are nailed to the bench, but I managed it and the fucking least she could have done was to respond.  But nada.

So, with superhuman control on my part, I text her again, not to take her down for her rudeness, but to say that I would assume that it was no longer happening but if it was she needed to give me some notice.

Thence follows one of the grimmest 24 hours where all hope was gone and I wished hard that one of those angry ancient Gods would just raise his massive hand and smash this world to pieces, cos I have had enough.

I slept, ate a little, slept, drank wine, slept again.

I was awoken the next morning at 8:30am by a text message, and even in my hungover, stinking befuddled state, I just knew who and what it was and it was as if that evil hand had shrunk down, reached into my core and turned my tiny, barely flickering pilot light up to max.

“REMINDER: You have an appointment with Shrink No. 1 at 9:30 today in Outpatients.  Please do not be late”

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Oh man.  That bitch wants to thank God that she never had to deliver that message in person as I would have ripped into her like a wounded, half starved cougar.

Fuck you.

FUCK YOU.

butt-tattoo-fuck-you

This.  Arrangement.  Is.  Over.

And for your information, this is not open to negotiation.  Us lab rats are not allowed that kind of freedom, remember?

I may have lost my therapy but I just got my power back.

Sorry Buddha, I’m done with you.

It’s Heisenburg time.

FYI for any pedants who don’t think this song is about anger, I really don’t give a shit.  It’s how it speaks to me and that’s what really counts.

Over and out.