Phoenix Fights

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



Haven’t had a dream in a long time….

A game of two halves.  That was yesterday.

Another pointless visit to Dr B, asking where the hell the cavalry is, after being left for over three months in personality disorder limbo.  She’s as frustrated as I am.

Then a meeting with someone who could find me work in the future for BEING MYSELF.

Kind of.

It’s a long shot, I won’t deny it.  This company are much sought out, specialist in their area of business and they have seen thousands of people in the last few days.  And even if they take me on, there’ll be a financial outlay, and I wouldn’t be guaranteed work, consistent or otherwise.

I think they liked me.

I made them laugh.

It’s still a long shot.

My dreams aren’t like the dreams of others.  I don’t want or expect fame, fast cars, a stunning husband, a holiday home in the Maldives or millions in the bank.

I just want to find a way forward to living the rest of my life authentically, healthily and safely, fully realised, instead of working for the man, playing the game, lying, manipulating and posturing, pretending to be ‘normal’ whilst my soul shrivels and dies, or just existing, scraping by, living hand to mouth and waiting for the hammer to fall.


I sometimes hate hope so much more than hopelessness.  But in this case, I can’t douse this tiny persistent flame in my heart.

So God, if you’re listening, I don’t ask you for much.

But please, please, please?  Let me get what I want.

This time.



You know those times you wake up in the morning and think ‘What the fuck am I going to do?

I rose this morning to that familiar refrain and the first thing I saw was this amazing piece of work.

Ash Beckham talks about our ‘closets’ where we hide in the dark and clutch our unacceptable truths to us, like the ticking bombs that they are.

I live in such a closet; only trouble is that mine has white walls, a sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, a full fridge, central heating, all mod cons and I don’t want to leave it.

I tell myself I’m going to do this, that and the other and carve myself a life outside of these walls, but I’m starting to realise that I’m creating story lines to hurl at people from my past so that they don’t sneer and laugh at me. Little do they know that I’ve barely done shit about taking anything forward really.

I look like a yoga teacher so as long as I’m not challenged to do a head stand in the pub, they’ll buy that.

I’m a great cook so why wouldn’t I monetize it? Surely any fool without a job would?

I’m a writer, so surely must be working on a book? That my friends, is something I can’t hide behind, unlike this blessed, anonymous, life saving blog.

The only thing I’m truly, truly embracing is my ‘extra’ work.

Because I can show up to a set, be made up as and be someone else for an hour/day/week and hell, when you’re as terrified as I am of going back out into the big wide world as yourself, what’s not to love here? Shame it isn’t paying anything yet….

This isn’t the story I wanted to write, and I KNOW it’s not the one that you want to read.

I wanted to start 2013 at ‘only way is up’ level and graduate in December 2013/January 2014 with flying colours, a great job, a loving partner, a career/careers and clouds of ticker tape, having totally sorted out my shit and prised that massive fucker of an orangoutang off my back. And whilst there has definitely been advancements, realisations and mini successes, I’m not entirely there yet.

And that ape may not be digging it’s claws in quite as hard, but it’s doing something infinitely worse.

It’s cuddling me. Stroking my hair, gently holding me to it saying ‘Stay here with me where it’s safe. Live for the moment, that’s what all the good ‘self help’ books say don’t they? You’re not ready yet, let’s hunker down with a mug of tea and watch TV. You’re worried about money? Let’s not think about that right now, it will all come right in the end.’

I know I should be writing about my successes and making this blog a more inspirational read, but I swore to be honest and authentic on here, no matter how many readers it might cost me, and this is where I am today.

Wondering if I actually like doing anything that I say I do, and if so why don’t I get a move on and use it to make something of myself?

As a matter of fact, who the hell am I anyway?

I’m not sure, it’s too fucking dark in here, and the monkey notwithstanding, I know I’m on my own.

So this is my ‘hard’ conversation with you. I’ve inched forward slowly in something of the things I claim I want to do, but when it comes to doing them for real, I really scared that I might be making it all up and have no intentions of doing any of it.

Clutching my own fear filled grenade.

Waiting for the courage to open that fucking door already.


Daily Post: Pottymouth Blogging – TO ‘C’ OR NOT TO ‘C’


I think anyone who reads my blog would say that I’m a dyed in the wool, 18 carat, fully licensed, bone fide potty mouth.

I also hope that they would say that I don’t do it for shock value, to impress (for the record, it’s not big or clever), or to be ‘down with the kids’.

My blog is an anonymous, online journal and whilst I don’t go out of my way to offend anyone, it is my diary, my sanctuary, the place where I can record my innermost thoughts, so whilst every now and then I might curb my tongue when interacting with individuals if I think I’m going to upset them, I think that I’m entitled to say what I please in my own journal.

It’s my voice.

Of course I don’t use it every day, in every post for every subject/category.

I don’t say ‘Here’s my favourite f*cking recipe for falafel‘ or ‘F*ck me, I nearly got into a fr*gging headstand by myself today’! as that would be (a) inappropriate, (b) entirely gratuitous and (c) really rather silly.

That said, if something would come out of my mouth accompanied by profanity, that will be the way I write it.

But why do I feel the need to swear?

Dunno.  I’ve always been unhappy, plus my Dad swore a lot for as long as I remember, and I learned that my aggressive use of bad language made me seem more formidable than I actually was, thus saved me a number of times from a good kicking in the playground, so I suppose it’s always been a habit that has, on the surface, done me more good than harm.

I’m not entirely sure who I’m trying to convince of that, you or me, but it is what it is now.

Plus being born with an inner core of fiery, molten hot anger probably hasn’t helped matters.

But I ams what I am, and that’s alls I am….

I know without a doubt it costs me followers; I was also told by someone that one of my ‘let rip’ posts was too critical and that I should ‘parody’ or ‘lampoon’ instead of lay into, but that is her voice, not mine and I want to stay authentic.

Plus a lot of people seem to like my ‘Basil Fawlty’ moments as ex of mine used to call them.  My kinda people 😉

For those of you who find swearing offensive on religious grounds, whilst I respect your opinion, I can say hand on heart as someone who considers themselves spiritual, I do not think that God gives a flying f*ck about people using colourful language.

Actions speak louder than words, as they say, and it sadly tends to be the most striding, self declaring ‘religous’ and ‘devout’ folk who hold their hands up in horror when confronted by smallest profanity that judge, condemn, discriminate, carry the most hatred in their heart, and hence do the most damage to their fellow man.

Just because my mouth is dirty doesn’t mean my soul is.

Well it could probably do with a boil wash twice a year or so, but that is another story 😉

Can you swear and still be a good writer?

Ask Bret Easton Ellis, Irving Walsh or James Elroy.  Whilst these established potty mouths may not be your cup of char, no one can deny their success or talent.  If being sweary wasn’t who they are, they wouldn’t be so f*cking good at it.

What would offend me more than their profanity on the page would be if they substituted their f*cks for ‘flips’ or ‘fudge’ under politically correct duress as that would sound totally stoopid and, dare I say, inappropriate.

Note the use of ‘f*cking’ there, utilised because sometimes it is the only word that packs sufficient punch to get your feelings across when you feel totally passionately about something.


I’m sure you’ve all sent that ‘How to use the F Word’ poster above, and joking aside, it is probably the most versatile swear word in the English language.  Indeed I would go so far to say that it is now a largely respected and generally accepted part of 21st century parlance.

And there are others that I, for one, cannot and will not do without, especially when a name or an issue can bring them to my lips within a nano second:


Kanye West Radio 1 interview and subsequent Twitter hissy fit – Tw*t

David Cameron/EDF nuclear energy strategy – B*stards

Miley Cyrus doing/saying anything – *W*nker

Paul Hollywood – Tit

Prince of Wales implying that he doesn’t want to be King – Bollocks

Piers Morgan – C***


Yes, that brings us to the much vilified ‘C’ word; and I don’t mean columnist.

I don’t tend to use this in my blog or indeed in life, but sometimes the person or situation does call for it.

I’m not fazed by c*** and don’t shy away from it, but I doubt if I will ever use it casually (in the way that my nephew and his friends do when they call each other it with genuine affection), and tend to keep it in reserve for maximum effect.


Well just think; if c*** becomes the norm like f*ck has, WTF will we use to replace it?

Take my advice and if it feels comfortable and you feel impelled to use profanity in your writing, then give yourself permission to do so.

As for the ‘C’ word, treat it  like that dress/suit/heels/pair of jeans that you spent a small fortune on that still wrapped in tissue paper in the back of your wardrobe.

Keep it for ‘best’. 🙂


‘Be yourself; everyone else is already taken’

  Oscar Wilde


*Wanker is normally a term reserved for the male of the species, but when it comes to MC, I’m prepared to make an exception.




I’ve just had my first interview since leaving Wankers Inc last year and it was a veritable joy!

It is for a help line volunteer role rather than paid, and part time, not full time, but to be able to attend one of these things as me and not some shiny, twatty, jumped up marketeered version of myself was a totally revelation.  I even said the ‘F’ word (fuck) and still managed not to be ejected from the building!

This role, should I get it, will be challenging on all levels and probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but there is at least a point to it, and I’ll be helping people,  potentially changing lives, and whilst there is still the tiny outstanding matter of being able to pay the bills, quite frankly I am more than up for it.

The only problem is that I came out so elated, I went to the local TK Max and spent £150 on bargains.


That’s me living on beans for a couple of months…..

Keep your fingers crossed for me, this could be the turning point that I’ve been waiting for. 

Namaste and here’s a little snapshot of my previous working life x





I’ve just noticed, after clicking on a link that I have actually been blocked by one of my (presumably ex) followers. 😦

I was momentarily a little sad because I did and do like her, but I have obviously upset/annoyed/outraged/offended/bored the shit out of her enough for her to banish me from her world at some stage of the game and I have no idea why.

What am I saying?!

Let’s face it, I’m amazed that I’ve only just offended someone, and that someone hasn’t had a go at me long before now.

People, what can I say?

This is blog is where I brain dump and download exactly what is going on in my head at any given time.  No prettying up, no editing, no trying to make it or me more appealing or likeable, it comes to you word for word, exactly how it is.

I make no bones about being anything other than an extremely fucked up person who for the most part would sooner not be here, so it’s not designed to capture a particular demographic, appeal to the mass market, gain a huge readership or break any records.  It’s unlikely to impress, inspire, win any awards or change the world.

It will not, to paraphrase the great Gil Scott-Heron, give your mouth sex appeal, get rid of the nubs (whatever they are) or make you look five pounds thinner.

It just is what it is.

Sometimes it is funny (so I’m told), sometimes it is depressing, sometimes it is creative, sometimes it’s angry (because I’m venting rather than hurting someone in real life), sometimes it’s bitter, sometimes it’s grateful, sometimes it’s sad, sometimes it’s shocking (even/especially to me), and sometimes it’s just downright whiny, pathetic, boring and shit.

So whilst the purpose of my writing this blog is that doing this will help me get a whole lot of stuff out of my system so that I can learn more about myself, others and the world we live in, evolve in as many ways as possible and carve some kind of authentic life for myself, I can’t always guarantee that you will be entertained, agree with it or even like it.


This, if you will, is a little window into my bonce; think of it as one of those ‘What the Butler Saw’ machines we used to have on seaside piers, but with pictures of mental illness, fury, paranoia, realisations, rants and recipes instead of naughty ‘nudie rudie’ ladies in their girdles.

Roll up, roll up, have a peek if you want, I won’t even charge you, but whilst I don’t want to hurt or offend anyone, you may not always like what you see….

That said, feel free to question, probe or challenge me if you feel the urge, because quite honestly?  Sometimes, I need it.

Other times I’ll tell you to fuck off and mind your own business 😉

Namaste x

Leave a comment



If you ever have a sneaking suspicion that you are not living an authentic life that makes you happy, and want to check this out, I know a way.

Log into and check your last online dating profile.  And if you don’t have one?  Write one.  Don’t think about it, do it quickly without thinking too much and do the best you can.

Then (and this is the fun bit) analyse it and see how honest you were.

So, you might ask, what I am doing, rooting around in the ‘Last Chance Saloon’ of the dating world?

Well, in an effort to achieve at least some of my goals this year, I have decided to give internet dating one more try <groan>, so I have just logged onto the last website I was registered on, reviewed my old summary, and found myself asking ‘Who is this bitch?’

Firstly, I am of course anonymous (hey, I love a good nom de plume) but I stand by that having once being stalked to my workplace by someone very high up in radio, whom, after having been rebuffed, googled me, realised he knew some very senior people at my work, then implied to me that he had influence over them, and indirectly, my career, so perhaps we should meet up after all.

Creepy, creepy, creepy.  So, suffice to say, that ain’t changing.

I’d also put myself down as five years younger than I actually am; ironic seeing as one of my ‘dislikes’ is ‘people who lie’ 🙂 .

Why?  If I recall, my rationale was that any woman over 50 will not get any hits (which to be fair, is probably true) and anyway, I reasoned at the time, I don’t look my age.  That may or may not be the case, but already, I’m changing stuff about myself to make myself acceptable to people I haven’t even met yet.  Not good.

My photos were, however, relatively up to date and not 10 years old (like some people’s I could mention), but obviously the most flattering I could find, i.e. none showing me in profile which I hate.  The main shot is one is of me at a work function, champagne in hand, wearing a grey suit dress looking very corporate indeed, clearly indicating how much I was bought into that whole ‘job title = identity’ malarkey.

I hated work functions so why am I smiling? Then I remember that I was hammered from having been on the bubbles for 3 hours without any food in my stomach, and was chatting up this ginormous bloke who owned the club instead of making small talk with my clients.  Whoops.

Back to the profile; I’ve been pretty honest about my height, weight, colour of eyes etc. (what’s the point of lying about stuff like that?), but it’s the ‘About Me’ section that is the most tellling.

It reads something like this:

‘Slim, independent, attractive, professional woman living and working in the Capital seeks Batman to her Robin.  I work in Film/Marketing/Media, love my job, have a great social life with lots of friends, but am missing the icing on the cake in the form of like minded, professional, solvent alpha male soul mate for drinks, movies, dancing and maybe more!’

What an absolute pile of crap.  I hated my job, was too knackered to go out with my friends, so my social life sucked.  I was on all kinds of medication to get me though the day, but selling myself as this oh-so-together, spin-tastic go getter who loved her Blackberry more than her Rampant Rabbit (I was also too tired to even use that for the most part).

So the thing I hated the most about my life was the thing I used as my key selling point to prospective partners.  WTF?

I then go onto specifics re what I would like in a potential partner; I want funny, clever, in shape, solvent, generous, masculine, authoritative, sensitive, smoke free, spiritual, reliable, faithful, yada, yada, yada…

Who did I think I was exactly?  It’s as if I think I have access to some kind of ‘Build a Bear’ technology, and can create the ideal man, and that nothing else would do.  In hindsight, I’m amazed anyone actually bothered to contact me at all.

Also note the term ‘alpha male’. God you would think after years of dating big, muscle bound, chest-thumping, emotionally autistic dickheads that I might have learned something wouldn’t you?  Unfortunately for me, this is what has always floated my boat physically speaking, along with the odd rangy but super charismatic sexy bastard who would occasionally saunter into my life like Clint Eastwood circa 1972 (but with more attitude), and ironically, fuck with my head ten times more than he ever did with my body.

So why was I still looking for more of the same?  Is having someone hot more important than meeting a soul mate and best friend?  Evidentially it was at that time. But now?  Not so much.

When I look at this profile I marvel at how much I have changed; OK not totally for the better, but I certainly bear no relation to that highly groomed (but drunken) exec with long red nails, a politicians smile and a packet of beta blockers in her bag.

So, I can see I’m going to have to start from scratch.

But how honest can I be?

‘Slim, burnt out, once attractive woman living on a shoestring in the Capital seeks Rachet to her McMurphy.  I don’t work, have an almost non existent social life with a few trusted friends, but am missing the icing on the cake in the form of a like minded, tolerant alpha male soul mate to watch Real Housewives with, keep me calm in social situations, and, if you’re lucky, try and jump start my sexuality and see if my taking ‘scary man juice’ has moistened my muffin yet.’

Hmm.  Maybe not.

Something in the middle perhaps?

After about an hour and a half, I’m done.

I’ve updated my photos to shots that are more recent and reflect my new lifestyle; well, I’ve taken out the work snaps anyway…

My ‘About Me’ reads something like this:

‘Slim, independent, attractive female woman who has left corporate life and exploring new avenues seeks fun, attractive guy for high jinks and adventures.  If my change in lifestyle puts you off/scares you/makes you think you have to pay for everything, then you’re probably not the man for me, whatever I end up doing.  If however this intrigues you and/or makes no difference to your interest in me whatsoever, perhaps we can grab a coffee, chew the fat and see if we can put the world to rights?’

I’m quite jocular and bantering in the rest of the profile as that is how I am when I’m in a good place, and I have limited my relationship choice to ‘Just Friends’ for now, as that’s all I’m ready for, as I would have to share a bit more about myself and my condition if I was to see someone seriously, as that’s only fair to them.

So whilst I might be wasting my time and have lost 90 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back doing this, I’m proud of myself for finally letting go of everything that incorporates and connects me to my old identity, and have finally come out as a 51 year old writer/trainee yoga teacher who is still feeling her way in the world.

And if they give a damn?  They can ‘Take Me Baby or Leave Me’.