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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PITY PARTY TRACK 23 – RUN AWAY – SALSOUL ORCHESTRA FEAT. LOLEATTA HOLLOWAY

I swear this has to be the most upbeat ‘Pity Party song’ EVER…

I mean it should be in ‘Optimistic Mix’ or even ‘Ear Worm’ as I can’t get it out of my head.

So, I came by this blast from the past after watching ‘The Paperboy’ movie on TV, then looking up the awesome soundtrack online, then went on a bit of a disco binge, and it all came flooding back to me.

The disco era, the late ’70’s when I had just started going to clubs, when I’d just discovered my womanly wiles, could just about afford make up and was too uninformed and afraid to know how mentally fucked up I really was.

When I was poor and stuck at home.  When I was all buck teeth and National Health glasses.  When I was borderline bulimic and didn’t even know what that meant.  When all in the world I wanted was a boyfriend and feared that no one in the world would ever love me.

When, unbeknownst to me, I had the whole world at my fucking feet.

That, my friends was nearly 40 years ago, and now the future is so very bleak, I honestly wish I could run away.

Now I’m stuck in this flat.  I’ve got marginally smaller, yellowing teeth and reading glasses.  My eating habits have gone wildly dysfunctional again (pathetic, I know).  I have no partner and am now pretty 100% sure that no one will ever love me again.

I am so stuck, and there’s no way back and no way forward.

God let me go back.  Give me another chance.  I swear I’d get it right this time.

Let me do a ‘Peggy Sue Got Married’ and wake up in the morning in my svelte, 17 year old body and give me the chance to steer clear of all of the mistakes i ever made?

As fucking if.

Namaste x


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‘BELLY’S GONE AND GOT ME….’

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This weekend I have practically gone up a dress size and positively hate myself.  The skin over my stomach is as taut as a drum skin, I’m totally exhausted, dehydrated and feel like I want to vomit.

It started on Friday.

I went out for tapas with a friend for lunch and ate masses of the things, ‘treated myself’ to cake after an intense physio session and then had a large portion of pasta for supper.

Saturday I had two thick doorsteps of home made granary toast with butter and home made marmalade for breakfast to carb up for a run that didn’t happen, I didn’t do my yoga, had a substantial lunch to line my stomach in anticipation of a boozy night ahead, then drove to my friends place only to discover that she’d made a hearty dinner for us all, with the same rationale in mind.

Was I hungry?  No.   Did I eat it?  Hell, yes.

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Went out in the evening, got totally hammered and must have drunk at least 4 double G&T’s and then, as I recall, when we got in, we had a huge bacon sandwiches before we went to bed.

Then I woke up this morning with a stinking hangover, ate two sausages, a handful of biscuits and a couple of painkillers and went back to bed.  I passed on going with my friends on a walk in the woods because of my headache, then we all went for a big Sunday roast.  After this, I drove home and put away a whole carton of ice cream and a piece of cake.  My justification for this?  I didn’t have dessert at the restaurant.

Suffice to say, I am now beside myself with disgust and self loathing.

Why have I done this to myself might you ask?

Well, the guy I went out with last week has asked me out on another date.

Any other female on the planet would be (a) pleased, (b) watching what she eats and (c) exercising regularly so that she feels and looks her best for such an event.

Me?  I clearly just want to totally fuck it up, just so that at a later date I don’t have to apologise for how old/ugly/inadequate I am, explain about my condition and end up eating dust as he hurtles off into the sunset.

I know this isn’t the most jolly, entertaining entry to date (hey, I never promised you a rose garden…..) but I have to write it down if I’m to have any hope of catching myself doing this and maybe one day, nipping it on the bud.

This kind of behaviour killed my last relationship (along with a couple of other things, to be fair) but had I been in a place where I could love and accept myself for who I was, who knows what might have happened?

Actually, scratch that; I was bonkers/self destructive, he was a big baby, it could never have worked.  But it might have lasted longer and ended more prettily, that’s for sure.

I know I say this time and time again, but from tomorrow, for at least a week, I will not damage myself either from starving/over exercising or binging/lounging around in my pit.

I also have to keep reminding myself that this is only a friendship that may or may not come to something and then I will take the pressure off myself and enjoy it like I would an outing with any other friend, and not feel as if I’m about to walk the plank or something.

I’m not the prettiest woman in the world, nor the smartest but the one thing I used to have was an OK body and now I’m doing my level best to trash it.  I’ve had these kinds of issues since I was about eleven years old and I’m living proof that you can be closer to putrification than puberty and still want to ram your fingers down your throat every now and then.

Yes folks, it’s all fun, fun, fun, chez Sertraline tonight….

I’d better go to bed before I empty the fridge, gorge on dry pasta or just pour sugar down my neck.  On nights like this, even the cats might start to look appetising…..

Pray for me if you believe in all that stuff please?