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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“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.

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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.

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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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7 Comments

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.

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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