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.

cookie

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

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2016/05/20/all-in-all-youre-just-a/comment-page-1/#comment-4862


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ALL IN ALL YOU’RE JUST A…

brick head

DAILY PROMPT – “BRICK”

So here I am.  In my little country idyll after escaping the Smoke and all it’s stresses, worries and concerns.  Plus my notoriety as the local BPD nutter in some circles.

I am, to all intents and purposes, safe.  People are for the most part friendly, normal, and no one knows my dark secret.

Or do they?

Preview

Very little happens around here and I now know that any newcomers are the talk of the village when they first move in, and a great source of curiosity.  At least 3 pensioners knocked on my door within 72 hours of my arrival, scaring the shit out of my already traumatised cats (I’ve dubbed them the White Watchers – the pensioners, not the cats), and like their namesake’s, they don’t wait to be invited in.  I know I’m sounding very ‘London’ here (i.e. snotty), but I was in the Capital on and off for over 20 years, so I’m used to people that either mind their own business and/or don’t give a fuck about your shit, so the need for privacy is a hard thing to break, especially when you have stuff to hide.

Indeed one of these ladies wandered up to my desk and craned her neck to have a good old look at the paperwork strewn across it (some of which just happened to be from the NHS – great…), so I’ve taken to ducking every time I see a greying mop pass by the window and have nightmares about my secret being out, and a gang of them heading up my path with a Wicker Man on bonfire night, so my determination to be more sociable in order to appear ‘normal’ was challenged within a very short period indeed.

Also, I’m still something of a hermit, and despite the one neighbour I’ve befriended urging me to get out and about more in the community, I still find small talk deeply boring and energy sapping especially when everyone is so damned, well, normal…I miss my London freaks, I mean, friends.

So like the song goes, ‘Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you’.  I’m still me, I  haven’t been cured overnight from moving north of Watford Gap, and, of course, my old worries have been replaced by new ones. And some old ones came back.  And on those dark nights and days of the soul, I still hibernate, only now, it’s more noticeable because the people around me have fuck all else to notice or talk about.

It could all be my imagination of course as I was off my meds at the time…

nah

Plus, my property is so exposed.  People can see in, which I’m not feeling, so I’m pricing up garden walls, blinds, gates and electric fences (just joking about the last one – I think) as we speak, which will only enhance my reputation as a cold ass London biatch even more.

Cos these people may be ever so nice, but all in all, they’re just a-nother brick in my wall.

Because, try as I might to leave it, that thing was never going to stay in south London.

Cos it’s with me. Wherever I go.

But it’s meant to be a new start?

Perhaps I’ll replace the wall and fences with trellis and blinds which will let the light it.  Oh and maybe take the barbed wire off back order.

For now, anyway…

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/brick/

 


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CHEAP WINE AND A THREE DAY OATH

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‘Coleman!  I’ve had the worst nightmare!  I was poor and no one liked me.  I lost my job, I lost my house and it was all because of this terrible (alter) ego….’

Yes, this actually happened to me.

Last night, I dreamed I was back in my old life.

The rose coloured specs version natch.

I was with friends in my favourite restaurant.  I was dressed well, my nails were manicured, my hair was recently highlighted.  I was still working.  A holiday in the sun was in the not too distant future.  I didn’t have to rely on anyone else’s charity.

And I was telling them that I’d had this awful dream where I’d been let go by Bastards Inc, had a breakdown, lost everything, I was poor, I had no friends yadda yadda…

And then I woke up.

For real.

Welcome to the ‘Feeling Worse Before It Gets Better’ phase of group therapy.

I’m sorry I haven’t been blogging of late, but it’s been a tough time.  Nothing but bad news and more of the same, and of course my writing, along with everything else that’s good for me, crumbled.  How many more times could I tell you the same story but in different words?

I was bored, boring and as in real life, didn’t want to bore the people I cared about with my tedious, self pitying shit.

Until today.  The irony of dreaming I’d dreamt the nightmare that was and is my reality was too ironically, cruelly amusing not to report back on.

And like Dan Ackroyd’s Louis Winthorpe III, I momentarily felt like I’ve had a life that was actually good, ripped away from me.  But unlike Louis I couldn’t blame anyone else.  Because it was down to me.  I cracked wide open from 50 odd years of trying to play the part of someone that didn’t actually exist at all, the shiny facade that passed for my real self.

And whilst I would and could never go back to such a life, I do miss aspects of it.

Being respected in a tough industry.  Having an impressive CV.  Being solvent.  Being able to have holidays.  Buy presents.  Pay my way.  Feeling financially safe.  Well, safer than I feel right now.

That said, whilst I liked and still do like nice things, I  have coped with the spending restrictions admirably.

But some things I cannot, will not accept.

Some of my fellow nutters suggested a group evening out after therapy at a free concert in London.

I was reluctant.  I hate crowds, central London and the band they wanted to see.

‘Oh come along it’ll be fun!   It won’t cost anything!  And we can go into Asda and grab some sandwiches and a couple of boxes of cheap wine….’

And there it was; the straw that broke this camel’s old hump.

Let me make this quite clear, I’m not a snob.  I know this because I have friends that are very snobby.  I on the other hand, love a bargain, buy vintage, am not impressed by designer labels and cannot tolerate waste.

But cheap wine?

As some of you will know, I love food and wine.  Food is how I comfort myself and have done since I was a child, but it has to be good quality.  I’d sooner have some fried left over potatoes with rock salt and home made mayo than a mass produced meal at a rubbish restaurant.

And let me tell you, cheap wine, like cheap chocolate, will never ever pass my lips.  I’ve had too much of the good stuff to go back now.

DrunkTornado

People drink cheap wine for the same reason as they drink moonshine, cheap supermarket spirits and meths; not because they like it, but because they want to get wasted.

And the idea of drinking something akin to warm vinegar whilst munching on mark down lunch time sandwiches that taste of nothing (and were probably made by illegal refugee slaves) in a public place for all the world to see just filled me with despair.  Especially as my infrequent but relatively consistent part time work has suddenly stopped dead.

Presumably due to something I did or did not do, or said or did not say.  I have no idea.

And then, after my oath to myself to do yoga every single day, I broke it on the fourth.

And whilst I’m not doing anything that good for myself, I’m trying really hard not to binge on food which is my first point of call when feeling this lost and lonely.

I’m even the odd one out amongst my fellow BPD-ers!

But I always knew that.

So.  What the fuck I am going to do now?

I don’t know.

And unlike previous posts, I’m not going to even try work out a plan and promise to do it.  As I’ll only fall flat on my arse and let you lot down yet again.

I just wanted to share.

I’ll drop by again when I have something to say.

Oh and this is the song that inspired today’s blog post title.

Pray for me please?

Namaste all xx


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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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SUGAR ME…

Sugar-depression

...wanna get my candy free’ sang diddy blonde songstress Lindsey de Paul back in the ’70’s, and I have to say, come Easter Sunday I was on exactly the same page, having being starved of the sweet stuff for nearly six weeks.

And I was ready.

Yessir, I treated myself to some posh chocs, made myself some fruit cake (not chocolate? Should have been a clue really) and at the last minute, made myself a batch of the best ice cream ever.

Because I’d been missing my Haagen Dazs.

I didn’t lose as much weight as last time, due to a knee injury, but my jeans were looser and, as it transpires, my energy levels were much better.

So Easter Saturday, I kind of cheated as I had to taste the components of said frozen ambrosia in order to get it right, but I’m sure the risen Christ would forgive me such a small transgression.

I decided to create my own version of HD’s Strawberry Cheesecake variant.

I made my own almond shortbread.

I made my own strawberry coulis instead of using jam as some recipe had suggested, with berries, a bit of sugar and a dash of cassis.  I mean, jam?  Shit, that’s a bit excessive, even for me.

I also cut down the sugar in the cream cheese ice cream after someone who had tested another version said it didn’t need as much.  I used 60g instead of 100g and it sure tasted sweet enough to me.

I also had some HD salted caramel and chocolate in the freezer, so was looking forward to a nice scoop of each after Sunday lunch.

So when Easter Sunday dawned, I had a cupboard full of goodies, but actually felt a bit intimidated re how I was going to eat them all after doing without so long.

I enjoyed a slice of fruit cake for breakfast, and had a small slice of chocolate orange cake after lunch at my friends house.

But when it came to my much anticipated ice cream sundae, I was in for a shock.

As I tucked in, I realised that my lovely concoction tasted of nothing next to the HD salted caramel chocolate which was tooth achingly sweet.  One scoop did not complement the other, they clashed horribly and it was then I realised how much sugar must be in the HD range.

For anyone who doesn’t cook, ice cream before frozen is essentially a custard, and considering that it had 15g sugar per portion (not including the shortbread and coulis), I don’t even want to think how many grams per portion is in the bought varieties.

Not only that, but after a three day dietary blow out, I was hit by a stint of severe depression not experience by me for quite some time, which only goes to verify what sugar does to one’s mood and state of mind, as per the attached article about how sugar affects the brain.

And this is with reference to normal folk, so imagine what it does to crazies like me?

Which is why my beloved Haagen Dazs is in the bin, and my freezer is packed with home made ice cream and cake waiting to be consumed another day.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ll always appreciate a good doughnut (old school, not those insubstantial super sugary, highly processed Krispy Dunkin monstrosities), a nice slice of home made cake, one chocolate with a cup of tea, and being able to finish a good meal in a fine restaurant with a dessert.

But gone are the days of ‘treating myself’ to a tub of shop bough high end ice-cream whilst telling myself that it won’t hurt me, or scarfing a packet of marshmallows (which are essentially pure sugar and gelatine) and congratulating myself for choosing a fat free treat.

Don’t get me wrong, the high is great; but the come down just isn’t worth it.

Haagen Dazs, we’re through!

And don’t let the door hit your big fat ass on your way out.

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Lesson learned.

Namaste x

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/06/sugar-brain-mental-health_n_6904778.html


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BOYS WILL BE BOYS

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You know what they say about old habits dying hard?

Well it’s a cliche for a reason.  And it’s especially hard to challenge them when they’ve been over a half a decade in the making.

As anyone who follows this blog will know that I haven’t always had a great relationship with my family, and you will also understand why.

But of late, my relationship with my brother James is OK.

Distant, even more distant since I’ve been in financial dire straights, but whenever we see one another we’ve managed to have a nice time and while away a couple of hours or so before the other has to go home.

And I’m regularly invited to spend Christmas with him and his family.  Mainly because it’s traditional, and the fact that I’m ‘Aunty Present’ and, until this year, brought lots of goodies for all to enjoy.

But apart from that, my presence isn’t really required.  Oh I’m welcome, in theory, to go spend the weekend with them.  Subject to approval and with the proviso that I might need to entertain myself as they all go about their business, and treat me with about as much interest as the family gerbil (who eventually died of starvation/dehydration, poor thing).

yuk

And if there’s a formal family thing with long lost rellies, I’ll be required to rock up, despite the fact that the venue is about 400 miles away from my home (and 40 from theirs) and that I have to spend a total of 8-9 hours on the motorway, and money (that I haven’t got) to eat at a shit restaurant whose sole USP is the ability to acquire faux fillets made up of re-consituted poultry skin/scrag/ligament mush that has been combined with water and additives, moulded, frozen, defrosted, cooked and presented to the unsuspecting diner as a chicken breast, smothered in some kind of white jizzy goop that itself masquerades as some kind of cheese sauce. With chips of course.

Classy.

Other than that, I am apparently obsolete.  Peripheral.  Forgettable.

And every now and then I’ll see evidence on Facebook or via some other social media platform that he and my cousin and their respective broods have all got together at each others homes or gone on some jolly outing or other without inviting me.

And it hurts.

bully-web

When we were kids, my brother hated me (and in turn I hated him back), and turned to our cousin (who lived walking distance away) for succour and companionship which is probably one of the reasons that I’m the fuck up of the family and he isn’t.  Because even though our shared childhood was not the best, our mother loved him and he had Jack, so he was never alone.  Being the same sex, there’s was a natural bond, as was the habit of turning on me, an obvious target, to mock, jeer at, and pick fights with.

Me?  I had no one, not even a best friend once I turned geek, and I have forever felt like I am on the outside looking in.

And neither Jack nor James were ever encouraged to include or be kind to me.

They were lads.  And lads didn’t play with girls oop North, so they were let off the hook so to speak.

And as we came into our teens, and I strived to find some tribe to fit in with (be it mod, punk, new romantic), this was an endless source of amusement for this smug twosome, who, yes you’ve guessed it, went to uni, found a lovely inclusive brainbox peer group to join, and more life long friends to bolster their egos and emotional security.

I however flitted from one incarnation to another, and do so to this day.

Because I have no real clue who I am.

Over the years, I did form something of a relationship with my cousin, and once upon a time you could have called us ‘close’ as he would tell me things he couldn’t share with Jack, but when my brother and I fell out for 3 years, I was left in no doubt where I was in the family hierarchy.

No I couldn’t come for Christmas, Easter or Bank Holiday.  What were my motives?  Was I doing this to wind up Jack?

They could see me in March, some random weekend or a cold wet day in January; wouldn’t that be special?

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And after Jack and I eventually made up, I was no longer the black sheep of the family hence James welcomed back into the fold and was invited to everything!

Hurray!

Except I was indignant, bruised and in no mood to be humoured.

Nowadays everything has gone back to normal and I’m back on the outside looking in.  And today I made one last try to connect with my family, find out when the next big hoo ha would be, and get myself invited to it via my sister in law.

She sounded defensive and perplexed.

‘Why do you ask?  When?  What are you thinking?  Here, Jack’s, yours, somewhere in the middle?’

(In other words ‘What do you want from us exactly? Anyone would think you were family or something!’)

‘I honestly don’t mind Jen, I just thought it would be nice for us to all catch up sometime.’

‘Well Jack and James have just been away, we’re off doing something else Easter with my sister (oh the irony), then I’m back at work, Jack is blah blah blah……….but maybe we’ll catch up in August 2020 when I might be in London?’

Hey ho.  After over half a decade of being second tier, why did I ever think it might change?

It would be easier to get Clark Kent and Superman in the same room at one time.

I get it.  i genuinely do.  Spending time together for them comes naturally.  They’re more brothers than Jack and I were ever siblings. They both have kids.  They live quite close to one another.  Lots of their get togethers are probably arranged quite spontaneously.

I, however, take effort.  Not to mention that fact that I’m a little….

bagge_daffyduck

….and unpredictable nowadays. What if I rained on their lovely fraternal parade?

As for the bullying, I suppose kids are kids, and they didn’t know how damaging an effect their behaviour would have on me.

Boys will be boys.

And lets face it they weren’t the only ones who picked on me.  Once you’re being victimised it’s like you send out a high pitch signal that unleashes the dogs of war onto you.  It’s like those bastards can sniff the vulnerable out and let rip knowing you will take their shit.

To this day though, any word or story of bullying is guaranteed to get my hackles up.

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In a recent episode of ‘The Gift’ one man, Jon, who bullied and beat up on another boy, Simon, at school for 10 years, suddenly got guilt pangs and sought him out via the show to apologise, wanting forgiveness.

90% of the British public were touched by his efforts and sniffled sentimentally into a Kleenex.

The other 10% (yes, me included) wanted his blood.

I’m sorry but who the actual fuck did he think he was to seek Simon out demanding forgiveness?  What brought on this sudden retrospective stab of conscience?  Why should he be made to feel better about his vile behaviour?

Miraculously though, when they finally came face to face on a pier, Simon (a big bruiser of a man nowadays) to my huge disappointment, didn’t smash him in the face, pick him up by the scruff of his neck, shake him like a rag doll and throw him into the sea.

He forgave him.

Jon, you are lucky it wasn’t me you sought pardon from as I’d have kicked you so hard that your balls would be jostling for position alongside your tonsils to this very day.

<sigh…>

I have such a long way to go.

Have I forgiven my tormentors, including John and Jack?  I thought I had.  But clearly it goes so much deeper than that.  And maybe they sense this.

Time to stop misting up that window and pawing at that door.

It was never my place to begin with.

Aunty C and the shrinks are right.  My sense of home and belonging has to start with me.

Back to the drawing board.

Namaste x

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b053kxhs


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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