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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YOUR FRIEND’S IN THE NORTH

whippet

So.

I made it ūüôā

It wasn’t easy. ¬†Of course it wasn’t. ¬†I am a drama magnet, so anything that could go wrong went wrong, to the extent that post move I actually got embroiled in some legal action (from which I ended up the beneficiary¬†– fuck you, unprofessional, lying, scaremongering biatches from HELL!), but gradually, gradually, things are getting better.

I have nice neighbours, a couple of friends nearby, am closer (but not too close) to family and don’t go to bed in mortal terror of what my dreams might bring. ¬†Yes I have bills to pay (I am NOT on benefits. ¬†Yet. ¬†But hopefully never again), there things to buy and do for/to my new home, so I need some work so I can carve out a decent life for myself.

And of course I still have the darkest of dark nights (and days) of the soul with no real means of support; mental health is not something that is a high priority in Stark Land. ¬†If I’m lucky and can prove I’m on the verge of suicide, I may, just may get a prescription for Sertraline, a disapproving frown and a ‘Pull yourself together woman!’ admonishment from my new GP, and of course I have no intention of telling anyone in my new life about my condition.

But I own a home outright, the cats are settled, I actually have a view when I look out of my window at night, everyone is friendly and nice, it is quiet and peaceful, and when I unlock my door and step out onto my path of a morning, I do it to the sound of birdsong and the robust aroma of cow shit instead of the wail of police sirens, snarls from passers by, and a blanket of London smog clogging my little traumatised lungs.

our-friends-in-the-north-006

So, unlike the original cast of the above mentioned much loved ‘posh soap opera’, (whom all for the most apart still reside in the Smoke and have never looked back), I have come back from London chastened, an older wiser Sista, and hope to discover my real life’s mission back in the county I was born in.

Anyway I am sorry for not having written for so long.  This has been for a number of reasons:

 

First, the sheer gruelling, creative energy sapping toll that moving house has on one, left me with little energy to wax lyric about anything really.

Second, the hellish bouts of major depression that hit me like a landslide when all seemed to be going to pot.

Third, I honestly didn’t think anyone would miss me. ¬†And, let’s be honest, most of you probably didn’t. ¬†And that’s OK. ¬†I have no problem with that. ¬†Life and blogging goes on.

Fourth, the fact that I felt, and feel that I’ve said everything there is to say about myself, my life and BPD.

Fifth. ¬†Right. ¬†I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but it’s actually gotten to the stage that being subtle and kind only had a temporary effect,¬†so I’m going to be frank and honest and hope that it works.

Since been off air, so to speak, I have been prompted, chivvied and nagged incessantly to come back¬†by a certain individual, and I cannot even fart on Twitter without it being commented on, and it’s now gotten to the stage that I feel almost stalked and ¬†dread even the thought of logging¬†into WordPress, so unfortunately for him,¬†the net result was probably the opposite of what he intended.

 

Note Рsome of you have gently enquired once or twice via WordPress where I am and what has been happening since my last post.  These comments are not directed at you, OK? x

Re my future blogging, I now feel that I have shared too much and feel a bit exposed on this profile, so I need to decide if I’m going to stick with it or start up a new one. ¬†Under another name.

But I’ll probably be back in some way, shape or form and will stay in touch.

Promise.

Over and out for now x

http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2010/sep/18/our-friends-flannery-eccleston

 

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Daily Prompt: CRINGEWORTHY – “TONIGHT, MATTHEW I AM GOING TO BE….CRINGY!”

brucey

“Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What‚Äôs most likely to make you squirm?”

Oh Lord, are you kidding me?

If anything I actually feel more uncomfortable than the person making a tit of themselves.

Not only that but my eyes water, which is a dead giveaway to anyone who knows me well, that someone should just sit down and shut the hell up.

I’ve suffered from this affliction for as long as I can remember, at least since very early childhood.

If my drunken Dad got up to sing at Butlins dubiously named ‘Talent Night’ to sing (especially if he did Al Jolson’s ‘Mammy’. ¬†Oh God, just thinking about it make my arse clench), or my Mum sang along to a chart song (with all the wrong words, natch) dancing around the kitchen, I’d practically shove my head up my own sphincter¬†in a vain attempt to escape the abject humiliation.

I used to die inside when the theme tune for ‘The Generation Game’ used to strike up on a Saturday night, as I knew that from the first cringetastic Brucey pose (“Alright m’loves?”) right through to the end credits, my eyes would stream as couple after couple would be made to perform all kinds of humiliating stunts and tasks, such as dancing with a samba troupe, making some strange, messy European delicacy¬†or acting in some God awful play whilst Bruce eye rolled, goaded and jeered, for the delectation of the viewing public.

I think my sister has an over sensitive cringe gene too, as she would actually disappear into the pantry and put a tea towel on her head, such was her distress¬†at British Light Entertainment¬†in the 70’s, and this became the alarm cry¬†for approaching mortifying¬†moments in our house.

So whenever someone cried out ‘To the pantry!’ we would all scatter and do what we could to avoid the eye watering event whenever possible.

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Nor did this affection abate as I got older. ¬†I could not, would not, watch ‘Stars In Their Eyes’. ¬†I tell a lie I watched about ten minutes of one episode and when the contestant announced “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Richard Marx”, I just knew that the hellishness was just moments away. ¬†And sure enough when some bloke emerged from the dry ice¬†with a mullet wig and a dopey grin to the soppy strains of ‘Right Here Waiting for You’, I seriously, honestly wanted to fucking kill myself.

I can’t bear it when people are being duped and refuse to see it (ref Paul McCartney/Heather Mills).

I die inside if someone is trying to be funny but isn’t. ¬†Especially if they don’t even know it. ¬†Yes I’m talking about you, ‘Newzoids’ (impersonators are some of the worst offenders)

And of course I can’t stand karaoke. ¬†When I was working in the corporate world, I used to get dragged to these fun filled ‘team building’ nights that would end in some manky hole of a club in the West End, where we would be forced into a grubby room with sticky carpet and fag burns in the leatherette sofa, and forced to warble into the mike (“No no Sista, you have to do at least one!”) alongside some twat you despised, which would then be uploaded onto Facebook or You Tube for added humiliation.

For that alone, I should have walked out a long time before I actually did.

Again, I tell a lie. ¬†I’ve done it once or twice. ¬†But ONLY with people I like, who made no effort whatsoever to make it sound nice. ¬†We just bawled ‘Living on a Prayer’ like a pack of howling wolves, and that was alright. ¬†We knew we sounded shite. ¬†We took the piss out of ourselves, played mock air guitar and shook our heads Wayne’s World stylee and that was, if not enjoyable, then tolerable.

It’s when people try and think that they’re actually good at it that opens my tear ducts, especially when they’re really earnest about it and then feign¬†modesty when everyone tells them how good they were (with fingers firmly crossed behind their back) when they are just GRIM. ¬†That is absolutely torturous to me, and I don’t know whether I feel sorry for them or wish them¬†to spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

Oh, how could I forget?

For the life of me, I have yet to be able to sit through all 4 minutes of this, especially the last minute:

Absolutely.  Agonising.

I have no idea why I take on other people’s humiliation so eagerly. ¬†I mean it’s not like they benefit or appreciate it. ¬†In fact they probably just gaze at me, puzzled, wondering why I’m crying and/or looking so pained.

I am HSP and empathic though which may account for some of it. ¬†Quite why I syphon off people’s humiliation instead of their confidence, triumphs or good luck is a mystery, but I’m putting down to my BPD and probably a whole slew of shitbag karma.

Hell fire.

Here’s hoping this life is my last shift.

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cringe-worthy/


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ONE FOR THE ROAD #bpd #sex

dr love

Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.

Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.

But now there is a physical aspect to it.

I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.

The situation was intolerable for someone like me. ¬†The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space,¬†and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I¬†inevitably¬†sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.

Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.

This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.

But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.

prostate test

For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things,¬†it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting¬†flesh.

Plus we have to do them every year.

Every.  Year.

Yes?  You there yet?  God.

I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.

Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.

And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.

I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire¬†any time soon.

dr love

To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.

That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.

I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.

Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space. ¬†Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.

It will  have to be on neutral territory.  Maybe in the back of my car even.

It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.

But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.

Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.

Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted. ¬†In the meantime, pray for me please!

Namaste x


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SONGS OF ANGER 3 ‚Äď GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE ‚Äď 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.

Vinnie-Jones-Lock-Stock-2

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 ūüôā

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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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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EAR WORM No. 25 ‚Äď The Pearls ‚Äď GUILTY #BPD

Ah…just as well I love this innocent little song from back in the day, as it has been haunting me for what feels like forever…

If you, like me, were growing up in the ’70’s, chances are you remember this catchy British version¬†of the original First Choice song.

Also, if you are BPD like me, you will have a long, complicated relationship with guilt and will have done so, probably most of your life.

Because, seemingly, like many kinds of abuse, one inadvertently ends up wielding the same stick that one was beaten so savagely with.

I was, suffice to say, made to feel guilty for most of my life, for, amongst other things, being selfish (for expecting to be treated like I mattered), for not helping in the home (when my sibling was not expect to do so), for asking for normal clothes instead of old ladies cast offs (so I wouldn’t get my head kicked in at school quite so often), for causing arguments (aka defending myself), fighting with my brother (who was older/bigger and ALWAYS struck the first blow), yada, yada…

This resulted in permanent paranoia, the inability to trust, the constant need to defend myself, prove my innocence and point out the real perpetrator.

Much good that did me, really.

It also made me afraid of ever admitting failure or fault, which isn’t great as everyone makes mistakes. ¬†Even me ūüėČ

But the most harmful side effect of this kind of abuse, is thinking that the reflex response of others is a good idea.

To be honest I didn’t even know I did it until recently.

Well, I knew I was very adept at defending myself, and felt more than entitled to do so, after all the shit I’ve had to endure to date, but the one thing I failed to realise is¬†that no one likes to be proved wrong for all the world to see.

Even if they were wrong.

I’ve been let down many times by boyfriends, friends, family and work mates. ¬†This is because I did that classic BDP thing of putting all my eggs in one basket when it came to making friends.

I would eschew building lots of different relationships with a cross section of different people, find the one who I thought was my soul mate per se, bonded with that person, told them everything, showed them everything, trusted them implicitly until that fateful day arrived that they dropped the ball and fucked me over, betrayed me, or even just let me down.

Most people are upset by betrayal. But most people have a whole back up team of other friends and family behind them, so they will usually shrug such behaviour off, forgive and probably keep that person in their life in some capacity.

Someone like me however would be absolutely devastated and incandescent with rage, and would then seek to expose this bitch/bastard for their rude/selfish/vicious behaviour so that the whole world would see how awful they were, and how hard done by I was, before dramatically kicking their friendship to the kerb.

Forever!

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I know.  Not very attractive behaviour, is it?

But the worst part is that when your anger dies down, and you put things in perspective, you realise that you’ve dumped all the good qualities of that person¬†along with the bad.

Over the years, I evolved a little. ¬†I didn’t always dump people forever, but I did still, very skilfully, very stealthily prove to them that they were pretty horrible people, that their behaviour sucked, that I would NEVER, have done it (whatever it may be) to them, that others in our circle/family now knew what they were really like, and that they should change ASAP if they wanted to keep good, loyal, innocent folk like my good self in their lives for the foreseeable future.

It didn’t always happen.

It didn’t always happen straight away.

But eventually a lot of these so called sinners extracted themselves from my life of their own volition, and I am no longer in touch with them.

Because no one likes to face harsh truths about themselves.

funny-canvas-empty-Bob-Ross

This was especially applicable when it came to my love life.

But they deserved it for making me feel shit about myself!

Didn’t they?

This kind of reaction, according to my shrink is ‘angry child’, a maladaptive coping mode that i reach for in order to avoid ‘vulnerable child’ the most painful state of being of all.

In other words, anger is my default, and unless I learn to feel what’s really going on for me, find away of comforting myself in that fug of unbearable, powerless pain, instead of reaching for my metaphorical uzi, I’m never going to be able to adapt to this world, and find my authentic self and my place in life.

And guess what coping mode we’re doing in group right now?!

Awful, awful, awful….but I must and will grit my teeth and work through it.

I hated and still hate people who play the guilt card; including myself. ¬†But I’m trying to catch and make myself put down that weapon¬†before doing irreparable damage to others, and inadvertantly, myself.

it’s not easy though, as I’m so very good at it.

Yes, like the song says I’m G-U-I-L-T – WHY, and housed in a prison of my own making.

But I’m working on my parole. ¬†Honest.

Shit.  Why is life so fucking hard?

Namaste all x


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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.

25C60F2A00000578-0-image-a-3_1424207762664

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