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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ALL IN ALL YOU’RE JUST A…

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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?

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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  I’m still me, I  haven’t been cured overnight from moving north of Watford Gap, and, of course, my old worries have been replaced by new ones.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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Daily Prompt: – What Jones’?!

‘Tell us about the one luxury item you wish you could afford, in as much detail as you can. Paint a picture for us.’

So. Given that this is my first proper post of 2016, and taking into account the agony of being in property buy/sell chain HELL right now, this is my little luxury item:

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Yup.

A house.  On an island.  On a beach.

I did think about waxing lyrical about that much desired Kitchenaid Artisan Mixer that I have lusted after for eons but have never treated myself to, but bollocks to that.

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No one said it had to be a little thing, it’s a  one shot deal and I ain’t messing around here. And the fact that it has already been sold isn’t putting me off none.  This house is mine.

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It was most recently owned by a Lord and Lady Long who were getting on in years, and the steps either side of that swaying 100ft Edwardian bridge were becoming a bit much for them, plus I believe they had problems with some of the more lively locals coming down to the beach after the pubs closed to party, make noise and even aim missiles at their beloved domicile.  Excuse me?!

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Which is why I’d need to also acquire a goodly stretch of that beach, and hire a couple of gnarly, sociopathic, ex SAS security men to keep the riff raff at bay.

Like I say; this ain’t a game to me.  I have had enough of the worst of humanity and those local wankers will do well to keep out of my way.  Plus I would have no neighbours whatsoever, so no need to keep up with anyone.  Jones who?

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I’ve always fantasised about living in a lighthouse, and essentially you get the same kind of views with this place, plus that aforementioned private bridge, so it will be a bit easier than having to board a dingy when you have to nip to the local Tesco for a pint of milk and some cat food.

Prior to the Longs, my house used to be a holiday let and here for your delectation is some of the Conde Nast marketing preamble regarding it’s many charms:

“Overhauling the place was an eight-month job. It has been transformed, decorated in all shades of seagull, white and greys; and has the feel of an airy beach house with natural wood and white-painted floorboards and four-poster beds swathed in muslin. Furniture is coastal-contemporary: egg chairs, ticking-stripes upholstery, molded dining chairs that emulate the outlines of driftwood. There’s also a bar room with a bar and a billiards table in it.

 But it’s the location that’s the thrill, nesting like birds on a clifftop. At high tide the island becomes surrounded by water, cut off from the mainland entirely. The only way up is to climb the steep steps which are cut into the rock face and flanked by hollyhocks, and cross the arc of the suspension bridge (like a mini Golden Gate). High-maintenance guests can pay a little extra for a couple of strapping young men to lug their luggage up.”
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Are there any sweeter words to me in the English language at this time.
And FYI, I mean the words ‘cut off’ and not ‘strapping young men’ thank you very much. 🙂

Apart from the words ‘exchanged’ and ‘completed’ I think not.  Because buying and selling simultaneously in the UK (except for Scotland) is one of the most financially risky, precarious, nerve wracking things you will ever have to do.  And if you have an anxiety issues like I do, it’s essentially the like cyanide icing on the strychnine cake that you never ordered in the first place.

Cut off.

Do I strike you as being a mite anti social right now?

Damn fucking right.

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So no one can come in unless you specifically allow them access.  Plus in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I would retract my bridge and those suckers can growl and snarl and hurl themselves against the rocks and pound themselves to hamburger, whilst I take pot shots at them with an air rifle and binge watch DVD’s, sipping wine from my cellar and slurping oysters from the shell as I watch the sun go down over the sea and wait for the military to arrive.  Sigh.

Back in the real world I’ll be lucky if I don’t have my flat repossessed and end up in my mate’s wonky old caravan with two wailing cats and a pile of possessions that I can’t afford to store.

So, given that beggars can’t be choosers, and if this is a little too big an ask, I’d be more than happy with the mixer.

Please?

Pretty Please?

 


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2016 – The Year Of ? (Make Plans, God Laughs)

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Is it that time again already?

Yes folks, it’s the start of yet another 365 days on planet earth and I’m still here.

The good news is I’m nearly 24 hours into it and nothing horrible or stupid or disastrous has happened yet 🙂

That said I have been wrapped up in a Christmas/New Year comfort blanket where normal people take a break from their jobs over the holiday so I am forced to put all the stressful shit on hold until they are back in the office on Monday.  Not that I haven’t taken full advantage and put everything gratefully on the back burner, but I am more than aware of the rather urgent pending challenges that await me this month.  On Monday to be precise.

But, so far, 2016 has been OK!  Only another 8736 hours or so to get through  😦

This year, dear readers (if I still have any) you will find me an older, sadder and wiser Sista and therefore I’m not going to be giving 2016 a name, positive motivational theme, or even to go through specific resolutions.

It’s not that I don’t have any; it’s just that my lofty aims and ambitions can so easily fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces.  And then I read back my previous posts and feel like a total arse, hence my long periods of absence on here in 2015.

Another reason is that not a lot has changed in the last year.  I’m still not working full time.  I’m not fit.  I’m older and fatter.  I’ve left my group therapy.

And I’m more frightened than ever.

But I think I’m softer, kinder, less abrasive, I’m taking less medication and, like I said in my last post, changes are afoot whether I like it or not.  The Universe has ran out of patience with me, and as on previous occasions is winkling me out of my hidey hole an propelling me bodily out into the great unknown.

This, my friends, will happen in some way shape or form, so I have no need of a specific resolution.  I have to pull down my oxygen mask, assume the crash position, and kiss my ass goodbye just in case I don’t survive the landing.

Getting past this stage is the only resolution I can deal with right now, such is it’s magnitude, stress inducing propensity and urgency.

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Once I’ve done that it’s more about setting up a new life for myself and not, I repeat, not hiding away in my little cottage and getting pelted with rotten fruit by the village children who proclaim me resident witch.

Which is massive, as I managed to be a recluse for most of 2015 in London, so the temptation to tuck myself away and fester will be enormous.

Enter Aunty C (my counsellor and literally my life saver) who promises to manage me from the 200 odd mile distance and pep talk me over Skype for as long as I need her.

Leaving the few friends I have is a terrifying prospect, but my gut tells me that my London days are over and my future lies elsewhere, so it will be interesting to see where and how I am doing in 12 months time.  If I was going to theme 2016 I would hazard a guess that the word ‘Changes’ would be most relevant.

But, I reiterate, I make no resolutions or promises this time. I’ve let both you lot and myself down too many times for that.

In the meantime I wish you all an amazing 2016 and hope that it’s a good one.

Namaste bitches

SS x

 

 


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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.

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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.

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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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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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SONGS OF ANGER 2 – WHAT IS IT ABOUT MEN – Amy Winehouse #bullying #intimidation

Having spent the last hour on Twitter ranting furiously at people bemoaning the sacking of (ex) BBC bully Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson, I realised that something had been triggered for me personality, so decided to take a deep breath, make a soothing mug of tea and figure out what was really bothering me.

So there I was cuppa in hand, pondering my emotions carefully and it turns out that…

…nope.

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It’s definitely Clarkson.

Theres nothing I hate more than a bully.  Especially in the workplace.  In a position of authority.

As I was at the mercy of one of them for about 3 years.

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Plus, it’s a shame I didn’t know that punching someone out in the workplace was OK, as I’d have had a field day on my exit interview 😉

Then this song came to mind, Amy Winehouse’s sublime ‘What is it about Men?’.

More to the point, what is it about me and men?

This might sound like an obvious thing to say, but I’m not good with shouty, violent, threatening men.  Right, so I don’t suppose anyone is, but my reaction tends to be different to most people’s when confronted by them.

Instead of being afraid and cautious around them, I want to get in their face and scream at them.  Mainly I suspect it’s because I was too small, weak and vulnerable to defend myself properly when I was a kid.  it’s put me in danger a number of times, but when the volcanic rage erupts I don’t tend to care about the consequences.

Sertraline helps. Thank God.

Something else added fuel to the fire the other day, and whilst I didn’t think it affected me at the time, I suspect I’m pretty tense about it now.

To cut a long story short, the other day in group therapy, one of the guys pulled out a knife.

Shocking, I know. That said, I immediately recognised that he was doing it for attention.  Whilst always very needy and attention seeking, he is generally good natured, but this time I sensed his moodiness and resentment when we all were sat in reception waiting to be picked up by our shrink.

Anyway, this guy drinks green tea (or something suspiciously murky anyway) and always adds a slice of fresh lemon to his brew whilst we’re getting settled, but to date a knife has never emerged.  The other day however, he rather theatrically took out an entire fruit, produced a serrated paring knife and proceeded to carve a slice mid air, smirking arrogantly whilst doing so.

A couple of the younger girls looked pretty unnerved, as they have also been abused in the past, and, by all accounts this guy once killed someone, but I was never going to give him the satisfaction of showing any kind of reaction whatsoever.

My suspicions that it was all for show were confirmed because even when he had his segment, he kept it out and at one stage even held it between his teeth.

The shrinks froze.

I glanced at him in derision.

What the fuck are you doing?’ I asked, ‘you look like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean.’

He grinned knowingly ‘Ah sorry about that!  I just have to have lemon in my tea!  I wasn’t about to go on a, um, another killing spree…’

‘Well if you are, feel free to start with me.’

He then put it away and we continued with the session, but every now and then he’d punctuate the conversation with some aggressive aside or comment.

Afterwards the girls were concerned, as he has kicked off in therapy before (never in front of me) but I tried to reassure them.

‘Don’t worry, it’s all for effect’ i soothed, ‘he’s just trying to get attention.’

But over the last few days, I’ve become more and more angry about it, and I just know I’m going to confront him next session.

When I started group therapy, I was under the impression that all the participants were female, so when i turned up for the first session and saw two men sat there, I was not comfortable.

Don’t get me wrong.  I get on with blokes very well socially and as friends.  I’m just not good at showing any vulnerability in front of them.  But I gritted my teeth and got on with it.

And now, six months later, one guy has issues with me, and gives me sly little passive aggressive digs because I don’t want to have contact with him outside the sessions (something the girls have no problem with).  And now this little turd thinks he can bully us into indulging his demands for friendship and love, facilitate his excessive neediness by tolerating the the long, boring, droning monologues that he foists on the group.

And more and more, I feel that I can share less and less because of the male presence.

It’s not like I didn’t try, but me, men and trust go together like lemons, salt and paper cuts.

I could let this slide, of course.

I could accentuate the positive as another song goes.  Make lemons into lemonade and try and give him the attention he so craves.

But right now I’m more inclined to stick those lemons in the freezer, and when they’re hard, take them out and peg them at his stupid, smirking fizzog next time he pulls a stunt like that.

I hoped it might do me good to work with both sexes, but it’s honestly not working out that way.

How the hell am I supposed to build solid bridges with my male family?  Accept authority from a male boss?

Let a man access my body, and more frightening still, my heart again?

I know I have to speak up, but if I do I’m going to try and address it with integrity but there is no point of me attending these session if they’re making me worse.

It’s a lonely place without intimacy with beings that make up half the population.

Men, I miss you; do you think we can work this out?

‘It’s bricked up in my head, it’s shoved under my bed
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?
My protective side has grown a mile wide
And I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?

What is it about men?

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DAILY POST – WHOA! – GET THEE BEHIND ME SANE MAN

What’s the most surreal experience you’ve ever had?

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I don’t want to sound like I think myself ‘special’ or gifted, but I’ve had such a weird old life to date, that to be honest, the norm tends to freak me out more than ‘Whoa!’ encounters.

I’ve seen and interacted with ghosts, witnessed a proper miracle, read fortunes, seen into the future, and felt so many incidents of deja vu, I swear God’s trying to fuck with me and having a right good laugh to boot.

I’ve even had a poltergeist tamper with my toiletries in my flat share bedroom (the door was locked whilst I was out so there was no way it could have been anyone else) in the form of inverting them with the tops off so that I had to let the contents splurt out onto my dressing table in order to put them back again.

But even then, I shrugged and thought ‘How annoying, must have been a man’ before cleaning up the mess and going downstair to watch TV, so nothing much phases me really.

Until this one night, when I believed that I encountered evil.

At least that’s how it felt to me.

I was working in a bar of a gentleman’s club in the West End at the time, and believe me, all kinds came in.  Actors, politicians, gangsters, triads, businessmen, footballers, drug dealers, gamblers and of course, other hospitality workers, but none of them cracked my composure.

On the surface I was a hard faced, aloof, bleach blonde bitch and everyone, whatever their status, was treated the same, with anything from professional politeness and a bit of banter if I really liked them, to cold, scathing dismissal if they behaved like twats.

Underneath this veneer I was a seething mass of contradictions, tempered by an undiagnosed personality disorder, an unpredictable temper, and a dogged fear of any kind of personal intimacy.  This was the ’80’s and being mentally ill was not something you ever shared with anyone.  There was none of this, transparency, new millennium empathy (well on the surface any hoo) and willingness to understand.  Oh no, if you were fucked up, you kept it to yourself, which is why I ended up thinking I was the only one who felt that way for years, so on went the suit of armour whenever I left my room and interacted with the normal everyday folk.

Back to the story.

So one night, in walks this guy.

A perfectly normal looking man.

Not handsome, but not ugly.  About average height and weight, smartly dressed, wearing good shoes and a nice watch.

Not a loner like some of them.  He was accompanied by a bunch of relatively respectable looking buddies.

Not drunk, or gobbing off and being obnoxious, like some of the hard men, or the famous, giving it ‘Do you know who I am?’.

The perfect customer really.

So as he approached the bar, I stepped up to serve him.

And that’s when I realised that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Because as his eyes fixed on mine, he smiled and I immediately felt uneasy as my gut started to churn.

‘Hello darling, how are you tonight?’

Confused at my body’s deeply visceral reaction, I managed a shaky smile.

‘I’m well thank you sir, how are you?’

The smile broadened, and the eyes twinkled with some kind of malign glee.

‘Very well indeed love!  And I must say you’re looking beautiful tonight!’

Not pervy.  Not an inappropriate thing to say at all.  It was a bit cheesy though, and in normal circumstances, I may have come back with some sarcastic/humorous retort, or a cold, impassive stare, depending on my mood.

But hell, no.  I was not going to fuck with this guy.  No way.  No how.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say so.’

My manager, Tony who just happened to be passing, overheard, and flicked me a puzzled glance, recognising that this was not my usual M.O.

The smile broadened even more.

Now I really had his attention, and all I could do was hope and pray that he would take it away, and I could feel a trickle of sweat run down my back.

He chuckled

He knew.  I swear to God he knew.  I immediately dipped my eyes away from his scrutiny.

What the fuck was wrong with me?  Get a grip and serve the man Sista, do you want everyone to know what a crazy, paranoid headcase you really are?

And there we were, the sane man, the crazy woman exchanging pleasantries as the rest of the staff and clientele acted like nothing was amiss at all.

But it was.  It was.

I cleared my throat and willed myself to look up.

‘Anyway, what can I get you?’

How can one face contain so much knowing?  He knew that I knew, and also that I knew that he knew that I knew.

That sounds like some kind of old Radio 4 comic skit I know, but this was not in anyway funny at all.

And he wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

‘Oh I’m not sure actually’ says he cocking his head to one side, ‘what drink would you recommend for me?’

He also knew me.  He could see me.  I don’t know how else to say it.

He saw my fears, my pain, my self loathing, my self destructive ways.  He knew how ugly I was, both inside and out.  He could smell last nights tawdry one night stand on me as surely as if his nose was plunged into my crotch.

The skin on my belly crept with fear and loathing.

He licked his lips casually, enjoying the spectacle of me squirming on the gaff of his attentions.

Then, before I had chance to fashion a reply, my saviour arrived in the form of lovely, lairy, chain smoking Tone who nudged me out of the way, rolled up his sleeves, grinned at the gargoyle in front of me.

‘Time for your break Sista.  Garn, get a wiggle on or you might miss your role model, Sue Ellen on Dallas!’ then winked conspiratorially at him.

‘Come on mate’ responded my tormentor, ‘is that any way to treat a lady?’

As I scurried away from the sound of their raucous guffaws, I knew Tony would be puzzled by my lack of response, but all I could think about was getting as far away as possible from that impossibly sane man.

This was of course coupled with an irresistible urge to turn around and look again, if only to verify that what i’d witnessed was real.  Evil is always fascinating to even the average sane Joe, but thankfully self preservation won out that day, and I made it to the staff room, shakily made myself a strong cup of tea and prayed that he’d be gone when I had to go back.

Because that’s what I believe I saw in that man that night.  Pure unadulterated evil.

The hole in my claim however is that no one else seemed to perceive it.  Not Tony, not his mates, none of the other staff members.  No one.

When, an hour later, I returned to the bar, he was gone.  But Tony was not.

‘What the fuck was that about Sista?  You alright?  ‘ave you got your period?’ he jibed, flicking me on the backside with a soggy bar towel.

Relieved beyond measure, I managed a feeble ‘Yeah, have you got a spare tampon you can let me have?’ whilst he cackled and pretended to look in his pockets, assured in his old school, sexist way that I was OK, and well enough to finish my shift.

But I never forgot that encounter.

And some years later when I read Stephen King’s ‘The Stand’, I immediately recognised a version of him in the character ‘Randolph Flagg’.

I of course, could have been wrong.  Could have been having an off night.  It could have been the manifestation of my own inner turmoil that, for some reason I plastered all over the visage of this very ordinary young man.

But I don’t think so.

And I still evoke it to this day, some 30 years later, prodding it like a tongue nudging a rotten tooth and wonder who he was, and what his role was here on earth.

I guess I’ll never know.  Hell I don’t even know what mine is, let alone his.

I just know that I never want our paths to cross again.

Namaste x

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