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  I’m still me, I  haven’t been cured overnight from moving north of Watford Gap, and, of course, my old worries have been replaced by new ones.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…

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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

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/whoa/


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REALITY REPLAY

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So, a month has gone, and despite all of my good 2015 intentions, each days rolls into the next, as uneventful as the one before.

Unless a job comes through.

And then I jump to it because (a) I can, (b) I don’t have to reveal anything about myself and (c) it pays.

But, apart from that, it’s generally a more boring version of Groundhog Day.

I still haven’t gone to yoga.  I still haven’t gone to the gym.  I still haven’t put my flat on the market. I haven’t written anything, not even my blog.

I have been reading though, and have just finished a book called ‘Life After Life’ by Kate Atkinson where the protagonist keeps coming back and reliving the same life time and time again, a concept which I found pretty horrifying.

I mean I’m willing, well, resigned to sticking this incarnation out, but coming back?  I mean surely it’s like the Big Brother house?  Once you’re out, you don’t have to go back in?

Or if you do have to come back, can’t you choose another more advantageous person/body to be for your three score years and ten?  For a start, I wouldn’t be a woman.  Fuck that for a game of soldiers.  I didn’t even get to procreate this time.

Or an animal?  I’d happily be some kind of four legged creature, ideally in the wild please?

Or even a different woman?

But to come back as me?  Again and again and again, fucking up left right and centre, until, on my eightieth incarnation I actually nail it? Maybe.

That’s just fucking mean.  Because I know I’m not hitting it out of the ball park this time around.

And I still haven’t really got a plan.

My ad hoc plan is currently living vicariously through the housemates in this year’s Celebrity Big Bro, which is fucked up because (a) it’s shit TV, (b) they’re nearly all even more mental than I am, and (c) I actually found myself arguing with some other freak on Twitter about whether being amused at Perez Hilton’s jibe at Calum Best (‘I’m gonna stick my dick up your ass!) means that I supported rape or not.

Given that I myself was a victim of a real, honest to goodness, pin-you-down-force-cock-in-fanny assault, that rankled somewhat.  Especially as it was an insult not a threat, and big butch Calum would squish effete little Mario like a bug if he even glanced in his direction.

So I found myself arguing online on a Sunday night with a complete stranger over some pitiable, pathetic, narcissistic ‘celebrity’ who neither knew I existed and would probably care even less, and that’s when I realised that I could spend the rest of my life doing this wasting shit, and no one would intervene and save me from myself.  Not only that, but there were more of my kind out there desperately following and emotionally buying into these crappy shows so that they didn’t have to face how pointless and meaningless their own lives are.

So I closed the conversation and stopped watching reality TV.

Oh and I’m eating!  I’m eating loads and turning into a right little butterball, so I now have a goodly layer of fat to protect me, along with my other avoidance and repelling tactics. That should keep the men at bay!

Yes, F-E-A-R is still in da house, peeping nervously from behind the burly, threatening bouncer like frame of my ‘Angry Protector’, whilst his erstwhile brother the ‘Avoidant Protector’ turns on the box, breaks out the boxed sets, shovels cake in my gob, and does everything he can to keep me in the Colditz of my own making.

But unlike those POWs and indeed, unlike those ‘C’ listers in the CBB house, I can actually leave this place if I want to.

And I’d love to round this post off by promising you that I will walk out and stride forth and get involved in my life of my own accord.

But I say every day that tomorrow will  be different, but then tomorrow becomes today and all bets are off.

Plus, if I’m gonna have to come back time and time again, what’s the rush?

It might be Colditz inside but…

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Namaste x


8 Comments

CHEQUE, MATE!

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As promised, I started this year in the spirit of fun, optimism and hope, which was only reinforced by this article by Shakti Sutriasa I read on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/shakti-sutriasa-lcsw-ma/whats-your-one-word-for-2_b_6400994.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000030

Trust.

It almost seemed like an instruction from the universe.

A tall order though, as I am inherently mistrustful of most people, especially men.

Which brings me back to my Cockney admirer from my last post.  Because whilst all the underlying bullshit detectors twitched like a rabbit’s bum whilst he bombarded me with attention and compliments and offers of a lobster dinner at an upmarket restaurant, I did kind of blossom in light of his attention, regardless.

Even when he said the following:

‘Me last bird was a 54 year old ballet instructor.  We broke up because she was insecure abaat me goin’ orf wiv younger women, but I used to say “What would I want wiv ’em, when I got you?”‘

This, as I recall, hung in the air like a the greasy aroma of that morning’s breakfast, and I could not ignore it….

And?  You think I’m also an insecure 54 year old that’s just waiting to be taken advantage of?  Think again Del Boy, think again!

…but I chose to put it on the back burner.  So he likes older women? So he recognises that they can be insecure about dating younger men?  That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s a chancer.

I did make a point though, of telling him that I’m not into relationships right now as I have trust issues and I need to be friends with someone first before I’d even consider going out with them.

And when I wouldn’t give him my mobile number, he seemed genuinely upset, so, soppy me, my heart went out to him, and I allowed him to give me his, then texted him as a friend to see if he was doing any more shifts as he was a lot of fun to work with.

What followed then over the next few days was a torrent of compliments, statements that he couldn’t believe I was single because I was ‘stunning’ and a ‘goddess’, what he would do for me if he were with me at that moment (romantic, not sexual), and repeated requests for me to tell him if I ‘missed’ him or not.

What?  How can I miss someone I don’t even know?

I would answer them with reservation but it seemed as it he wanted me to respond with the same kind of passion.  He also asked me why I was so cautious, which i obviously didn’t disclose.  Duh!!

He also mentioned that he had had a tough, painful life and my antenna jerked madly with alarm.

In an attempt to calm all this down (as it all smacked of bullshit to be honest) I suggested our meeting for a coffee the following afternoon (NYE), as we hadn’t even had a proper conversation and I wanted to get a glimpse of the real person.  This he could not do as he had commitments right into the evening (fair enough), but not long after midnight, I received a text saying more or less the following:

‘Happy new year, if I wuz with u, I’d have bought you champagne, roses and kissed u at midnight.  R U MISSING ME?’

Yup.  And if I had a dick, I’d be Mista not Sista.

All words, no action.  Who said I wanted such grandiose cliched gestures anyway?  I’ve dated men who brought all the smart dinners, expensive presents and plush hotels already and it doesn’t mean shit if they’re not right for you, so even if he was in a position to take me out, I’d be asking for the cheque and paying my own way, as skint as I am, thank you very much mate.

And what am I supposed to be missing exactly?  Cleaning out cupboards at a refuge with you?

I then wished him HNY in a more conservative fashion, hoped he was having fun and told him to carry on partying.

‘Nah, I ain’t partying, I’ve been in all day’

?  I thought you had arrangements?

Hold on Sista, I told myself, stop getting drawn in.  So he’s lying to you. What is he to you anyway?  Why do you give a fuck?

Because, I think, I got a sense of the real person, the wounded, battle scarred, frightened little boy beneath all the bluster and my heart went out to him.

That said, I gently withdrew and have not contacted him for a day or two.

That said, when I was cozied up on the sofa watching a late night movie with my cats last night, I did wonder where he was and what he was doing.  At home with his wife and kids?  Out on the town with his mates?

Or, as I’ve started to suspect of late, lying on a single bed in a hostel, penniless, lonely and desperate?

And would it be such a terrible thing for me to invite him round for supper and watch TV warm and content in a man’s arms for a change?

Well, for me, yes it would.

Because when a friendship starts on a tissue of lies, AND on the assumption that the other person is lesser because of their age and therefore vulnerable and malleable, that sends my self protection system into overdrive, and the inevitable game of relationship chess ensues.

check

And I am nobodies fool, because, like anyone else, i want to be liked and loved for being ME and not just a soft place for some desperado to fall.

So I NEVER lose those games.

Except I do.  Otherwise I wouldn’t have been on my own for so many years.

Trust.

Whilst I like the idea of the ‘golden hammock of God’s love’ very much, I’m not sure whether it’s fully operational here on earth, and picture myself slipping through a large concealed rip in the side and falling flat on my back, bruising my arse and hurting my pride.

Besides, if the universe wanted me to do ‘trust’, why keep sending me shysters who think I’m stupid and want to take the piss out of me?

Or maybe it’s about seeing what I see without getting angry and trusting that my instincts will protect me, and then, only then, might I attract the good guys?

Ooohh….my brain hurts…..too much to think about….

I liked the idea of ‘Try’ for 2015, but that’s too weedy, even for someone as risk adverse as me.  I even brazenly considered the word ‘Dare’.

But both of these require ‘Trust’, which is my biggest bugbear, so i guess the decision has been made for me.

And I’ll stay in touch with Del Boy as a friend if he so wishes, without exposing myself to humiliation or danger, and for once keep the big baby and ditch the bathwater.

TRUST.

My God, what have I done?

Heres to the most challenging year ever.

Namaste x

http://www.decidedifferently.com

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/12/31/2015-the-year-of-get-happy/


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STAY WITH ME/IN THE LOVELY HOUR

It’s been a gruelling couple of weeks, but I’m finally starting to see a bit light at the end of the tunnel.

It just had to get worse before it got better, natch.

In the form of cancelled jobs, a parking ticket, some fucker keying my car (AGAIN), and finally the resulting stress causing my neck and back to seize up and go into lock down, to the extent that I could barely move my head.

The group therapy too, has also been challenge and no doubt is all the better for it.  Nothing hammers home your negative coping behaviours more than seeing them reenacted before your very eyes by strangers in exactly the same position as you.

Urgghh.

So for three days I was locked in a cycle of misery, worry and pain.

Then last night, i made myself go to a carol service with a friend.  Mainly because I couldn’t let her down because she’d treated me to a ticket, but nonetheless I got out of the front door.

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It took place in a beautifully decorated park, with kids, lights, hot chocolate and all the things that make Christmas, and I have admit it was all rather enchanting.  It was also fecking freezing, so when it started to rain (curse you iPhone weather forecast – you SUCK), I got very twitchy cos there’s only one thing worse than being cold and that’s being wet AND cold.

But I didn’t want to let Jenny down.  So I pulled out my knackered old umbrella and stayed with her.

If nothing else it gave me something else to think about than my other aches and pains.  I shivered so much it actually made me feel more alive than I have for some time, in a strange way.   And when we ducked into the pub for mulled wine afterwards, I rediscovered that the biggest joy of going out in the cold is coming back into the warm.  When you stay in all the time like me, this is a bit of a revelation.  Sad, I know!

That said i was glad to get home to a warm flat, put my electric blanket on and go to bed as I was exhausted.

Then some time before dawn I woke up, entirely of my own volition.  And for the first time in MONTHS I was virtually pain free and alert.

Suddenly I heard a happy chirrup and something soft and warm bounced onto my bed.

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My Charlie cat.

Anyone who says that cats don’t love their humans, is totally talking out of their arse, or has never given them love and earned their trust.  Because there in the lonely hour my little Chaz, delighted his mummy was awake at such a God forsaken time, purred and butted and rubbed his little chops all over my hand (nothing says “I love you” more than cat spit) then snuggled up close, turned a few circles, and settled purring into the curve of my tummy, making it a the lovely hour for both of us, and this Sam Smith song immediately sprung to mind.  Well a more positive, feline oriented version at any rate:

‘Stay with me

Right now, you’re all I need

‘Cos this is love, it’s clear to me

Charlie, stay with me’

And I was profoundly grateful to him, and Jen, and to God for finally releasing me from my misery, and I have to say, I was totally happy and content.  If only for that hour.

Because then of course Dexter woke up, tried to nudge Charlie out the way, then they ended up chasing each other round the flat at breakneck speed, then both of them bounced and pounced and yowled at me when I had the audacity to try and get back to sleep.

Kids, hey?

I eventually got up, fed the gruesome twosome, had a bath and went to see my physiotherapist who clicked and cracked and manipulated my poor old bones again, and apart from being a bit fragile and bruised, I felt miles better.

Then the day went on like any other.

I found a great Secret Santa present.  Someone dick parked so close to my motor that I had to get in on the passenger side.  A nice looking man beamed at me in the street.  I forgot to buy milk.  I got dropped from another job.  Someone I haven’t seen for ages sent me a really rude, funny Christmas card.

Ups and downs.

There’ll be more as sure as the sun sets and the moon rises.

God give me the strength to stay with this mind set and deal with whatever the upcoming days bring.

Have a good weekend all x