Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….




Yes it’s another fun packed day of Sista moaning about inconsequential shit…

But I have to tell someone otherwise I’ll say something to the person in question.

Which would not be good. 😦

So anyway, I have this ‘friend’ on Facebook.  She’s not really a friend as such but a relative of a close friend of mine.

I can count on one hand the number of times we have met or socialised, and we have very little in common, but that does not stop her tagging me on all of her banal Facebook posts, thus plastering her shit all over my home page.

These posts are getting more and more frequent and can take the form of ‘amusing’ memes, animal videos, photos from events that I did not even attend, and even her friends personal ads selling their old tat, looking for flat mates, their missing hamster etc. etc.


I must hasten to add that this lady is not a horrible person.

I think she’s probably trying to be friendly.

But I cannot lie, this unsolicited, intrusive activity is really starting to get on my tits now.  I’ve even had to amend my settings so I get to sort the wheat from the chaff and approve each tag on a case by case basis.  So now, I get an email every time she tags me on something, which invades on my space even more than before.


I mean, the fucking arrogance of it.

Who does she think she is exactly, plonking her crap all over my real estate?  Which is what your Facebook page is of course, it represents you, your personality, your friends, your likes and preferences, beliefs and principles, NOT those of some tiresome old bint you barely even know.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s like someone coming into your home and plonking a horrible, stained, chintzy sofa into your sitting room, leaving, then all your visitors think you wanted it.  Or someone parking their shitty rust bucket of a car in your drive.


Across two spaces.

Or interrupting you mid sentence.

Or telling you then end of the book you’re reading.

Or even someone writing their pointless drivel in your blog!  In your name!



I am woman, and oh Lord, Emma, you really don’t wanna hear me ROAR right now!

I mean, I don’t even want good friends doing that shit to me.

One of my pals makes really lovely crafts, and every now and then she’ll tag me on her latest creation, and lo an behold, there it is on my page, immediately initiating lots of ‘Oh that’s lovely, did you make it?’s from my friends.

Then I have to reply ‘No I didn’t fricking make it, Jenny did, and she is hanging out for a bit of Sista praise (or just wants to show off), but isn’t patient enough to wait for me to spot it in my feed, so she hauls it onto my page and drops it at my feet like a cat bringing in a dead bird, and is waiting eagerly for a metaphorical scratch behind the ears as we speak!’

Or words to that effect.

Whatever happened to observing peoples boundaries FFS?

I know that I am particularly territorial and like my own space, but honestly some people are just absolutely oblivious.

In a very rare outing to the pub last night, a male acquaintance quite literally sat with his knees pushed up against my thigh, his face inches from mine, arms thrashing and gesticulating wildly like some mad professor.  If I wasn’t quite fond of him, I’d have found a broom and poked him hard in the ribs with it.

I’ve clearly spent to much time in my own company as I am, quite honestly, allergic to my own species nowadays.

Back to Emma.

How do I deal with this situation?  The way I see it, it will be win/lose no matter how hard I try for a mutually beneficial outcome.

If I’m honest with her, she’ll be offended and my close friend will be annoyed at me.

If I don’t say anything, I’ll spontaneously combust and do something very drastic.

Like tagging her on every single thing I upload.

Especially the most profane and offensive stuff as she’s a Christian 🙂

Or I could tag her on porno uploads.


Oh Lord.  I can just see myself doing that after a few drinks one night!

Any ideas anyone?

Namaste x


YOUNG BPD WOMAN (Inspired by Maya Angelou)


Pretty young women think they know my shit

I’m not cute, an old boot, gone down hill quite a bit

But the truth is much more,

Than I’d care to admit

I say

It’s in the storm in my heart,

The voice in my head,

That tells me I’m worthless,

And wish I were dead.

BPD woman


Old BDP woman,

That’s me.

I’d walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to men I would seem

Just a cold hearted tease

But some would still come,

The hunter, the sleaze

I say,

‘Twas the ice in my eyes,

And the curl of my lip,

The putdown, the shutdown,

The jut of my hip

The terror I hid ‘neath the sarcastic quip

I was woman


Cynical woman,

That was me.

Those men themselves wondered

What they saw in me.

They tried so much

But did not touch

My cold dark mystery.

I tried not to show them,

I’d not have them see

I’d say,

‘It was mark of my father,   

The scorn of his son

The fearing, the jeering

At school, from that scum

You think you can touch me?

Well think again, chum’

I’m a woman


Impenetrable woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Why I live alone

No family to love me

No real sense of home

BDP girls when you read this

Please learn from my poem

I’m BPD woman

So solitary

Solitary woman

That’s no way to be

Girl, your enemy is not without, It’s within

Don’t make others suffer

It wasn’t their sin

Try not to reject love

Before it begin

I say…..

Raise your chin, flash a grin

Bathe the world with your smile

For the love of another

Can make life worthwhile

Swing those hips

Shake those tits

For all you are worth

And try to find joy

On this place we call earth

And when demons rise up

All howling en masse

Take shelter and know

That this too shall soon pass

And accept some support

From your woman or man

For to struggle alone

Was not part of God’s plan

I say…

It’s the light in your eyes

The strength in your heart

Your youth and your beauty

That’s only the start

Of all that you are and are willing to be

BDP woman


Phenomenal BDP woman,

That is thee.

Namaste little sistas xxxx




I wake up with the now familiar chemical taste in my mouth, fuzziness of head, and a shortness of breath.

My home for the last week or so has been horrifyingly toxic, thanks to the new carpet I had installed last Friday, and it has been harder still to drag myself out of bed at all, let alone do my morning yoga, as anything that encourages deep breathing will only exacerbate my misery.

If this is God’s idea of flushing me out my burrow, well it hasn’t worked.

Until this morning when I woke up with pins and needles in my left arm and hand.

The first word that came into my head was stroke.

Multiple stroke syndrome.  By far the most horrible, prolonged, miserable exit from this world that I can think of.  And I can, and do, think of a lot of them.

As after seeing my big, strapping six foot warrior of a father, flattened and helpless, thrashing like a newly caught fish, unable to speak, eat, and covered in sores, atrophy and shrivel into a dried up husk of his former self before gasping his last, it has been my worst nightmare when it comes to doing the mortal coil shuffle.

I’d sooner overdose, be struck by lightning, be squashed by a falling crane, have a stake driven through my heart or cark it on the loo like Elvis, anything but that hellish dying minute by minute, hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month with no way of telling anyone what you feel or having any kind of control over your last days on this earth.

Alright, damn You.  I’ll get up and do something.

Feeling like a pawn in a celestial game of chess, where God has picked me up by the ankle and hurled me onto the next square whether I like it or not, with nothing more than a vague curiosity as to whether I’ll survive the game.

I get up, shower and head out of the door without really knowing where I was going or what I was going to do.

Which is why it was even a surprise to me when I found myself at Shagger’s yoga class, with my lungs and body full of toxins, my limbs stiff with misuse and a sudden unexpected bank of vitriol and hate lodged directly under my diaphragm.

I have worked hard at dissipating and dealing with my anger of late, with a lot of success, but suddenly, as if knowing I’m at my weakness, it has returned with a vengeance and is keen to make up for lost time.

I grab a mat and avoid all eyes, setting up my spot as quietly and unobtrusively as I can.

The door opens, and in walks some guy who eyes me furtively, with considerable interest.

I immediately look away, leaving him in no doubt that I had absolutely no desire to connect with him or anyone in any way, shape or form this morning.

His response to this?  To pick up his yoga mat, and put it within centimetres of mine.

I look around me with disbelief.  Whilst the place is filling up fast, there is loads of room and he could have gone anywhere.

I feel pure hatred like a lump in the back of my throat, and close my eyes and lie in shavasana as I try and block him out.

No such luck.  Two minutes later, he drops the sleeve of his New Age poncho on my belly, and as my eyes snap open, his are there to greet them, grinning inanely at his clumsy subterfuge.

‘Whoops, sorry!’ he stage whispers.

Fuck off and die.

I don’t say this out loud, but what I do do is totally ignore him, just catching his look of disgruntlement as I remove flick the offending garment off me and close my eyes again, intent on spiritual oblivion.

Two minutes later.

‘Excuse me?  I think you’re going to have to move over a bit.’

I stare at him with undisguised venom.

‘If I move my mat over any further my arm is going to keep hitting the wall?’ I retort icily.

‘That’s why we “stagger” them!’ he chortles in response, looking for an audience to share his ‘joke’ with.

Walls don’t “stagger” to accommodate people, you tosspot, they’re inanimate and made of concrete!

Ignore him Sista, ignore him.

‘Ummm, huuh, uuummmm, huuuh…’

Oh God, a fucking breather right in front of me, doing everything she can to catch my eye, presumably craving my admiration.  Perve to my right, wanker straight ahead, what’s behind me, a fucking huge, rusty spike?

Then the class begins.

And everything hurts.

My back.

My muscles.

My lungs.

My head.

My anger ravaged soul.

I have absolutely no idea where all this fury is coming from.

I work through the class with grim determination, pausing when I know a move is too much for me, ignoring the trembling, determined limbs of my fellow yogis.

And when the tediously, predictably jutting crotch of my teacher is dead level with my eyes as he pulls my arms parallel to the floor, I avert them and catch sight of the bright russet leaves of the great oak through the window, rustling in the wind against the bright blue sky, and words spill from my psyche into the air around me.

Oh God, I have never believed in you more or liked you less.

I don’t want to be here.

I hate this body, this ageing, creaking, pissing, sweating, shitting lump of bones and meat where you have trapped me.

And right now, right in this moment, I hate you too.

You watch me from your throne, like a half squashed flies thrashing miserably in the dust, and you are INDIFFERENT to my agony.

Well, screw you.

Then unbelievably, someone’s hand brushes my arse.

Baldy pervert man.  Of course.

How I don’t turn around and bawl my outrage in his stupid, simpering, butter bean face and hurl him bodily across the room, I’ll never know.  I can only tell myself it was an accident, and anyway, if I twat him, someone will call the police.

I know I’ve been here before.

I don’t want to be here.

And I certainly don’t want to come back.

And as I go into shoulder stand, I feel not energy, not relaxation, not peace, but poison, masquerading as blood, streaming through my veins and plumping my heart.

I just want to GO.

Then as I drop to plank, I feel the hands of Shagger, and brace myself for further outrage.  But to my surprise, he did not grope or invade my space, but deftly, gently, with great kindness, pressed my screaming limbs into a better position and I stared ahead with grim determination, fighting the sudden urge to cry, and prayed for it to end before I made an utter fool of myself.  

And when it does?

I walk away, still black with pollution and wondering who, what the hell I am.

One book, ‘The Exorcist’ I think, muses on the theory that we are all fragments of the fallen angel, journeying inch by inch, dragged by an unseen force over rocks, stones, land and sea to the inevitable reunion with the Almighty.

I can buy into that.

It’s just so hard when it takes oh so long.




Yes folks, I’ve committed to writing a 50,000 word novel in a month.

I know!

Gulp.  I can barely tear myself from the TV to write my blog most days, and I LOVE doing this, oh God, what have I done?

Also if I enter into the true spirit of this and literally start something from scratch, I have no idea what I’m going to write about.

AND 15 hours of Day One have already elapsed!

Still, me being me, there is no way I’d ever do it without something like this, and it will keep my mind wandering in and out of paranoid, panicky hell, so I can only do my best.

Need to earn money NOW, a new company to set up, yoga to do, baking to bake, blogs to blog and stories to fake, how did I get so busy?

This was never part of the plan; when WILL I get time to watch ‘Real Housewives’ and ‘Strictly’?

Let’s hope whatever I produce is out of this world…..

Sorry, that was lame, let me assure you that no matter how much time I have to dedicate to this novel, I won’t write shit like that for you ever again!

Wish me luck xx




So…I didn’t get the abuse helpline job.

As you can imagine, I was pretty disappointed, so I asked for some feedback.

You can guess what they said can’t you?

Yup, that’s right, they were concerned as to whether I would be able to cope with such calls, given that I suffer from depression.

And I understand, I really do.  I even hesitated to be up front with them about it, but thought I should be honest and forthright given the nature of the role.

It….well….it just seemed so right for me somehow.  I have so much love and help to give, and I don’t want to die with it all still lodged here untapped inside me, so if I can stop others  from letting pain, anger and fear blight their lives, I want to find a way to do it.

But maybe emotional intelligence, experience of the same kind of abuse and the desire to help really isn’t enough in this instance.  I know the person interviewing me liked me, so I just have to believe and trust that she’s turning me down for my own good.

So much for ‘Ta da!’.  Not a happy wabbit right now.  😦

The question is, moving forward, when it comes to other interviews, both as a volunteer and/or for paid work, should I be as ‘me’ as I was last time?

In other words, should I always be up front about my condition if/when appropriate or necessary?

If I was going back into a corporate environment (that’s a ‘Hell-to-the-No!’ as things stand, by the way) there is no way I’d ‘expose my child’, as Aunty C would say, to anyone in that world again under any circumstances, but I have another volunteer opportunity coming up (which isn’t anything like as heavy as the one I’ve been turned down for) and if asked, should I be transparent with them?

Fellow fruitcakes who follow this blog (and you know that I use this term as a compliment and with love), what do you think?  What have you done in the past, and what would you do in my position right now?

In the meantime, there are far worse things happening in the world than my little disappointment, plus there is a big slice of plum crumble cake with my name on it, which I’ll have with a big mug of tea, which is far better than 70cl of neat gin, doncha think? 😉

Let’s hope God has something else in store for me with regard to my making a difference in this world…..

Namaste x

P.S.  BTW I’m keeping the TK Maxx shopping, OK?!




No moving forward

No going back

My mind is on the same old track

Not knowing what the day may bring

I’m a twisty, turny, squirmy thing


Too tired to move

Too restless to sit

Full to the brim

With frustration and shit

Wish I could sleep and wake in Spring

But no rest in a nest for this squirmy thing


My foot it flicks

I stretch and groan

What dwells within me is not my own

And it does not like the waiting game

This Tardis within my tiny frame


I wish I could say

I wish I could do

The thing that it so seems to want me to

But I still don’t know how to turn it loose

So jiggle and wiggle at it’s abuse


‘Let me out!’ it says

‘Just let me BE!’

But I just cannot seem to find the damn key

So I shift, and twitch, and flail and fling

And curse at this wormy, squirmy thing


No food will nourish

No drink with sate

No drug will quell this anxious state

It won’t be defeated or overthown

It will not leave me the hell alone


I’m trying God

My heart’s aflame

With stuff I cannot even name

How am I s’posed to let it be

When I know not what it wants from me?


Give me a clue

Show me the way

As I can’t face yet another day

And some direction, please do bring

This twisty, turny, squirmy thing


No moving forward

No going back

My mind is on the same old track

Now wondering what my God may bring

I’m a twisty, turny, squirmy thing




Today, I didn’t wake up till 9am and immediately groaned at the thought of the postman laughing/grimacing/raising his eyebrows at me for looking a state yet again.

And then I remembered.  I’m not expecting any more parcels.  And instead of feeling relieved that I wouldn’t face this daily, ritual humiliation, I felt a goose walk over my grave.

If you have no reason whatsoever, no matter how feeble, to get out of bed in the morning, that poses a big question.  What is the fucking point of you? Even the cats weren’t keening for their breakfast or crapping in their tray.  So not only was the world outside existing perfectly well without me, it could no longer be bothered to intercept my little world within these four walls for even a couple of minutes anymore.

How long can I keep going like this?  As much as I hate my self imposed prison, I don’t want to leave it.  Money is running out, the thought of re-entering the rat race fills me with horror and all of my dreams seem like fantasy, a stupid, nonsensical waste of time.  Who is going to buy silly little fripperies in this financial climate?  Who will trust me to heal them and tap into their hidden powers when I can’t even fix myself?  Who will want to be taught yoga by someone who can barely be bothered to trundle from room to room, let alone go into the lotus position or downward dog?   Who will love me if I can’t love myself?  Who would choose to be counselled by someone whose life, in every aspect that counts, is a failure? Thou hypocrite.

I’m trapped by my own innate talent for abandoning anything I love, sabotaging any progress I make and allowing myself to sink into quicksand whilst simultaneously making excuses and refusing to grab at any branch poking across the abyss and pull myself ashore. 

I don’t know whether it’s laziness, fear of failure, my condition or a total lack of interest in this world that makes me want to avoid, rubbish, scupper, ignore anything and everything that could help me evolve in any capacity whatsoever.

Aunty C is not impressed; she tells me that my child is running riot, and essentially, the bad parent has taken over from the good parent, tied her up, stuffed her in the airing cupboard, and is sat watching porn and smoking weed whilst my little shit gorges on Smarties, shaves the dog and stays up watching MTV and horror movies till her eyes bleed.

I know I’m being facetious here, and she’s right, I know that I am not exercising any discipline over myself (the child), and I’m treating my body, intellect and emotional needs with total indifference, but these ‘parents’ she refers to do not exist, and it’s hard morph into roles and do the things for myself that in real life, other real human beings might do or indeed, should have done a long, long time ago.  Plus I’m so lethargic and indifferent, I can barely be bothered to feed and wash myself, let alone parent myself.

C thinks it’s my meds; she’s not a fan of sertraline or propranolol, she thinks they sap me and kill my creativity and passion.  Yes, she has a point, but also kills or at least tamps down the very worst of my paranoia, panic attacks and aggression, but apparently she’d prefer me back to my fire breathing warrior-bitch self than this soggy shell of a…..thing.

In an effort to get me off them, she’s recommended St John’s Wort, blue/green algae, the fruit of the bingy bongy tree and something the name of which I can never remember, but it sounds like it comes from the periodic table, but they do NOTHING for me.  Zilch.  Nada.

I’ve been out of work for nearly a year now, and still don’t have a fucking clue what I’m going to do.  And if I have to go back to the corporate world, apply for jobs that I don’t want to do, be put through interview after interview, pretending I’m great, braying about my successes, promising the world, and be made to bang on about where I’ll be in five years time, I will have myself committed, I really will.

I just wish something or someone who has the power would help me or let the quicksand hurry up and do its thing as I no longer have the energy to stay afloat any more.  And a frickin’ weedy fucking branch won’t do, thank you very much; I need a big, brawny, hairy, tattooed arm to drag me to safety, wipe this stuff out of my eyes, encase me in a bear hug and shake me till my teeth rattle.

When the best part of your day is when you go to bed you realise things aren’t getting better.  I stupidly thought that if I escaped the world of business, that I would recover, heal and thrive, but the truth of the matter is, I have yet to escape myself. 

I’m tired of being afraid of something I can’t fight or conquer.