Phoenix Fights

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



brick head


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?


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  I’m still me, I  haven’t been cured overnight from moving north of Watford Gap, and, of course, my old worries have been replaced by new ones.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


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






I arranged to go to a party tonight.


I bailed last minute.


I’m lonely and beating myself up over my cowardice….but it would have taken so much effort to mingle with all the strangers.  Like Bernard Black from ‘Black Books’ (see above quote), I seem to be at my happiest when stewing at home in my own misery.

Plus, said the little voice in my head, what’s the point of socialising with these people when you’re not staying anyway?

Earlier in the day I met a friend for coffee.

‘I haven’t seen you for months!’ she squealed causing me to wince at her shrill enthusiasm ‘what have you been up to?’

I can’t remember what I answered.  I think I just lied through my teeth as the real answer was ‘I’m not exactly sure…every day seems like the last….are you 100% sure it’s September?  I could have sworn it was still June!’

And I had to explain my current situation and try and make it sound positive and exciting, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone.

‘So, I need to sell up and if all comes to plan I’ll move to a beautiful clapperboard cottage by the sea….but in all likely hood I’ll end up in the armpit of the UK in an ex council house next door to Mr & Mrs Asbo and their thirteen kids and pack of rabid Dobermans, but hey at least it will be mine!’

Shrieky looked as unsure as I feel.

‘How, erm, exciting, you must keep me posted!’  And scurried off lest my now tangible desperation was contagious, whilst I scurried off in the opposite direction to the safety of my lair.

I’ve always felt like a leaf carried along by the wind.

But never have the currents felt so stormy and unknown.

I’m tired of being that loser who everyone gossips about.

I always start so well, and seem so normal.  But it’s hard to maintain the act when you’re not working, not dating, not travelling and have just gobbled up over two years of your life without making anything of yourself.

It’s then that the penny drops and people realise that underneath your oh so plausible, pleasant veneer is nothing more that that, and that you’re about as substantial as a blow up doll.

How long will I be able to stay in this new place before I have to move on ‘cos I’ve been busted yet again?

Maybe I should just go into full hermit mode and buy a smallholding on the Outer Hebrides and stay at home with the cats and a couple of chickens and live off the land.

Knowing my luck though, fucking Donald Trump would probably rock up, build a whorehouse on top of my hen house, and cut off my water and kick me in the crotch for good measure.  Which would be unadvisable as I’d tear his fucking wig off for him…but I digress….

Bottom line is, I don’t know who I am, where I’m going to go and what I’m going to do.

And I’m so afraid.

I’m trying to be positive, but when you’re Nowhere Woman it’s like trailing your bricks and mortar around the desert, nowhere is safe and it’s not going to work.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK…..