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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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 ūüôā

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 ¬†ūüė¶

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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ASHES TO PASHES

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I bought something today.

Not food shopping but clothes.

And it wasn‚Äôt second hand, and it wasn‚Äôt discounted.¬† It was full price.¬† And whilst not a flash, ‚Äėlook at me‚Äô, attention getter, it was my style but brighter, made of beautiful fabric and not at all ‚Äėbackground‚Äô.

I allowed myself because I worked my butt off for six gruelling 12-16 hour days on a job that left me changed as a person.

Because, even though it was something that is usually low key where I can stay anonymous, I was somehow miraculously made to feel important.¬† I was actually called ‚Äėimportant‚Äô.¬† As in ‚ÄėNo, sort Sista out first, she‚Äôs important.‚Äô

If this makes me sound pompous, then I’m not telling it right.  Because I’ve never really felt important to anyone, and I know for a fact that no one has ever told me that I am.  And I know it was a throw away comment from a young person who has no doubt forgotten of my existence as we speak.  But somehow, some way, I was dragged out from the shadows and put into a scenario where it was crucial that I attended day after day after day.

You can always tell when this is the case, because instead of receiving computer generated ‚Äėif you can do additional days please tick this box‚Äô emails from the agency, I was getting personal communications saying ‚Äėit would be amazing if you can do Monday‚Äô and ‚ÄėI know you must be tired, but you‚Äôre doing a fantastic job and we really need you to do just one day.‚Äô

I was bumped to the front of queues.  Interacted with the real important folk.  Heard my hero speak to me by name.

And I was totally one hundred percent comfortable with my environment and with what I was being asked to do.

Giddy stuff.  And whilst as a usual rule of thumb I get twitchy after being on a job more than 3 days (because that’s when relationships start to form) with it came a shot in the arm of pure confidence, and with that came a cumulative positive series of side effects.

I became more aware of my behaviour.  I was less spiky.  I made new friends.  I even attracted several members of the opposite sex.

However, on that note, there was one shaky moment when one very pushy guy (who was chatting up all the women) sensed my reticence and instead of backing off, laid siege to me. 

This was a disastrous move on his part because the more people pursue me or try to force me to approve and/or pay attention to them, the harder I try to avoid them, and in the end I was a hair trigger away from punching him in the face and screaming at him to get the fuck out of my aura.

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Why do people do that?  If I get one inkling that someone isn’t into me, I leg it before they do.  But everywhere I turned he was there, feet, inches, centimetres away from me staring anxiously into my eyes, voice at full, deafening volume (for God’s sake someone, pass the remote) and breathing his stinking, full English breakfast miasma into my hair.  At one stage he even laid the full length of his hand creepily onto my hip to make me turn around and face him; I could feel the disgustingly intrusive heat of his palm through the silk of my dress, and how I didn’t break his face right there and then I’ll never know.

But I digress, as typically Sista style, I am giving more attention to that one negative in a veritable ocean of positives.

Because somehow I held my temper, and merely treated him to an icy excoriating glare before being rescued by a fellow female and carted off to play scrabble with less sleazy members of the crowd.

Don’t get me wrong.  I never forgot that this was an enclosed, faux fantasy world, and that the real world was waiting for me outside, with all it’s banal, draining, terrifying challenges, and that within a matter of hours I would be transformed, Cinderella style back to that anonymous, grey drone that everyone ignores, discounts and under estimates again.

And that, dear Reader is what came to pass.¬† I am back home in rags, grovelling around the ashy fireplace, surrounded by many chores.¬† No one is pandering to my needs, clawing for my attention, fluttering around me or calling me ‚Äėimportant‚Äô anymore.

But I feel a change has taken seed and I learned a few lessons which are as follows:

  • You don‚Äôt need to be pushy to be noticed.¬† Really you don‚Äôt. Whether it be pure fluke or that my sang froid was mistaken for confidence, and ‚Äėdon‚Äôt look at me‚Äô attitude to be pure insouciance, I was chosen out of a flock of beautiful, talented, qualified young things to have a key role.
  • If someone really important likes you, others follow suit. Whether this be in a work environment, on social media or in a social situation, people are sheep and will come trotting after you trustingly if the popular folk approve of you and what you do.¬† This can either be extraordinarily, depressingly predictable news or something that can be used as a tool.¬† Sure, don‚Äôt kid yourself that all of these bleating masses are going to become your forever friends but you can potentially cherry pick along the way.
  • If you pretend to do something for long enough, you can almost make it feel real.¬† In other words, fake it till you make it. I had to flirt with some guy for six days, and whilst I was initially at an emotional distance, he was a fun person to work with and a real chemistry grew which almost certainly brought ‚Äėthe boys to the yard‚Äô.¬† Not only that but my libido woke up howling and demanding to be fed. Oh dear….but maybe it‚Äôs about time?¬† Not with him I hasten to add; he‚Äôs attached, hugely popular so categorised as ‚Äėdangerous‚Äô in my book, but maybe just maybe I‚Äôm not destined for the relationship/sexual scrap heap just yet?
  • Contact with the human race gets easier the more you do it.¬† The same principle applies to hiding away so we have a choice.¬† Don‚Äôt get me wrong.¬† I said ‚Äėeasier‚Äô and not ‚Äėeasy‚Äô.¬† I did not find 6 consecutive days surrounded by my fellow homo sapiens easy.¬† There were other people as well as Mr Needy who grated sorely on my nerves, and I find that after about 3 days, people run out of small talk and start asking questions that are difficult for me to answer.¬† Like:
    • ‚ÄėWhat‚Äôs your main job?‚Äô (I don‚Äôt have one.¬† It‚Äôs challenge enough for me to do this)
    • ‚ÄėWhere did you go for your holidays?‚Äô (Holiday?¬† From what?¬† I haven‚Äôt had one for years because I can barely afford to feed myself)
    • ‚ÄėWhat are you doing for Christmas?‚Äô (No idea.¬† My relationship with my family is tenuous and fraught with danger.¬† Two friends have invited me and I‚Äôm going to end up pissing off one or both of ‚Äėem if I accept either invitation.¬† Plus I may even end up on my own in a new house in a new town with 2 stressed out cats and an M&S turkey pizza for one.¬† Ask fucking Santa, as right now, anything might happen)

In other words, you get asked normal questions that apply to normal people.  The kind of questions that could potentially expose me for being the freak that I am.

What do I do in those circumstances?  Lie like I used to?  Make up some kind of creative adaption of the truth.  Avoid answering and turn the question back on them?  I’m not sure. But I can’t let that stop me moving forward.

And I wasn‚Äôt spotted!¬† As the most amusing thing of all was that several people chose to confide in me about others in the group that they suspected to have ‚Äėmental health issues‚Äô.¬† Oh the irony….

So I am trying harder this time.

I’m trying to do all the stuff that I’ve aimed to maintain throughout the life of this blog.  Work out, get out, make myself look attractive, take chances, interact more with people.

Get a life.

I can’t promise you or myself that I won’t stumble and fall again, as the humiliation of failing to successfully climb out of my painful pit of doom during the years that I have been blogging is one of the factors that made me abandon it and stop writing.  The shame.  But I’m trying to scale that slippery scratchy wall once again, and one day I will make it.

As being kinder to myself and others is all part of the plan this time.

As perhaps I don’t have to be a witch to get what I want out of life.

And maybe just maybe I’ll get a snog from my very own Prince (OK, so, maybe some dastardly old¬†uncle¬†is more to my taste)¬†before the year is out. ¬†I can but hope. ¬†I may even don that silk dress again ūüėČ

Namaste x


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BOYS WILL BE BOYS

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You know what they say about old habits dying hard?

Well it’s a cliche for a reason. ¬†And it’s especially hard to challenge them when they’ve been over a half a decade in the making.

As anyone who follows this blog will know¬†that¬†I haven’t always had a great relationship with my family, and you will also understand why.

But of late, my relationship with my brother James is OK.

Distant, even more distant since I’ve been in financial dire straights, but whenever we see one another we’ve managed to have a nice time and while away a couple of hours or so before the other has to go home.

And I’m regularly invited to spend Christmas with him and his family. ¬†Mainly because it’s traditional, and the fact that I’m ‘Aunty Present’ and, until this year, brought lots of goodies for all to enjoy.

But apart from that, my presence isn’t really required. ¬†Oh I’m welcome, in theory, to go spend the weekend with them. ¬†Subject to approval and with the proviso that I might need to entertain myself as they all go about their business, and treat me with about as much interest as the family gerbil (who eventually died of starvation/dehydration, poor thing).

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And if there’s a formal family thing with long lost rellies, I’ll be required to rock up, despite the fact that the venue is about 400 miles away from my home (and 40 from theirs) and that I have to spend a total of 8-9 hours on the motorway, and money (that I haven’t got) to eat at a shit restaurant whose sole USP is the ability to acquire faux fillets made up¬†of re-consituted poultry¬†skin/scrag/ligament mush that has been combined with water and additives, moulded, frozen, defrosted, cooked and presented to the unsuspecting diner as a chicken breast, smothered in some kind of white jizzy goop that itself masquerades as some kind of cheese sauce. With chips of course.

Classy.

Other than that, I am apparently obsolete.  Peripheral.  Forgettable.

And every now and then I’ll see evidence on Facebook or via some other social media platform that he and my cousin and their respective broods have all got together at each others homes or gone on some jolly outing or other without inviting me.

And it hurts.

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When we were kids, my brother hated me (and in turn I hated him back), and turned to our cousin (who lived walking distance away) for succour and companionship which is probably one of the reasons that I’m the fuck up of the family and he isn’t. ¬†Because even though our shared childhood was not the best, our mother loved him and he had Jack, so he was never alone. ¬†Being the same sex, there’s was a natural bond, as was the habit of turning on me, an obvious target, to mock, jeer at, and pick fights¬†with.

Me?  I had no one, not even a best friend once I turned geek, and I have forever felt like I am on the outside looking in.

And neither Jack nor James were ever encouraged to include or be kind to me.

They were lads. ¬†And lads didn’t play with girls oop North, so they were let off the hook so to speak.

And as we came into our teens, and I strived to find some¬†tribe to fit in with¬†(be it mod, punk, new romantic), this was an endless source of amusement for this smug twosome, who, yes you’ve guessed it, went to uni, found a lovely inclusive¬†brainbox peer group to join, and more life long friends to bolster their egos and emotional security.

I however flitted from one incarnation to another, and do so to this day.

Because I have no real clue who I am.

Over the¬†years, I did form something of a relationship with my cousin, and once upon a time you could have called us ‘close’ as he would tell me things he couldn’t share with Jack, but when my brother and I fell out for 3 years, I was left in no doubt where I was in the family hierarchy.

No I couldn’t come for Christmas, Easter or Bank Holiday. ¬†What were my motives? ¬†Was I doing this to wind up Jack?

They could see me in March, some random weekend or a cold wet day in January; wouldn’t that be special?

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And after Jack and I eventually made up, I was no longer the black sheep of the family hence James welcomed back into the fold and was invited to everything!

Hurray!

Except I was indignant, bruised and in no mood to be humoured.

Nowadays everything has gone back to normal and I’m back on the outside looking in. ¬†And today I made one last try to connect with my family, find out when the next big hoo ha would be, and get myself invited to it via my sister in law.

She sounded defensive and perplexed.

‘Why do you ask? ¬†When? ¬†What are you thinking? ¬†Here, Jack’s, yours, somewhere in the middle?’

(In other words ‘What do you want¬†from us exactly? Anyone¬†would think you were family or¬†something!’)

‘I honestly don’t mind Jen, I just thought it would be nice for us to all catch up sometime.’

‘Well Jack and James have just been away, we’re off doing something else Easter with my sister (oh the irony), then I’m back at work, Jack is blah blah blah……….but maybe we’ll catch up in August 2020 when I¬†might be in London?’

Hey ho.  After over half a decade of being second tier, why did I ever think it might change?

It would be easier to get Clark Kent and Superman in the same room at one time.

I get it. ¬†i genuinely do. ¬†Spending time together¬†for them comes naturally. ¬†They’re more brothers than Jack and I were ever siblings. They both have kids. ¬†They live quite close to one another. ¬†Lots of their get togethers are probably arranged quite spontaneously.

I, however, take effort. ¬†Not to mention that fact that I’m a little….

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….and unpredictable nowadays. What if I rained on their lovely fraternal parade?

As for the bullying, I suppose kids are kids, and they didn’t know how damaging an effect their behaviour would have on me.

Boys will be boys.

And lets face it they weren’t the only ones who picked on me. ¬†Once you’re being victimised it’s like you send out a high pitch signal that unleashes the dogs of war onto you. ¬†It’s like those bastards can sniff the vulnerable out and let rip knowing you will take their shit.

To this day though, any word or story of bullying is guaranteed to get my hackles up.

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In a recent episode of ‘The Gift’ one man, Jon, who bullied and beat up on another boy, Simon, at school for 10 years, suddenly got guilt pangs and sought him out via the show to apologise, wanting forgiveness.

90% of the British public were touched by his efforts and sniffled sentimentally into a Kleenex.

The other 10% (yes, me included) wanted his blood.

I’m sorry but who the actual fuck did he think he was to seek Simon out demanding forgiveness? ¬†What brought on this sudden retrospective stab of conscience? ¬†Why should he be made to feel better about his vile behaviour?

Miraculously though, when they finally came face to face on a pier, Simon (a big bruiser of a man nowadays) to my huge disappointment, didn’t smash him in the face, pick him up by the scruff of his neck, shake him like a rag doll and throw him into the sea.

He forgave him.

Jon, you are lucky it wasn’t me you sought pardon from as I’d have kicked you so hard that your balls would be jostling for position alongside your tonsils to this very day.

<sigh…>

I have such a long way to go.

Have I forgiven my tormentors, including John and Jack?  I thought I had.  But clearly it goes so much deeper than that.  And maybe they sense this.

Time to stop misting up that window and pawing at that door.

It was never my place to begin with.

Aunty C and the shrinks are right.  My sense of home and belonging has to start with me.

Back to the drawing board.

Namaste x

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b053kxhs


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“EVERY DAY TAKES FIGURING OUT ALL OVER AGAIN HOW TO F*CKING LIVE” – Calamity Jane, ‘Deadwood’

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‚ÄúI pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.‚ÄĚ

Hi all.

Yes (those of you who know me) I’m still here. ¬†Kinda. ¬†Hanging on by my fingertips actually.

But here.

For those of you who don’t, a very brief potted history:

2012-doomsday

Walked out/sacked from my job after being bullied by my boss after confiding in him about my depression.  It was 18 months of hell, but fought my corner, negotiated a pay off them promptly collapsed into what one might call a breakdown.

2013

Launched¬†‘Phoenix Flights’ on the stroke of midnight New Year‚Äôs eve 2012 as a way to vent creatively, work through my aims and complete recovery (scheduled for December 31¬†2013) sharing with y’all what I did and how I conquered all my demons and why I am such a huge success today, with my great career as an author, my cottage by the sea, clan of like minded friends who adore me, first class travel to exotic locations, loving partner, wrinkle free skin, hair that doesn’t need blow drying anymore etc, etc.

<ahem>

Yes, I was that naive.  I knew I had problems, but it was because of the environment, the stress, backstabbers, etc. and now I was away from all that, I truly believed would discover my inner being, find peace and true meaning and direction for my life.

Until I was diagnosed with EUPD (border line personality disorder by any other name) in December, just in time to wreck my  Christmas, thus squishing my plans for a celebratory New Years Eve party (hah!) but also confirming why I was the way I was.

Bottom line, I could not deny that so much of it rang true.

Ho, ho, fucking ho…

New Year 2014

So¬†another older but wiser Sister signed on ‘Blogging for Mental Health 2014’ as ‘Phoenix FIGHTS’, but made another stoopid mistake by veering wildly in the opposite direction.

Instead of believing that I could do mastermind my own recovery all by myself, I decided that I was too sick to cope on my own, regressed somewhat and resigned myself to the care of group therapy with a couple of eminent psychiatrists who would fix me, and then I would sally forth into the great unknown in a couple of years time and have that great life, with the great career, state of the art beach house, nose job, great friends, blah blah.

And given that the therapy would be on two midweek days, there was no point in me getting a real job.   No, I would just saunter on, in the sure and certain knowledge that this time i was on the right path, and for that reason God would supply me with a delightful array of part time job opportunities to finance me through these lean times, and all would be well in the end.

So I waited anxiously for news of when my therapy would begin and my life could begin again.

And waited.  And waited.

And waited  Month after month after month.

After lot of questions, form filling and preparation, we started in Winter 2015.

So my life had pretty much been on hold for 75% of the year during which time, my money had run out, I lost more friends because I could not afford to socialise, became even less employable, and I finished the year even older and wiser than ever.

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I say wiser.

But to be honest, I still don’t really have any answers for you and I’d be doing both of us a disservice to pretend that I do anymore.

In a lot of ways I’m very much worse off than I was prior to that fateful summers day in 2012 when I walked out on the life that I knew for the last half century.

Was I right to wait for the therapy?  Probably.  But not to rely on it solely, nor that the gods would provide and support me whilst waiting.

Also the group dynamic¬†isn’t quite what I thought it would be. ¬†I thought it would lessen my loneliness and bring me comfort to be around ‘my people’, but we aren’t all kindred spirits. ¬†Some I like. ¬†Some I don’t. ¬†Some really get on my tits sometimes. ¬†So¬†I keep my distance because, if anything, it’s even more politically fraught than any corporate environment.

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Plus they know too much, so I can’t get close to them, because if they ever used this information to hurt me, there would be hell to pay. ūüėČ

It’s also not an enjoyable process like it is with Aunty C (my previous/current psychologist counsellor), because we have a relationships and rapport, whereas I don’t entirely trust the shrinks or their motives, and sometimes I feel patronised and humoured as they are not¬†at all good at being sincere.

Not to mention I get bored, depressed, irritated and downright amused by the absurdity of the exercises we are given to do on a weekly basis, and it is nigh on impossible some days not to take the piss out of them.

But I soldier on.

What else can I tell you?

Things that help?

The usual.  You know.  All that annoying shit bandied around on memes via Twitter and Facebook.

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Mediation, exercise, good nutrition, lots of sleep, not too much sleep, support, contact, connectivity, mindfulness, creativity dancing, helping others, yoga…

Sigh.

If only we loved ourselves enough to make us do these things for ourselves sometimes, right?!

But on the days I do do them, they are a triumph.

Other pluses?

I am kinder, more tolerant, people seem to warm to me more, I am more patient (most days) and I’m actually learning to understand my fellow man a whole lot better.

But every day is a new day, and most of them i wake up groaning that I’m still here and have to find a reason to stay, let alone get out of bed.

But things can only get better.

They have to. ¬†Don’t they?

My writing has suffered of late because sometimes it feels like I’ve said everything I have to say, and nothing I scribe has any worth anymore.

But this platform has just given me reason to keep going.

Namaste bitches x

http://blogformentalhealth.com/2015/01/30/blog-for-mental-health-2015/


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YOU CAN GO NOW, SISTA… #bpd #depression #cocksuckers

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3 days into Lent, so many aims and ambitions (most being dietary/health related), but I’m taking it it slowly and starting with the main ones (giving up sugar and alcohol) and aiming to add extras as I progress, in order that I can get a life or something.

I’ve also being tasked with writing a positive message to myself every day (a schema¬†therapy activity) and putting it in a pretty box. ¬†To date most haven’t been too inspiring or ambitious (‘Managed not to shriek at benefits people this afternoon – yay me!‘), but today I was proudly able to scrawl ‘I have been to yoga for the first time in 2015′ onto my little pink post-it and pop it into my receptacle.

Progress indeed.

I didn’t like it very much, the yoga class.

It ached, my balance is all fucked up, and even my hands hurt.  And when I went into shoulder stand, all the lard I have cultivated on my belly squidged unattractively into pale sausagey wedges, and I felt a surge of hate and disgust infuse my entire being.

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How revolting it is. ¬†And the more I look at it the more anti veggie/vegan I feel, as let’s face it, at least if someone dines on big slabs of flesh, it’s useful, as unless you really look after your body¬†you end up looking and feeling like a factory farmed heifer. ¬†I was watching some footage from the Meatopia fair this afternoon and I thought ‘Yes, that’s it Sista! ¬†Donate your piggy¬†body to the next festival! ¬†There’s plenty on there for everyone¬†and crackling too!’

My body, for it’s part, is sulking, hence it’s protesting twinges, total inflexibility and generous cultivation of blub. ¬†My fault for not coming out of hibernation, gorging on comfort food, indulging my addiction to expensive hot chocolate and watching back to back DVD boxed sets, not to mention gross neglect on all levels.

That’s what I’ve been doing all this time y’know. ¬†Watching TV. ¬†I can’t really afford to do anything else (yes I know that’s no excuse), and let’s face it, the people who populate HBO TV series have so much more interesting lives than mine.

My current passion is ‘Deadwood’ and I am besotted with the two male leads, anti hero Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock, the latter for rocking a moustache like no other, and very nearly bringing my libido out of it’s coma like state.

Much good that will do me right now, as I wouldn’t wish this blubbery carcass on my worst enemy.

The former¬†however, fascinates me like no other. ¬†His anger, toughness and sharp tongue resonates heavily with me and whilst I don’t go around spitting profanity at all and sundry, I sure as hell used to, and then some.

I’ve just finished Season One, and in the first few episodes, I hated him, but having watched the last episode last night, I saw a different side to the homicidal whore house owner, and it had such an impact on me, I watched it twice and replayed the heartbreaking scene between¬†Al and Reverend Green again and again.

These characters seemed in that uniquely intimate moment, when Al did God’s job for him, the two sides of the same coin; ¬†One world weary and filled with spleen and hate, the other devoted to his Lord and oh so desperate to believe that he was still in his light and his appalling suffering was not in vain.

And when Swearengen tenderly muttered to the dying priest ‘You can go now, brother’, as my throat closed up, I felt a pang like no other. ¬†Whether it was sadness, relief or just sheer envy I know not.

To be sheer conscious and nothing else.  To shed this bag of blood, flesh and bones.  How freeing that must be!

But that scene touched me and stays with me 24 hours later, as did crippled Jewel dancing in her leg brace with Doc Cochran.

And whilst I am in my own gutter, muddled with medications, looking to movie stars and fictional characters for meaning and inspiration, I know that I at least, unlike poor Reverend Green and Jewel, I can get up out of the puddles, stagger to my feet and move on.

It’s a question of wanting to, really. ¬†Maybe I have it too easy. ¬†Maybe you have to be physically fucked up or super angry to¬†give a shit about this world. ¬†But I’m not allowed my anger anymore, as unlike Al, it did not and does not help me succeed in this world.

But I’m still trying to get to my feet and ease on down the road. ¬†In my own feeble, reluctant way.

My home is now on the market, I’m going to try and get back into favour with my body and brain, and hope there is a life worth living ahead of me.

XuR45gt

Once upon a time, my philosophy was not that dissimilar to Al’s, and my anger did push me forward in the world, but in the act of trying to manage that part of my nature via therapy¬†makes¬†me more passive, and drumming up passion and the will to live is now ironically harder than ever.

But the notes box is both beautiful and roomy and I’ve still got lots of paper, and I’m at least inching forward towards¬†my destiny.

Ready once again, to face up to the black hats of the world, and take my pain like a man.  But also to hope, like the Rev.

Namaste Cocksuckers, namaste x


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PITY PARTY TRACK 21 ‚Äď BREATHE ME ‚Äď SIA

I’ve always been a bit obsessed with Six Feet Under.

I own the boxed set and have just finished watching all five series (seasons) for about the third time, and the finale always stays with me for days, hence this song stuck in my head on repeat.

Because I’m also obsessed with death, plus I totally and utterly envy the fictitious, feckless, fucked up Fishers.

Because despite their disputes, down times and dysfunctional behaviour, they are a proper family.

They fuck up¬†time after time, they fall out, make up, make the most appalling choices for themselves, are promiscuous to a man/woman, but they are family. ¬†That creepy house come funeral home with its coach house,¬†dated decor, antiquated kitchen¬†always has room for everybody, with a constant influx of the living and dead alike, and they all ebb and flow like the ocean that features so significantly in the¬†dream sequences, so that it’s almost like a living, breathing entity.

Plus they all seem to have plenty of time to hang around smoking pot without ever getting busted.

Not to mention¬†Ruth’s crazy, pill popping sister Sarah has an amazing flower power¬†domicile somewhere out in the sticks, and has a constant stream of hippy friends popping in to dance around the bonfire naked.

And when I saw all the women¬†standing around the body of Fiona their fallen sister singing ‘Calling All Angels’, I, like Ruth longed for that kind of intimacy on a permanent basis.

Who lives like this?  Can I live like this?  Where is this fucking place anyway?

Because what is left of my family is strewn across the UK.  And my friends are either estranged or busy with their hectic 9-5 (or rather 8-8) existence, and I am lonely.

Wrap me up.

Today I walked to town and back.

So what, you might ask?

Well I did my 10,000 steps and its the first real bit of exercise I’ve done this year.

The Fishers made me do that. ¬†Well watching Nate (the bastard) collapse after shagging that awful Maggie and wake up with stroke symptoms, and then die, might have spurred me on a bit. ūüôā

And I know for a fact that I’m not going to find my very own utopia sat at home on the couch with the cats living vicariously through the Fishers.

So tomorrow, I’ll take a deep breath, and do it again.

And try not to lose myself again.

Namaste x


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EAR WORM No. 24 ‚Äď Duran Duran ‚Äď THE REFLEX #bodydysmorphia #eatingdisorders

I have this morning ritual that I wasn’t even aware of until recently.

Actually it’s more of an unconscious reflex, hence this bloody ear worm.

Every morning (OK, sometimes afternoon) when I get out of bed, I go to the loo then afterwards swing past my full length mirror, lift my top and examine my midriff.  Then depending on state of said abdomen I flinch, pull a face, remain impassive, then stumble off to put the kettle on.

Given that I have a history of eating disorders I’m guess that I’ve been doing this shit since my early mid teens, but of late I’ve doubled up to twice a day as, due to a lack of exercise, and, let’s face it, my extreme attachment to the sofa, my girth has expanded somewhat.

Back in the day, a.k.a. Duran Duran’s hay day, when I was a gym obsessive I would work out fervently, ever striving for that elusive six pack, then¬†I’d lift my top and scrutinise my sweaty midsection, crunching my sunbed bronzed abdominals in an effort to justify that super strenuous 90 minutes of pumping iron.

Flex, flex, flex, flex, flex..

. 19801

But despite what watching¬†bystanders might have thought, it wasn’t out of vanity that I did this. ¬†There is no doubt in my mind that looking back 25 years ago to¬†that time, I must have looked good, but all I saw were the imperfections. To be honest, I could have been¬†a cross between Rachel McLish and Jamie Lee Curtis and I still would have pinpointed something that was pudgy, pathetic, or disproportionate that needed work, so the endless search for perfection became an obsession.

And whilst the net result brought me attention, it was only ever of the physical kind and no one ever saw or wanted to see who I really was.

Now I’m not even desired for my physical appearance, so¬†I no longer use it, let alone bruise it. And whilst this¬†in some ways is an enormous relief, in a way¬†it is the death knell for all of my hopes and dreams to be loved, have a family etc. etc.

At least when you’re young you have hope.

And time.

But to this day, whenever I can make myself work out, I take myself into another world where my body sings with gratitude and all my mind has to worry about is¬†counting the¬†reps and committing to the burn, which if I’d realised it at the time, was the real benefit to pumping iron, and not to attract a life partner out of the bunch of muscle bound boys¬†whom my protein shake¬†brought to the yard, who only wanted to bump up their ever inflating ego by ‘conquering’ me.

Which, in fairness to them, unbeknownst to me, was all that I could offer at the time anyway.

Back to the present I’ve decided that if i’m going to do this damn fool thing every morning that I might as well go back to the weights room, and then at least I’ll have a fighting chance of not having to greet my reflection with a grimace of disgust every day.

And I’ll be giving¬†something back to my ageing, neglected, much maligned carcass in the guise of self love, the only kind that counts when it all boils down. ¬†And whilst I know it won’t bring admiring gazes¬†anymore, it will bring me physiological release, endomorphin hits and great bone density.

27 years ago I found myself in London fucked up and lonely with no friends which is coincidentally where I find myself today. But it was getting out and indulging my obsession that brought people into my life, so I’m hoping it works second time around.

So wouldn’t¬†I use it?

Namaste x