Phoenix Fights

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




I just had a bit of a spat with one of my closest friends, and for once, I had no idea where it came from.

I knew he was pissy with me because of his silence and lack of ‘How are you?’ texts for a few days, but when I sent him one telling him that I just got a days work with a well know steak restaurant, he totally killed my buzz by replying:

‘Well being a vegan you can’t expect me to cheer about it’.


And because I was a bit peeved by his passive aggressive silence and for pissing on my bovine BBQ, especially as (a) he’s not normally so easily offended, and (b) lives with a carnivore, (c) knows how financially strapped I am, I replied with a sarky but humorous:

‘You?  A vegan?  Really?  But you’ve kept so quiet about it!’.

Because out of all of our circle of friends I am the most supportive, helpful and facilitating of his lifestyle choice.  I send him recipes, I eat in veggie/vegan restaurants with him (something one of our close buds wouldn’t even contemplate) buy him vegan friendly gifts, make him vegan food and treats, and even baked him a vegan ‘cake’ for his birthday.

But then the real reason for his snippiness came out.  Apparently I had offended his partner by the tone of an email I had sent to our circle of friends.

I was dismayed.

‘It was banter!  Surely the exclamation marks and winky faces gave that away?  Anyway Bruce hardly has a subtle sense of humour, surely he should be able to put his big boy pants on and suck it up?  As for your being a vegan, I never forget that and am always willing to work around it, but I eat meat, always have and I need the money!  Can’t you just be glad for me?’

Then I was hit by a barrage of venom about how insensitive I was, how eating meat was like child abuse (interesting, does that mean that beef biting Bruce is his live in nonce?), how it’s my fault if I got the tone of the communication wrong, and if it was such an effort I shouldn’t bother to try work around his eating habits.


The thing is I’ve know this individual for nearly 20 years so he should (a) be able to tell when I’m joking, (b) be able to automatically give me the benefit of the doubt if he thinks for one minute that I’m serious, and (c) talk to me like a man before jumping to conclusions.


But I’m starting to fear that coming out as EUPD and depressive has given certain people a ‘Get into Jail Free’ card when it comes to deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, because I know for a fact that when I was younger, my humour was much more caustic, unforgiving and in your face.  But because in their minds I was more or less ‘normal’ then that was just down to my strong personality and everyone took it on the chin and gave back as good as they got.

But now that I’m officially a ‘Bunny Boiler’ and more emotionally vulnerable, then they can allude to me being a bit mental as a get out clause when they want to win an argument.

I also remembered that I forgot my meds that day which may have led me to being a bit more hyper than usual.


So I asked another very outspoken member of our crew if she thought my email was rude, she was emphatic that it was not, and that she read it as, not just my sense of humour, but our collective sense of humour. This was and is how we roll, both in written form and face to face.

Right!  Exactly!

And to be honest, would it be such a terrible thing if I actually came off my meds and then be even more myself?

Whilst this wouldn’t be the best idea right now, it is definitely a long term goal as being perpetually tamped down makes for a very boring Sista indeed.  My passion is part of who I am, and in order to live my life to the fullest, I gotta be me, regardless of what anyone else thinks or how they choose to judge me.

Si’s behaviour does feel like something of a betrayal though.  A less healthy Sista would have cut him to shreds, held a grudge for months, been much less flexible and not bothered to make any kind of effort with the friendship moving forward.

But I’m bigger than that nowadays.

Well I will be in a few days as I need time to simmer down as I’ve just cut my medication by half.  Yay!

Look out world, the largely undiluted, allegedly annoying, takes no prisoners Sista is coming atcha so you better put meat on your argument, or prepare to be roasted in the process! 😉

dr seuss

Peace to all and Namaste x


Daily prompt: Just Another Day – TROUBLE MAN (BPD BLUES)


“Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?”

Like many people that are unstable/out of work/downright idle, I don’t really have a routine, but from my darkest days when I only drag my butt out of bed to pee, to my extremely rare 24 hour highs, and everything in between, three things must happen:

  • I need to take care of my cats
  • I NEED tea.
  • I need to take my medication.

So rather than write some longwinded dirge about why this is the case and bore everyone on here who’s heard it all before, I decided to bastardise one of my favourite songs by the late, great Marvin Gaye.

Apologies in advance to his family and estate.

Sorry Marvin.  I love you…


I come up hard baby, but things weren’t cool
But I survived sugar, playin’ by the rules
I come up hard baby, said I was fine
But I was troubled sugar, movin’ down the line
I come up hard but that’s okay
‘Cause trouble men, I sure made them pay
I come up hard, baby

I’ve been real ill, baby, but I keep movin’, even when I’m down
I fall apart, but I’m still around
There’s only three things that’s for sure
Catshit, meds and cuppas
This I know baby, this I know sugar
But ain’t gon let it sweat me babe

Got me singin’, yeah, yeah, ooh
Come up hard, baby, I had to fight
Tried to fit in with all my might
I come up hard, fall apart, drank too much gin
Then start all over next day again
I come up hard but that’s the way
‘Cause trouble man it is here to stay, hey, hey

I seen dark places and I’ve been some faces
Made no real connections, had no direction
What people say, it ain’t okay, it bothered me, so
Now I say “Just fuck ’em”, I’ll make my own luck man
Don’t care ’bout no haters, I say “I’ll see ya laters”
It’s time I just try to be my own ‘Me’ now

I come up hard, baby, time to be real, baby
Heal my troubled mind, keeping up the fight
I fall apart, and I get down
There’s only three things for sure
Catshit, meds and cuppas oh
This I know, baby, this I’ve known, baby
Hey gotta pick this shit up baby, ooh

All right, baby, ooh
Some days it’s hard, some days it’s cool
I can’t make it, baby, playin’ by the rules
I’ve come up hard, baby, now it’s tea time
I add milk and sugar, hey, and take my Sertraline, oh, oh, ooohhh…




Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror – WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ AT?


Look in the mirror. Does the person you see match the person you feel like on the inside? How much stock do you put in appearances?

I’ll be straight with you; I don’t like looking in the mirror, as I hate how I look.  

Sometimes when I do it, I don’t even recognise myself which is, as you can imagine, pretty unnerving, but a lot of times in the past, I’ve been grateful for the way my appearance has protected me.

Because, if my face is not animated or smiling, I can look a bit severe/intimidating.  

Not out of choice, but a combination of genetics, shitty karma, desire for self protection, gambolling paranoia and a sharp whack with the ugly stick tends to mean I can emanate a certain ‘Get the fuck away from me or suffer the consequences!’ vibe, if you will.

A black guy who was trying to chat me up a few years ago, told me confidentially in amused tones, that when he’d seen me before, he’d thought I was racist.  When I asked why, he said I looked like a racist. What does a racist look like?  You, he replied.  Strangely enough he never did get into my knickers but hopefully this example will illustrate that I don’t exactly have the angelic visage of J Lo or the sweet girl next door looks of Holly Willoughby.  More like the stern, patrician appearance of Maggie Thatcher, alas.

But my scary exterior, like antibiotics, didn’t just see off dangerous infiltrators (arseholes, sexists, bullies and bitches), but also the good folk.  Like timid but lovely potential pals, soul sisters and, last but not least, potential life partners. 😦

And now that I’m working on trying to be more open, friendly and accepting, the ever-so-helpful ageing process is colluding with the menopause and my dastardly karma and offering me jowls, dragging down the corners of my mouth and thinning my face, none of which scream ‘lovely, warm person, with a heart of gold and so much love to give’, fiendish bastards that they are.


And just to add insult to injury, I am also cursed with looking like a ‘lady’, which is what a lot of people refer to me as, especially when they don’t know me.  Which despite what you think, isn’t a compliment, as it means they think I’m rather straight, formal and foreboding, which could not be further from the truth.

Because whilst my dubious exterior hides, yes, a life long depressive with serious issues, it also masks a die hard wind up merchant, with a blistering sense of humour, a love of mischief, and, at times, the irresistible impulse to behave like a cross between Jim Carrey, Joan Rivers and a five year old after too many e-numbers.

People forget that middle aged women were once young and in their youth, have probably behaved worse than they did, and let’s face it, my generation ruled with regard to shocking a nation, so anything done nowadays in the name of rebellion is tedious and derivative as far as I’m concerned, hence I love encountering young pseudos who try and shock me as they always go away red in the face, with a rather profane flea in their ear.

On the plus (and I suppose minus) side, not too many people see me nowadays, so when I need to interact with the Great British public, I find myself trying to dress accordingly to fit in,hence don’t end up getting chased into the nearest train station like the Elephant Man.

Going to the supermarket?  Scruff out, keep head down.

Going dancing?  Wear something youngish, but not mutton.  Speak as quietly as possible so as not to be heard over the din, then I won’t be asked awkward questions like ‘What do you do for a living?’

Meeting people from my past?  Not that this has happened yet, but when I does I will try and concoct something that screams happiness, fulfilment, spiritual enlightenment and success which may involve smiling continuously, wearing a bindi and going barefoot whilst adorned in designer brands (from eBay) and leaping around with a bit of chiffon.



Yesterday I went on a mad mission to hunt down a coat (more on that later) in a smart part of town, so had to raid my old wardrobe and wear something tasteful/expensive and look every inch of the ‘successful’, stylish, monied (ish) senior exec that I once was, and ended up in a very expensive shop negotiating with the sales manager over the price of a cashmere coat. Thank the Lord I bit down my urge to seal the deal and walked away with this very pricey prize, but there is no doubt that this woman totally bought my act and had no idea that I was half mad and down on my uppers, about to go on benefits.

So, to my mind, whilst someone’s appearance can be indicative of who they are, you would be a fool to put too much stock into such things, especially as despite all my different guises and ageing fizzog, no matter how I look or what I’m wearing, this picture actually illustrates who I really am.



Think about this next time you see an ageing harridan, a fat, overprivileged banker, a hooded youth or blonde Barbie’d bimbo and try and hold back your misgivings and prejudices.  

All you are privy to at that moment in time is the vehicle, not the driver.

Let the light of who you are shine in your eyes, and judge lest no ye be judged.

Innit. 😉

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Second day of my retreat and my head has nearly stopped hurting.


Well, it would be ‘yay’ except now, pretty much everything else is hurting like a motha…..

I kid you not, this woman is one cracking yoga teacher and I’ve got places hurting that I didn’t even know existed.

But that’s nothing compared with my other little, ahem, problem.

The worst thing about this retreat by far, is all the poo.

The food here is (a) delicious, (b) plentiful and (c) unbelievably, mainly vegan, so for the most part is comprised of 80-90% plant derived foods, fruit, vegetables, soya, almond, tofu <retch!> etc..

The other 10% must be the 90% quality cocaine or something (and here was me thinking that white stuff was vegan parmesan….) because  once you start eating this stuff, it’s nigh on impossible to stop.

My stomach however is less than impressed with my radical change of diet.  In fact, if it could speak it would say, sorry, scream What the fucking FUCK is the fucking deal, you demented, broccoli-bothering bitch?!!’  

Not that I’d blame it as I’ve gone from a relatively low carb diet, to becoming a regular poo processing plant overnight.

I mean it’s ludicrous.  I could very easily supply enough dung to meet the needs of a small farm.


I get up, shit, do yoga, have breakfast, shit, have lunch, shit, shit again, more yoga, then have at least another huge dump before taking my nightly ‘constitutional’, not I might add, to stretch my limbs as I tell the others, but to release all those carefully suppressed farts before sloping off to bed for a restless, mad dream filled sleep, still crammed to the gullet with vegetation.

AND I have to share a bathroom!!!

Luckily my neighbour and I are in the same boat, so readily forgive that gaseous, cabbagy fug from the others’ effluent, that grabs us by the throat and shakes us like a dog shakes a rat whenever we open the bog door.

And occasionally we hear the other slowly, quietly unlock the door and slink guiltily back to her room, pink in the face from both effort and shame and fully empathise with that feeling, albeit whilst simultaneously wishing we’d brought along some Vics Vaporub to bung under our nostrils at times like these.

That can’t be right, can it?

And they call this healthy?!  I look like I have worms, as the skin of my belly is like an overstuffed (vegan) sausage, and I have to spend most of my days prone like a snake that’s just imbibed a fucking buffalo or something in order to digest the last onslaught of fibre.


At this rate, I’m going to go home heavier than I would have had I gone to the U.S. for an interactive ‘Man vs Food’ tour, but I guess I have to look on the bright side; no meat sweats or constipation here, no sirree, ‘cos it just keeps on movin’, like toothpaste out of a tube….

And they tell me here that bread is bad for you because it can bloat you out….

HAH is what I say to that!

Or I would do if I have any energy left, but all my blood has diverted to my digestive tract.


Sorry about this, I’d like to tell you more about the arse-anas, sorry, asanas, meditations, and poses etc, but right now I AM my belly!  In fact it is the centre of the universe and all things orbit around it, or at least that’s how it feels.

Maybe my belly is God?  If it is, it’s the Old Testament version as it sure likes to punish me….


Hope to have something more intellectual/intelligent/highbrow/less toilet tomorrow, till then, namaste x


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We’ll Beat the Anglophile Right Outta You



Sorry, I just think this post is so eloquent, well observed and intelligent I just had to share it! 😉
So enjoy ‘Brits’!
That is to say:

  • English AND Scottish AND Welsh
  • Upper, middle and lower classes (I’m with Grayson Perry re what that shit means nowadays) and all hybrids therein
  • Southern English and Northern English (as divided by Watford Gap services) 😉
  • Black, white, Asian and mixed race peeps
  • Londoners (cockneys, Sarf Londoners, North of the river, West End girls and boys)
  • Scousers, Mancs, Brummies, Geordies, Smoggies, Sheep Shaggers etc
  • Folk that populate over seventies counties in these sceptered isles (please correct me if I’m wrong)


And this is just a drop in the ocean. I’m not even going to touch on our politics, sport, religions etc. but you get my drift, right?
Anyway just to clarify to anyone who has never actually been to these cute li’l isles and still think they can lump us all into one tedious, collective box:

  • British/English men don’t all look or act like the rather stereotypical, dyspeptic upper class twat as illustrated above, and the women don’t look like Maggie Thatcher or Kate Middleton.
  • Our working classes don’t look like Dick van Dyke/Eliza Doolittle and doffing caps and pulling of forelocks has thankfully gone out of vogue now
  • We don’t all live across the road from the Queen.
  • Daily life for the majority of us is nothing like that happy gang of crraazyy mates from ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’
  • Northerners do not look all look like the Beatles, Gallagher brothers or Wallace and Gromit
  • ‘Chef’ Ramsey is a psychopath and no one likes or respects him over here, so please keep him. You’re welcome! We want Nigella back though 🙂
  • Notting Hill is nothing like it was depicted in the movie. For a start, there is quite a high populace of people of colour in NH, London and throughout the UK actually (fancy that!), so I’m not sure where they were seconded off to whilst filming took place. For further info, see

I have many friends (both online and in real life) who are from the USA, and I know this person’s attitude is not the norm, and she probably had a stick up her arse about something else that day, but I did want to make a point.


Because we ‘Brits’ are very polite, aren’t we? Pass the Earl Grey and a toasted teacake, please Jenkins (she says, holding her pinky finger in the air)….

Anyway KJ, I wouldn’t deem to judge the entire American populace by what the Kardashians do, and don’t assume that the average Jerry Springer audience represents the majority, so open your mind a bit, innit? And I mean this in a ‘caring’ way, as Dame Edna Everage would say 🙂

Also I noticed that you don’t seem to distinguish between the English and the Brits, so am guessing that the Scots and Welsh are in the clear, is that correct?

If that is the case and you still have a problem with all English folk please pop by to mine for tea if you’re ever in the neighbourhood, so that I can try to make reparation with a nice Victoria sandwich, cucumber sandwiches and a pot of Darjeeling with a sertraline chaser….

Anyway, I have to go, the peasants are revolting, and the moat needs cleaning so Toodle Pip for now dearie! x




The Irrefutable Opinion

The United States America is the best country on earth.  Says Americans.  And who’s to say we’re wrong?  There are 316 million of us.  And the numbers are still growing:  we got people coming here all the time, whether it be for the freedoms, the education, or the state of the art freshwater systems.

It’s certainly easy to tout the advantages of living in America versus any of the globe’s “third world” countries.  The choice between living in a small, under-furnished studio apartment on Twenty-Sixth Avenue versus residing in a tree next to a parasitic creek and fighting over your next meal with hungry badgers seems like a no brainer.

But when it comes to comparing countries in the first world to other, copper-piped, food-marted first world countries, the details about what makes one better than another kind of all comes out in the wash.  There is nothing inherently better…

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So I did my one hour date with City Boy on Friday night.

It wasn’t the best of starts as I was half an hour late after getting my times mixed up. 😦  I swear my brain (or that naughty moon) tricks me into sabotaging these things….

But he waited.

And he was nice.

And normal.

CB is on the dating website because he split from his last partner some time ago, and his daughter is off to uni soon, so it works out that he’ll have more time to explore London and will be free most weekends.

He works as a banker, spends half his time in London, half his time in Oxford, has a splendid relationship with both of his exes, they all have timeshare of a big country house where they all get together with their big gang of super successful ex uni friends and academics for big hearty meals, and everyone gets on famously.

So all a bit ‘Peter’s Friends’ really.

He was very chatty and amiable, nice looking, not in bad shape and seems like an all round good guy.

But all I could do is look at him with fascinated wonder and think ‘You’re so…..normal!’

I felt like we were almost different species, and that I hadn’t the heart to inflict my madness on this utterly balanced, happy, successful chap, and that to take this further would be like acting out a posh, British version of ‘The (Wo)Man Who Fell To Earth’ with CB being Mary Lou to my Newton.

And, when the day finally arrives when I have to peel off my mask, reveal to him my true self, and reach for him invitingly with a long, slimy arm, he’d run screaming from the room, wondering what the hell he’d fallen in love with.


And I just couldn’t deal with that.

I’d like to say that I’d be happy to be friends with him, but even that seems kind of intimidating, so I’m going to let this one pass by and hope he meets some lovely, successful lady in her forties who works high up in media, has a first in something or other, a child of called Muffy, Buffy or Tufty who is up at Eton doing rather well, is on the board of a charity, arranges flowers in her spare time and has an exceedingly close, convivial relationship with her gay ex husband who is now her best friend.

Oh, and doesn’t go all weird whenever there’s a full moon.

On the plus side, Goatee Man has been in touch and suggested a trip to the movies.  Yay!

Whilst I feel there is something about GM that he has yet to reveal to me, I’m much more comfortable with that than, say, normality to the point of perversity.

I must ask him whether he wears contact lens or not though…. 😉




Driving into town today I had to brake hard to avoid hitting a man dressed in sweats, a camouflage jacket and hobnail boots who strode into the middle of the road holding an imaginary gun.

As I slowed, he walked towards the front of my vehicle.

Our eyes locked.

Then, he gave me an almost imperceptible nod and waved me on with his weapon.

As I drove away I glanced into my rear view mirror and watched the back of his Che Guevara beret bounce frantically on his head as the rat-tat-tat-tat of (oral) machine gun fire filled the air.

I think I may have found one of my tribe.