Phoenix Fights

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




The last couple of months or so have been tough.

Apart from the looming financial issues, I’m starting to realise that Aunty C (my counsellor as opposed to my shrink) may have been right about my not being formally being diagnosed (and hence labelled) and just pushing forward and trying to make things work. The trouble is that when you keep trying and keep landing on your arse time and time again, you come to realise that you’re not getting anywhere, and you’re not getting something that you need in order to progress.

And I’ve always been a truth seeker.

The trouble is that sometimes that truth is so frightening and overwhelming that you lose faith in ever being a fully functioning member of society again.


Given that only Aunty C (and you lot) know the extent of my condition, there have been times of late that I have come very close to confiding in a family member or friend, especially given that ‘the book’ encourages the recruitment of ever loving, uber supportive cheerleaders who shake their pom poms, and chant encouragingly as you tackle life head on, whilst simultaneously battling your demons on the job.  Probably locked in the office loo reading mantras feverishly off a sweaty, creased flashcard whilst praying no one hears you talking to yourself.

But I can’t bring myself to do it, and have to carry the burden alone.  Damn my suspicion, lack of trust and faith in mankind!

But the last week or so has proved that I am right to be so trepidatious, as I have heard casual, damning prejudices slip out of the mouths of, if not my chosen confidantes, people not to dissimilar to them.

The first was at a BBQ where I was chatting to an old family friend who was warning me off a couple that he and some others had fallen out with.

‘Honestly Sista’ he said earnestly ‘stay away from him, he’s a twat and has shafted people more savvy than you.’

‘Really?’ I replied, not wanting to get involved in some willy waving turf war that was really none of my business.  Hell I get myself into shit on a regular basis without even trying. Did Ross really think I needed him dragging me into his personal spats?

‘Really,’ he asserts, drunkenly taking a big swig of warm Pimms, the wet shaft of celery nearly taking his eye out, ‘as for that wife of his, I’d only known her an evening and she tells me she has a personality disorder!  As if she was telling me her star sign!  Or her job!  Seriously, it beggars belief….’

And he does it.  He rolls his eyes and twirls his index finger at his head.  

The universal shorthand for ‘Looney Alert’.

‘Really?’ I murmur trying to bite down the urge to shriek ‘SNAP!’ in his face and watch him redden, squirm and struggle for a response.

But I was saved from my naughty mind monkeys by the host calling us over for hot burgers and chicken.

This same person, I’ll have you know, hardly let’s a day go by without plastering a lovely meme on his Facebook page about supporting people with mental health issues and chiding those who judge ’em, this being one of his favourites:


What a hypocritical knob, eh?

So I kept schtum.  Mainly because this prick isn’t someone I encounter very often, so doesn’t really matter, but his blatant masquerading as someone who did not judge others less fortunate than him makes me sick to the stomach.  It also disgusts me that a vulnerable individual, like this girl, might have shared her condition with him because of this bullshit propaganda, and he’s now spitefully spreading her secret far and wide.

The utter COCK.

The next encounter took place on Facebook itself, where an ex colleague was having a heated but entirely rational exchange with a female, and when he could not finish the argument he himself had picked, he told her to ‘Leave it!  Fucking bunny boiler.  Have you had your medication today?’

The woman did not reply.  I don’t know whether she has a history of mental health issues or was just disgusted that he had dismissed her thus (or indeed both), but I bet he wouldn’t have spoken to her that way if she had been a man.  And if he did use that forum to ‘out’ and deliberately shame her because she was intellectually out of his league, then I’m really glad that we no longer work together anymore.

The final straw was today when I opened an emailed blog from someone having a go at a ‘sick stalker’ who has allegedly being harassing him and others bloggers, the final line/parting shot being ‘Personality disorders can be so bothersome’.

No.  Shit.

My first thought was ‘I can’t believe he sent me this’ because he only knows me from this blog, but of course the mail out was sent to all of his followers so it wasn’t a personal attack.  It stung though.  And ultimately made me feel sad.  And resigned to my secret shame.

And in many ways I can’t blame him.  As you can see from this earlier post, I had the very same impression of BPD sufferers myself:

But it finally made my mind up that I’ll never share my condition with anyone now.  Because people do judge whether they like it or not, whether they want to or not. And anything outside of depression (BDP, bipolar, schizophrenia etc) is still very unacceptable to the majority, whether it’s politically incorrect to admit it or not.

And whilst I admit to having trust issues, people, even those you love, do use your condition against you.

When I confronted someone over something she did, even though others had witnessed it, she immediately adapted a sickly ‘poor you’ expression, only just stopping short of doing the ‘twirly finger to head’ to those nearby when she thought I wasn’t looking, implying that I was being irrational.

When someone tried manipulate me to do her dirty work and I politely called her out on it, she pulled a similar face, implying that it was all in my imagination.  OMG she didn’t know it was that big a job!  No, of course she didn’t expect me to do it all!  I had totally misunderstood her!

And when someone asked me for a favour/money or to do something I was not comfortable with and I explained why I couldn’t help him, I got the ‘Excuse moi? You’re refusing me?!’ look, the disappointed sigh, and was blanked for about 3 months, just to make the point that he’s normal, I’m loopy and as far as he was concerned, I need his friendship more than he needed mine.  Hey, I should count myself lucky that he hasn’t had me sectioned for my audacity in optimising my free will!

So in sum, in being an out BPD/EUPD, I would be forgoing respect, credibility, my power and pretty much offering my throat to any passing predator, let alone showing them the whites of my eyes.

Fuck that.

So as lonely as it is to deal will this without the help of ‘cheerleaders’, I’m gonna pop my cojones out, man the fuck up and deal with it on my own.

Because I’m not one of you.  I’m one of them.


And you know what?  If you met me, you’d never even guess.

So that means that me and my kind could be in your vicinity now.  Stalking you, cooking your cottontail and sharpening your biggest, best Sabatier whilst you prepare for a nice soak in your steaming hot tub….

Be afraid bitches; be every afraid.  The blatantly crazy aren’t the ones you should be wary of.

But that’s not the scariest thing of all.

Because when the shit comes down, you know that instinctively it’ll be me you want to turn to.  Because you know I’ve stared rejection, humiliation, isolation and financial ruin in the face, the very things you yourself dread, and I’m still standing.  And when you’re in that dark desolate public hell, who will show up to guide you back out towards the light?  Not your lovely, popular, social climbing compadres that’s for sure.  And you’ll be praying for my unacceptable scary ass to show up.  Whether I do or not remains to be seen.

You see?  Bothersome ain’t the half of it.

Namaste y’all 😉



Daily Post: Pottymouth Blogging – TO ‘C’ OR NOT TO ‘C’


I think anyone who reads my blog would say that I’m a dyed in the wool, 18 carat, fully licensed, bone fide potty mouth.

I also hope that they would say that I don’t do it for shock value, to impress (for the record, it’s not big or clever), or to be ‘down with the kids’.

My blog is an anonymous, online journal and whilst I don’t go out of my way to offend anyone, it is my diary, my sanctuary, the place where I can record my innermost thoughts, so whilst every now and then I might curb my tongue when interacting with individuals if I think I’m going to upset them, I think that I’m entitled to say what I please in my own journal.

It’s my voice.

Of course I don’t use it every day, in every post for every subject/category.

I don’t say ‘Here’s my favourite f*cking recipe for falafel‘ or ‘F*ck me, I nearly got into a fr*gging headstand by myself today’! as that would be (a) inappropriate, (b) entirely gratuitous and (c) really rather silly.

That said, if something would come out of my mouth accompanied by profanity, that will be the way I write it.

But why do I feel the need to swear?

Dunno.  I’ve always been unhappy, plus my Dad swore a lot for as long as I remember, and I learned that my aggressive use of bad language made me seem more formidable than I actually was, thus saved me a number of times from a good kicking in the playground, so I suppose it’s always been a habit that has, on the surface, done me more good than harm.

I’m not entirely sure who I’m trying to convince of that, you or me, but it is what it is now.

Plus being born with an inner core of fiery, molten hot anger probably hasn’t helped matters.

But I ams what I am, and that’s alls I am….

I know without a doubt it costs me followers; I was also told by someone that one of my ‘let rip’ posts was too critical and that I should ‘parody’ or ‘lampoon’ instead of lay into, but that is her voice, not mine and I want to stay authentic.

Plus a lot of people seem to like my ‘Basil Fawlty’ moments as ex of mine used to call them.  My kinda people 😉

For those of you who find swearing offensive on religious grounds, whilst I respect your opinion, I can say hand on heart as someone who considers themselves spiritual, I do not think that God gives a flying f*ck about people using colourful language.

Actions speak louder than words, as they say, and it sadly tends to be the most striding, self declaring ‘religous’ and ‘devout’ folk who hold their hands up in horror when confronted by smallest profanity that judge, condemn, discriminate, carry the most hatred in their heart, and hence do the most damage to their fellow man.

Just because my mouth is dirty doesn’t mean my soul is.

Well it could probably do with a boil wash twice a year or so, but that is another story 😉

Can you swear and still be a good writer?

Ask Bret Easton Ellis, Irving Walsh or James Elroy.  Whilst these established potty mouths may not be your cup of char, no one can deny their success or talent.  If being sweary wasn’t who they are, they wouldn’t be so f*cking good at it.

What would offend me more than their profanity on the page would be if they substituted their f*cks for ‘flips’ or ‘fudge’ under politically correct duress as that would sound totally stoopid and, dare I say, inappropriate.

Note the use of ‘f*cking’ there, utilised because sometimes it is the only word that packs sufficient punch to get your feelings across when you feel totally passionately about something.


I’m sure you’ve all sent that ‘How to use the F Word’ poster above, and joking aside, it is probably the most versatile swear word in the English language.  Indeed I would go so far to say that it is now a largely respected and generally accepted part of 21st century parlance.

And there are others that I, for one, cannot and will not do without, especially when a name or an issue can bring them to my lips within a nano second:


Kanye West Radio 1 interview and subsequent Twitter hissy fit – Tw*t

David Cameron/EDF nuclear energy strategy – B*stards

Miley Cyrus doing/saying anything – *W*nker

Paul Hollywood – Tit

Prince of Wales implying that he doesn’t want to be King – Bollocks

Piers Morgan – C***


Yes, that brings us to the much vilified ‘C’ word; and I don’t mean columnist.

I don’t tend to use this in my blog or indeed in life, but sometimes the person or situation does call for it.

I’m not fazed by c*** and don’t shy away from it, but I doubt if I will ever use it casually (in the way that my nephew and his friends do when they call each other it with genuine affection), and tend to keep it in reserve for maximum effect.


Well just think; if c*** becomes the norm like f*ck has, WTF will we use to replace it?

Take my advice and if it feels comfortable and you feel impelled to use profanity in your writing, then give yourself permission to do so.

As for the ‘C’ word, treat it  like that dress/suit/heels/pair of jeans that you spent a small fortune on that still wrapped in tissue paper in the back of your wardrobe.

Keep it for ‘best’. 🙂


‘Be yourself; everyone else is already taken’

  Oscar Wilde


*Wanker is normally a term reserved for the male of the species, but when it comes to MC, I’m prepared to make an exception.