Phoenix Fights

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




For the last 48 hours or so, I’ve scraped by in a bit of a daze really, but one good thing has come from this ‘Total Recall’ from hell.

I have learned to take comfort from the company of others.

Not for the entire two days you understand, no that would be too much of an about turn, but my twisted mind’s impetus to keep reliving and replaying all of the details of what happened that night again, and again make me at loathe to be alone with my thoughts for too long, which is something very new for me.

So much makes sense now.

  • My mistrust of men.
  • My wondering what they really wanted from me (as they couldn’t actually like me, could they?)
  • My low self worth.
  • My horror of rejection.
  • My inability to let myself be out of control.
  • My inability to fully relax when a boyfriend (or any man for that matter) stayed over in my home.
  • My secrecy and need for privacy.
  • My needing to be able to physically protect myself.
  • My always expecting and being prepared for the worst.
  • My always having an exit plan.
  • My readiness to ‘fight to the death’ when threatened.
  • My fury when presented with male aggression.

And all of this because some selfish, sexist, cowardly, misogynistic wanker could have a quick squirt and about 30 seconds of ecstasy that was probably forgotten within 24 hours (or once he’d fucked/raped someone else), whilst this has marred all of my relationships for over half of my life.

Don’t they realise this?

These rapists, these child abusers, these kidnappers, these opportunistic abusers?

Can’t they just have a wank over some porn like everyone else?

The darkest part of me would love to see them all gang raped up the arse by way of punishment so that they could live in shame, fear, self loathing and pain for the rest of their life, but that’s just ‘eye for an eye’ and nothing good ever comes from that.


I haven’t been able to cry at all.  I just feel frozen.

So many thoughts, so many realisations.

Babies never came for me, and I subconsciously used to wonder whether I was being punished, or that some fundamental damage had been done to me.

It was probably just as well, I’m so fucked up that any child of mine would have probably being a bit screwed up too.

Suffice to say, whatever libido I have recently recovered has completely and utterly disappeared, so this is probably a damn good excuse to stop seeing GM and/or going on any more dates for now.

But I don’t want this to turn me into a man hater.

I think that as part of a healing process, I need to spent time with all of the kind, gentle, safe men that I have in my life to remind me that there good ones are out there too, and hopefully this will heal my wounds, make me feel safe and thaw out the block of ice that is currently holding my heart captive.

Thanks again for all of your kind words, they nourish my tired, battered little soul, they really do 🙂

And to any guys who are reading or who have read about any of this, I guess you probably don’t know what to say and think it’s best to keep out of it?

I totally understand.

P.S. What has shocked and saddened me the most has been the number of bloggers who have had similar experiences to mine, and I’m touched by them taking their courage in both hands and taking the trouble to comment so kindly and supportively about mine.  Love and support right back at you xx

Namaste to all xx





I’m going to say this quietly as I don’t want to scare it away (yet), but it appears that my sexuality has slunk back in the door and is sniffing around, growling quietly to itself and sharpening its claws on the cat post in the corner as we speak.

Know how I know?

Well apart from the weird horny dreams I’ve been having of late, I am finding my encounters with some of my partners at ballroom lessons a whole lot more uncomfortable/exciting.

Since I hit 40 I’ve always managed to persuade myself that women who pray on younger men were tragic, and to date I only ever viewed boys as (a) little brothers (b) amusing/irritating in equal parts, or (c) a target for any tiny shreds of maternal instinct that I have left.

I have nephews, my friends have adult sons and I’ve had to deal with young, handsome men in the workplace for years, but my role was never in question then.  My natural instinct was to ‘Auntie’ them, that is to say give them the benefit of my experience of the world when needed/requested/essential (not in that way), cuff them around the head occasionally and bung them a tenner or the odd bit of cake when the mood took me.


Everyone knew who they were and what their roles were.

Until now.

Now I find it increasingly difficult to look some of my partners in the eye whilst lumbering around the dance floor.  Especially one young, doe eyed Latin bloke who, like most mediterraneans has no problem with intimacy whatsoever, and locks eyes with me flirtatiously whenever we partner up.

I like to think that I am a sexually confident, formidable, sophisticated woman of the world who is beyond being unsettled by any man, let alone some little slip of a thing that can just about grow a beard, but the other night, quite frankly, I barely knew what to do with myself around him so I alternated between avoiding him, being silly (cue mad, overly dramatic tango promenades), and locking eyes with him, pretending to flirt and then being totally unnerved by the genuine chemistry that sprang up between us like, well, like a big, happy, bobbing man’s member.  Eeekk!


I know I should be pleased that my Mojo has returned and I haven’t totally dried up like an out of date vanilla pod, but I find this attraction to men young enough to be my son absolutely mortifying, as it is something I never dreamed would happen to me.  In fact whenever I’ve seen an older woman slobbering over some kid (I had to use eye bleach for months after one  particular holiday in the Gambia – don’t even ask) I’ve told friends that if I ever did anything like that to put a bullet between my eyes.  Right. Between. My. Eyes.  Don’t even think about firing a warning shot or winging me, because if I’m behaving like that, I’ve already hit the slippery slope (missus) and there will be no coming back from it.

Not only that, but I’m not even good at going out with good looking men of my own age, let alone half of it, because, as a very insecure women who has little trust in those of the male persuasion (romantically albeit), I don’t like being the less attractive one, as, as far as my twisted logic is concerned, the odds are higher with regard to my being hurt.

Plus waking up next to someone who looks like a Caravaggio saint, whilst I look like Bette Davis in ‘Baby Jane’ is quite frankly, my idea of hell.

And then, if I had any doubt about it, the final bit of evidence came to light today, as I have spent most of this evening tearing various BT operators limb from limb because their service is shit.  In the end I had to put the phone down because I was shaking with anger and frustration, and my higher self was scared of what I might say, and that they might end up calling the police or needing therapy or something.

As I sipped a G&T to help me calm down, it struck me that I haven’t lost my temper like that for a long, long time, and then the final bit of the puzzle clicked into place.

My most angry, resentful, temperamental time on this earth has been during my potential child bearing years.

Anger = passion.

Passion = sexuality.

Sexuality – jiggy jiggy = cranky + Scary Man Juice = homicidal rage.

It’s official.  Somehow my Mojo has been rejuvenated and amped up my tendency to fly off the handle, and now, something that has teeth, claws and appetite is stalking around the periphery of my flat, glaring ominously and demanding to be fed.

But how?  Scary Man Juice hasn’t really worked before now?

And then I remember.  I haven’t taken my meds for two days.  And whilst I’ve always been aware that Sertraline is hardly an aphrodisiac, this is clear proof that it has been having a libido stifling, bromide like effect on me.

So I face an interesting dilemma; Sexuality v Sanity.

The choices here are:

1. Release the Kraken and potentially unleash a scarier, more unhinged Sista on the world?


2.  Keep taking the tablets?

This I need to think about.

Lives are at stake here….




I’ve got a date tomorrow.

I’m going for a coffee with Groin Guy from the dating website.

This is probably my first date for about two and a half years, unless you count the aborted one I nearly had last year, which I’m trying not to think about, otherwise I’d probably bail.

My online dating strategy for 2013 works like this:

  1. Log on
  2. Check out my ‘matches’.
  3. ‘Like’ the ones I like the look of.
  4. ‘Like’ anyone else I like the look of even if they’re not a ‘match’.
  5. Be willing to meet pretty much anyone unless they are really awful.
  6. Answer any nice/witty/funny emails
  7. Follow up with a telephone conversation to see if there is any potential rapport.
  8. Arrange a 30-60 minute coffee for a first date.
  9. Bail if they show any signs of being a maniac.


Four and five are new additions to all previous strategies.  This is because some of the men I like in real life, I would never have ‘liked’ online on the basis of a profile only, so you can’t always tell what a person is like by photographs and blurb alone.

Really awful = anyone who is sleazy/creepy/pompous/racist/sexist/totally boring/boastful/up themselves.

GG’s email was quite nice and whilst our brief conversation wasn’t exactly scintillating, he may have been nervous and what the hell, I’m not exactly going out of my way to meet him.  I’m in the area for lunch with friends, so if all goes tits up, I won’t feel like I’ve wasted much time or put too much effort into it.  And we’re close to a shopping centre 🙂 .

I know, I sound like a real barrel of laughs, don’t I?!

But honestly, if you’d been on as many of these things as I have, you’d be a bit jaded too.  Suffice to say, I’ve met my fair share of freaks, pervs and maniacs, and the aborted date from last year was far too close a call for my liking.

The 2012 guy seemed really charming from the get go.  He looked like Maxwell (yum), he sounded creative, well read and educated, he cooked, even baked cakes, and said he was ‘in touch with his feminine side’ (not usually something I look for, but I went with it because of the Maxwell factor (did I say, YUM?)), and when we chatted on the phone, there was rapport aplenty, so we arranged to meet by the river the next day for a drink and a stroll.

When the big day dawned, it was gloriously sunny.  An auspicious sign, I thought happily ironing a pretty top to wear with my jeans.  If only I’d known.

I decided to travel by bus seeing as it was a lovely day, and even made an extra effort to be on time.  Half way to our meeting point, my phone bleeped.

A text.

I glanced at it.  It was from M and said ‘I’m running abt 15 minutes late, b there soon.’

Hmmm.  No apology.  Not impressed.

‘Now, now, don’t be so judgemental!’ my Good Parent chided me, ‘how often are you late?  Don’t say a word. Go, smile and be nice for a couple of hours.  It may be well worth your while!’


I text back saying ‘Not to worry!  See you soon, SS x’.

I arrive at the river and by now it is baking hot.  There is no shade on the side where we are meeting, and I’m cursing myself for wearing jeans as I’m starting to perspire.

Never mind, I told myself looking in vain for a shaded area, he’ll be here soon and we can go and get a jug of icy cold Pimms.

15 minutes later, radio silence.

30 minutes.  This place is rammed with tourists, so I’m getting jostled left right and centre.  I’m also getting my period so I’m slowly starting to get more and more cranky.  I go into a book shop hoping for respite.  The air con isn’t working.  Shit.

A trickle of sweat runs down the middle my back. I jiggle a bit hoping it goes down my jeans without staining my pretty, white cotton top.

40 minutes.

I.  Am.  Not.  Happy.

I know he’s coming in by bus but he hasn’t sent any more texts, grovelingly apologetic or otherwise, and my delicately applied looks-like-I’m-not-wearing-make-up-make-up is sliding off my face like the top layer of a cake left out in the rain, and I don’t think that I can take it.

Oh no.

Maybe a drink will improve my mood.

I join one of huge, barely moving queues, and five minutes in, the huge German guy in front of me swings round, whacking me in the face with his back pack.  I refrain from punching him in the kidneys.  Just.

Bollocks to this.  I decide to start to walk towards the tube station, and appease the GP by silently promising her that if I hear from him before I get there, I’ll go back and meet him, or better still arrange to meet him somewhere cooler.

Despite the fact that he’s an ill mannered, inconsiderate, arrogant twat.

Just as I’m climbing the steps to the station, my phone beeps.  I inwardly groan, run my hand across my sweaty forehead, and look at the message.  He is now just over one hour late.

The message reads ‘Am here, just walking towards the cafe, will be there in 10.’

I stare at it with disbelief.


  • Over an hour late.
  • No acknowledgement of this.
  • No explanation.
  • No apology whatsoever.

Even the GP is afraid to speak.

I look up the steps and can just see that the little M&S food store is still open.

Fuck him.

I’m going to get a bottle of wine, some king prawns and seafood, salad, some strawberries, a carton of cream and I’m going home for a cool bath and a nice supper.

Surprisingly, once I’d made this decision, all anger leaves me.  I pop into the shop, gather my goodies, pay with a smile then run for my train and catch it with seconds to spare.   The back of my top is now drenched with sweat.

When I get out at the other end 20 minutes later, my phone is just about pogo-ing in my pocket.

I look at it.

There are six unread messages.

He’s finally recovered the use of his thumbs and index finger then?

The messages are sent at 3-5 minute intervals and go something like this:

  1. Im here!
  2. Im here!  Where u at
  3. Its boiling hear (sic) hun, can’t see u, u arnd?
  4. It’s me.  Where r you?
  5. M here, we had a date remember?  Were (sic) r u?
  6. SS, r u always this rude?  WHERE R U?


I can feel the anger start to bubble up.  Oh the irony!  But then I glance down at my chilled bottle of Frascati which glistens back at me reassuringly and tantalisingly, and I take a deep breath and know that all will be well.

I reply, with, as far as I’m concerned, the utmost restraint.

‘Hi M, I’m at Clapham Junction and on my way home as I’m a sweaty mess and have a blinding headache. Would have text you earlier but didn’t want to miss my train, but look on the bright side, you’ve only been kept waiting 20 minutes.  I waited 70.  Have a good evening, S’

Almost immediately I got a response.

I didn’t expect a belated, sheepish apology.  Maybe a grudging one would have been nice, but I was managing my expectations now.   What I didn’t expect was the shit storm that came back at me.

I received a total of aroung 30 replies, calling me all kinds of names from dickhead (?) to c***, telling ME I had no manners, that I had nothing to complain about, why didn’t I just sit on the grass (what grass?!) and chill, how he’d wasted his valuable time on an idoit ( 🙂 ) and a time waster like me, that he was glad I’d left before he wasted any more time on me, that I was a snotty bitch, I deserved a slap, that I should walk the other way if ever I saw him, he still had my photo etc, etc.  In the end I had to tell him to stop contacting me or I would report him to the website and the police.  He sent about five more after that, albeit less threatening ones, sticking to misspelt insults.

So, my gentle Maxwell morphed into a ranting, rabid Mike Tyson with ‘roid rage.  Not sure what happened to his feminine side.  Perhaps he bit off it’s ear and it fled, screaming, all the way across Waterloo bridge.

I arrived home, slightly shaken, a relieved, older, wiser and significantly stickier Sista.  I then ran myself a lovely, cool, scented bath and, calmed by my glass of cold vino, told myself I’d try another date in a week or so.

But I didn’t.  And haven’t since.

Until now.

I have no idea if the guy I’m meeting tomorrow is who and what he says he is, and/or how he handles rejection.  But we’re meeting in a big, buzzy restaurant which should be packed on a Saturday afternoon, and as pessimistic as I am, I can’t imagine that he’ll be more than five minutes late, but if he is, I have shopping to do and if he’s very late, I’m outta there.

I’ll also be carrying a cardboard roll of coins wrapped up in a napkin about my person.

Because in these days of ten year old photos, creatively crafted profiles, and carefully hidden personality disorders? You never really know who or what will be sat on the other side of that table.

Girls, take my advice.

Let’s be careful out there……