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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YOUR FRIEND’S IN THE NORTH

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So.

I made it 🙂

It wasn’t easy.  Of course it wasn’t.  I am a drama magnet, so anything that could go wrong went wrong, to the extent that post move I actually got embroiled in some legal action (from which I ended up the beneficiary – fuck you, unprofessional, lying, scaremongering biatches from HELL!), but gradually, gradually, things are getting better.

I have nice neighbours, a couple of friends nearby, am closer (but not too close) to family and don’t go to bed in mortal terror of what my dreams might bring.  Yes I have bills to pay (I am NOT on benefits.  Yet.  But hopefully never again), there things to buy and do for/to my new home, so I need some work so I can carve out a decent life for myself.

And of course I still have the darkest of dark nights (and days) of the soul with no real means of support; mental health is not something that is a high priority in Stark Land.  If I’m lucky and can prove I’m on the verge of suicide, I may, just may get a prescription for Sertraline, a disapproving frown and a ‘Pull yourself together woman!’ admonishment from my new GP, and of course I have no intention of telling anyone in my new life about my condition.

But I own a home outright, the cats are settled, I actually have a view when I look out of my window at night, everyone is friendly and nice, it is quiet and peaceful, and when I unlock my door and step out onto my path of a morning, I do it to the sound of birdsong and the robust aroma of cow shit instead of the wail of police sirens, snarls from passers by, and a blanket of London smog clogging my little traumatised lungs.

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So, unlike the original cast of the above mentioned much loved ‘posh soap opera’, (whom all for the most apart still reside in the Smoke and have never looked back), I have come back from London chastened, an older wiser Sista, and hope to discover my real life’s mission back in the county I was born in.

Anyway I am sorry for not having written for so long.  This has been for a number of reasons:

 

First, the sheer gruelling, creative energy sapping toll that moving house has on one, left me with little energy to wax lyric about anything really.

Second, the hellish bouts of major depression that hit me like a landslide when all seemed to be going to pot.

Third, I honestly didn’t think anyone would miss me.  And, let’s be honest, most of you probably didn’t.  And that’s OK.  I have no problem with that.  Life and blogging goes on.

Fourth, the fact that I felt, and feel that I’ve said everything there is to say about myself, my life and BPD.

Fifth.  Right.  I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but it’s actually gotten to the stage that being subtle and kind only had a temporary effect, so I’m going to be frank and honest and hope that it works.

Since been off air, so to speak, I have been prompted, chivvied and nagged incessantly to come back by a certain individual, and I cannot even fart on Twitter without it being commented on, and it’s now gotten to the stage that I feel almost stalked and  dread even the thought of logging into WordPress, so unfortunately for him, the net result was probably the opposite of what he intended.

 

Note – some of you have gently enquired once or twice via WordPress where I am and what has been happening since my last post.  These comments are not directed at you, OK? x

Re my future blogging, I now feel that I have shared too much and feel a bit exposed on this profile, so I need to decide if I’m going to stick with it or start up a new one.  Under another name.

But I’ll probably be back in some way, shape or form and will stay in touch.

Promise.

Over and out for now x

http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2010/sep/18/our-friends-flannery-eccleston

 


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ASHES TO PASHES

disney-cinderella

I bought something today.

Not food shopping but clothes.

And it wasn’t second hand, and it wasn’t discounted.  It was full price.  And whilst not a flash, ‘look at me’, attention getter, it was my style but brighter, made of beautiful fabric and not at all ‘background’.

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 ‘important’.  As in ‘No, sort Sista out first, she’s important.’

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 ‘if you can do additional days please tick this box’ emails from the agency, I was getting personal communications saying ‘it would be amazing if you can do Monday’ and ‘I know you must be tired, but you’re doing a fantastic job and we really need you to do just one day.’

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 ‘important’ anymore.

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

  • You don’t need to be pushy to be noticed.  Really you don’t. Whether it be pure fluke or that my sang froid was mistaken for confidence, and ‘don’t look at me’ 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’t 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 ‘the boys to the yard’.  Not only that but my libido woke up howling and demanding to be fed. Oh dear….but maybe it’s about time?  Not with him I hasten to add; he’s attached, hugely popular so categorised as ‘dangerous’ in my book, but maybe just maybe I’m 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’t get me wrong.  I said ‘easier’ and not ‘easy’.  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:
    • ‘What’s your main job?’ (I don’t have one.  It’s challenge enough for me to do this)
    • ‘Where did you go for your holidays?’ (Holiday?  From what?  I haven’t had one for years because I can barely afford to feed myself)
    • ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ (No idea.  My relationship with my family is tenuous and fraught with danger.  Two friends have invited me and I’m going to end up pissing off one or both of ‘em 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’t 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 ‘mental health issues’.  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 😉

Namaste x


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SOME PEOPLE SAID I’M BONKERS, BUT NOW I THINK I’M FREE

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About a month ago, I did one of the most risky, drastic, scary things I’ve ever done.

I walked out of my therapy group.

I had been thinking about it for months before, as I had started to feel how I used to feel before going to work, i.e. dread, depression, feeling that I didn’t belong, that I couldn’t trust people, that I had to squish down who I was in order to fit in and get along with everyone.

But of course it wasn’t work, it was 3 x 90 minute sessions per week in a grotty room in south London, so every now and than my rage, frustration and resentment would eagerly burst out through the tiniest crack in my composure, to which the shrinks would leap up in glee, parry it, and press me back into the confined identikit one sixth of an egg box which replaced my desk in that office building in Soho as another, less salubrious, prison of my own making.

Back in the day I used to manage my fury by working out, and if that didn’t work, I would stay away from the rest of the human race in order to protect both them and myself from the aftermath of the explosion, but I was urged to attend therapy however I felt, the moodier the better.

At first I thought this was to make me feel accepted, but I soon realised that footage of me throwing a fit was great material for Shrink 1 & 2 to exploit by sallying forth to use their book sourced, emotionally inept techniques to try and bring me under control, which invariably only made things worse.

Not only that but on that final fateful day, I told them that I was not in a good place and they once again insisted I attend. And when my irritation started show Shrink 2, Ann, making sure the camera got her good side, took me to task with a faux puzzled expression, telling me that I sounded very angry, that she didn’t like my tone and was taking issue with it.

So they blatantly laid a trap and set me up, and I, the fool that I was, staggered smack bang into it.

That was the last straw.  I reacted badly, but on realising what was going on, took a deep breath, gathered my belongings and left that room for good.  And as I exited onto that sunny street that morning,  I realised just how much it had all been chipping away at me.

  • The blatant insincerity.
  • The being spoken to in a babyish voice as if I was some mentally subnormal infant.
  • The ignoring of me, that is to say everything about me that made me different to everyone else in the group, especially any advantage or skill that others didn’t have.  It was more convenient to pitch the course at the youngest/least educated/most damaged instead of treating us all as individuals.  For example, Shrink No. 1 Jolyon invited me to a ‘Cuckoos Nest’ style outing to an exhibition with the others soon after my defection.  Sounds innocent and perfectly pleasant you might think.   But he spoke to me, a 53 year old, a sophisticated, cultured, urbane, well travelled woman as if I’d never set foot in a gallery in my entire life.  He actually used the words ‘I really think you’ll like the pictures’ and implied earnestly they weren’t always how they appeared but sometimes the most simple image meant something else and that he would explain them to me on the day and it would be fascinating.  I swear to God had we been in the same room and that room contained a cushion, I would placed it over his earnest little vole like countenance, sat on it, squashed every last breath in his body, then legged it out of the window.  I can laugh about it now but the humiliation, the shame, the realisation of how far I’d fallen was almost too much to bear.

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  • The refusal to acknowledge that my points of view in our one to one discussions were valid, well thought out, emotionally intelligent and rational.  As soon as he was out of his depth, he would either switch subjects, simplify my point so that it sounded ludicrous, or lapse into ‘you’re crazy so I’ll just fuck with your head till you think I’m right’ mode.  In this, he was as much a bully as my ex boss.  Talk about frying pan to fire.
  • The complete lack of real emotional connection with either of them.  I suspect this was down to a lack of real empathy (as opposed to textbook sourced techniques), and maybe this wasn’t their fault, but to my mind, this is something that cannot be compromised on if one is to share of themselves.  I still thank God everyday for Auntie C (my psychologist for over a decade) who was, is, and always will be, the real deal.
  • The inauthentic, horribly strained relationship that I had with Ann.  She didn’t like me, my humour, the way I expressed myself, and that would have been fine had she been honest about it.  But she would coo flattering comments at me like a constipated pigeon that both of us knew weren’t true, and I cannot bear fakes.  The truth would come out during her ham fisted attempts to address my behaviour and I truly marvel at the fact that she every got the qualifications she did, let alone her position at St Psychos Hospital.
  • The putting their study before my needs, even the most fundamental.  I’ll give you an example.

Me:  ‘I won’t be able to stay on the course long term anyway’

Ann: ‘Oh no Sista, why not?’

Me:  ‘You know why, I have to sell my home and move somewhere cheaper, otherwise it will get repossessed and I’ll lose the only financial security I have and end up homeless’

Ann:  ‘Oh.  Well, that sounds very stressful, but we hope that you can stay as we care for you very much and you need the support of the group at this time’

Cue pointed stare.

And of course, my writing stopped dead as I didn’t believe that I had any to say of value to anyone anymore.

I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.

Not that they believed that I meant it.  And when the penny did finally dropped, they went all out guns blazing to get me back into my cage like a good little lab rat.

Like I say, this was not easy to keep them at bay, and Jolyon the medical professional to whom my wellbeing was entrusted to, used every trick in the book to make me stay.   

Whether you believe in the Devil or not, his moniker, Father of Lies has never made so much sense to me.

I was psychologically bludgeoned every which way, time and time again, to make me stay put. 

The ‘You don’t know what you’re doing because your damaged’ tactic. 

The guilt card for letting everyone else down. 

Raising his voice at me in order to make my lose my temper so he could regain control.

Promising to not try and make me stay if I came in for a exit meeting only to renege on this the second we sat down. 

The implied backing down without admitting guilt (‘Suppose you were right about Ann behaving inappropriately…’) in the hope that this would be enough to appease me and make me return followed by an immediate retraction when it didn’t work.

The denial of my rights. 

The refusal to hear my voice, my rational, honest, emotionally intelligent voice pleading for understanding and support, because my label of EPD meant that he though he was entitled to do so.

I thought my battle with my ex company was bad, but it was a walk in the park compared with this.  But I hung in there in stuck by my decision, and instead of passing me onto someone else like I requested (as if I’m that fucked up, I’d need a replacement ASAP, right?) I’ve been flung back onto an NHS waiting list by way of punishment.

But I can tell you with all honesty that I have yet to regret that decision.

Sure, there have been many bad days and my faithful old companion Fear is never far from my side.  I still have nightmares about my future, worry about losing my benefits and am still have to deal with the stress of trying to sell up and move.

But gradually things have gotten better.

And in the last week something extraordinary happened and for a week, I was made to feel how life could truly be if only I had a little faith.  More on that later.

But to all you BPD’ers, EPD’ers etc, I beg of you, if you can possibly avoid it, try to avoid giving up on life and throwing yourself upon the mercy of the NHS.  Because when you hand the keys and allow someone else to captain your ship, you only have yourself to blame when you eventually hit choppy waters in a land far away where there’s no shore in sight, and those fuckers don’t let you anywhere near the helm anymore.

I came very close to being Randled by those fuckers, but like the Chief, I’m only just beginning to know who I am again.

And this little egg, whilst still be cracked and streaked with guano, may still have a chance to release it’s potential again.

Namaste x


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SUGAR ME…

Sugar-depression

...wanna get my candy free’ sang diddy blonde songstress Lindsey de Paul back in the ’70’s, and I have to say, come Easter Sunday I was on exactly the same page, having being starved of the sweet stuff for nearly six weeks.

And I was ready.

Yessir, I treated myself to some posh chocs, made myself some fruit cake (not chocolate? Should have been a clue really) and at the last minute, made myself a batch of the best ice cream ever.

Because I’d been missing my Haagen Dazs.

I didn’t lose as much weight as last time, due to a knee injury, but my jeans were looser and, as it transpires, my energy levels were much better.

So Easter Saturday, I kind of cheated as I had to taste the components of said frozen ambrosia in order to get it right, but I’m sure the risen Christ would forgive me such a small transgression.

I decided to create my own version of HD’s Strawberry Cheesecake variant.

I made my own almond shortbread.

I made my own strawberry coulis instead of using jam as some recipe had suggested, with berries, a bit of sugar and a dash of cassis.  I mean, jam?  Shit, that’s a bit excessive, even for me.

I also cut down the sugar in the cream cheese ice cream after someone who had tested another version said it didn’t need as much.  I used 60g instead of 100g and it sure tasted sweet enough to me.

I also had some HD salted caramel and chocolate in the freezer, so was looking forward to a nice scoop of each after Sunday lunch.

So when Easter Sunday dawned, I had a cupboard full of goodies, but actually felt a bit intimidated re how I was going to eat them all after doing without so long.

I enjoyed a slice of fruit cake for breakfast, and had a small slice of chocolate orange cake after lunch at my friends house.

But when it came to my much anticipated ice cream sundae, I was in for a shock.

As I tucked in, I realised that my lovely concoction tasted of nothing next to the HD salted caramel chocolate which was tooth achingly sweet.  One scoop did not complement the other, they clashed horribly and it was then I realised how much sugar must be in the HD range.

For anyone who doesn’t cook, ice cream before frozen is essentially a custard, and considering that it had 15g sugar per portion (not including the shortbread and coulis), I don’t even want to think how many grams per portion is in the bought varieties.

Not only that, but after a three day dietary blow out, I was hit by a stint of severe depression not experience by me for quite some time, which only goes to verify what sugar does to one’s mood and state of mind, as per the attached article about how sugar affects the brain.

And this is with reference to normal folk, so imagine what it does to crazies like me?

Which is why my beloved Haagen Dazs is in the bin, and my freezer is packed with home made ice cream and cake waiting to be consumed another day.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ll always appreciate a good doughnut (old school, not those insubstantial super sugary, highly processed Krispy Dunkin monstrosities), a nice slice of home made cake, one chocolate with a cup of tea, and being able to finish a good meal in a fine restaurant with a dessert.

But gone are the days of ‘treating myself’ to a tub of shop bough high end ice-cream whilst telling myself that it won’t hurt me, or scarfing a packet of marshmallows (which are essentially pure sugar and gelatine) and congratulating myself for choosing a fat free treat.

Don’t get me wrong, the high is great; but the come down just isn’t worth it.

Haagen Dazs, we’re through!

And don’t let the door hit your big fat ass on your way out.

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Lesson learned.

Namaste x

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/06/sugar-brain-mental-health_n_6904778.html


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I’VE GOTTA BE ME? #BPD

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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’.

Alrighty.

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.

Gotcha.

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.

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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.

Fuck.

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

http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/sammy_davis_jr/ive_gotta_be_me.html


12 Comments

TROLLY DOLLY

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As most of you know, I was blessed (or some might say, cursed) with a very sharp tongue which was seemingly tailor made to wound.

Not a very pleasant skill I know, but if it’s any consolation, as fellow vociferous looney tunes will know, we easily beat ourselves up as much, if not more, than we do our unfortunate adversaries.

Fact.

But maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t be beating people up in the first place.  Even if they do deserve it.

Until lately, I’ve never been much of a Tweeter.  I’m anonymous on there too so can’t connect with real life friends, the people I really want to follow don’t say much of anything (probably because they have a life), so a lot of the time I find it quite boring.

Who cares if Jonathan Ross just had a bit of toast and marmalade for breakfast?

Not I, and I’ll read any old shit to pass time, so it bemuses me why normal busy people spend hour after hour on there.

Then one day all became clear when an annoying celebrity I ripped into acknowledged me.

I was strangely pleased and flattered, which is odd given that I can’t stand the man. Then the penny dropped.  In a world where you, everything you say or do tends to go unacknowledged and unappreciated (especially when you have mental health issues and/or lack in confidence), Twitter is the one place where you can make the famous/arrogant/entitled hear you whether they like it or not.

So, whilst I don’t do it all the time, every now and then, when someone pisses me off, something is unfair/unjust, someone is being a dick, I go on there and have my say.   For the most part, I do it with humour and a level of affection, but of late, my tweets have been more angry and accusary.

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Appropriate and justified you might say, when it comes to someone like Oscar Pistorius literally getting away with moider, Shrien Dewani attempting to follow suite, Donald Trump riding roughshod over anyone and everyone, and the heinous Katie Hopkins being, well, herself. But one day, I got all het up about a baking competition because some old dear took someone else’s ice cream out of the freezer, let it melt and didn’t say sorry!  What the absolute fuck is that all about?

Then, when it came to what happened on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ last week, I started to turn, well, a bit trolly.  I know, I know, it sound so frigging stoopid, but this female dancer on it really gets my goat.

Let me also just say that joking apart, I am NOT a keyboard warrior.  Anyone that knows me would say that I would happily say what I write about anyone to their face.  And the police would probably be called.  But I digress….

So this dancer, Aliona won the competition three years ago, mainly down the the fact that she was paired up with someone young, hot and a professional performer.  That’s not to say they didn’t deserve the crown, but all of the professional dancers are amazing so she lucked out getting Harry that year.

The following year she got paired up with an adorable old TV presenter, Johnny Ball, someone of whom I loved to watch when I was little.  Aliona was visibly unimpressed but hey, you win some, you lose some, right?  However by the next show she was absent with an ‘injury’, leaving another dancer to tread the light fantastic with the old boy, who, no doubt hobbled by the disruption, performed poorly and was voted out first week.

Then in 2013 the BBC, clearly also suspecting foul play announced that she was leaving the show along with some other dancers.   But, instead of exiting quietly, dignity intact, she went apeshit, telling the press that she was being pushed out and did not know why. All this squawking seemed to work as, later that year she was back on the show and was paired up with legendary golfer Tony Jacklin.

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Had she learned her lesson?  Had she fuck.  Instead of looking after this national treasure, she concocted a ridiculous routine that showed off all his flaws, and that, along with the most ridiculous unflattering outfit I’ve ever seen, earned him the order of the boot in the first week. You could see the triumph in her eyes, and she barely bothered to feign disappointment as she trotted upstairs to rejoin the professional dancers.

This year, unbelievably, she returned again and was duly paired up with Masterchef presenter Gregg Wallace, who, it has to be said, was a veritable Chippendale compared with the other two, but was Modom content?

Hardly.  Whilst her face managed to hold it’s rictus grin, her eyes indicated that she’d rather take to the floor with an incontinent tramp. In a way I got that ‘cos I don’t like him much either, but tough titty sweetie, it’s your JOB to teach him!

You know you really hate someone when you hate them more than someone you really hate.  And I just hate that.

Ahem.

So much wasted energy…

So, seeing a pattern forming, I take to Twitsville and predict Mystic Meg style that poor old Gregg will be first off in week one.

And I was right. The curse of Aliona struck again. Not only that but it turns out that she was so cold and hostile to the poor sap that he was in tears and having panic attacks before his performance.  But she’s not all bad.  She did wait a whole 24 hours before retweeting hundreds of messages saying she shouldn’t have to dance with ‘old puddings’ anymore and begging for the BBC to give her someone hot and young to partner with next time.

Incensed by the unfairness of all this, I went after her on Twitter, telling the world about her evil strategy, how arrogant she was, and that she should be more kind and tolerant or leave, and when I was retweeted and supported, my stony little heart swelled with appreciation and self righteousness. Until I noticed some rather horrible, mocking carping little tweets nestling amongst my nice ones in my outbox….

Ah…..

Kind? Tolerant? Just like moi eh?

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Then I realised that I was using my boredom, hopelessness, anger and fear to vent at someone I didn’t know, to make me feel better, and whilst I wasn’t being horrendously cruel or threatening to shank her or anything, I was starting to morph into an ugly, bitter, ranting little troll, that crouched, snarling, snuffling and gibbering over her keyboard, just waiting for someone to trip trap over her hypocritical sensibilities so that she can ‘justifiably’ pounce and rip into them, laughing gleefully as they squirm and bleat with pain.

Who is this girl to me and what right do I have to demand that she loses her job?  What does she resonate in me that pushes my buttons?  Her youth and beauty?  Her arrogance?  Her ageism?  The fact that she gets away with moider?

Whatever it is, my fury is not about her, it’s about me and I have to stop launching myself at people and use that energy to sort my life out instead.

So I’ll stop.

Not totally though 😉

Anyone with a piss taking gene as strong as mine would have to be made of stone not to join in the #askrobin campaign, someone has to support the underdogs of this world, and I can’t tell a lie, the Donald Trump/Fred & Rose West debacle and the resulting barrage of hilarious retweet requests made me snort tea all over my keyboard.

But when I get really ‘attack dog’ it’s time for me to turn this damn computer off, sit in a quiet place and find another way to vent my pain, before it envelops and poisons the world at large.

God, this self examination shit is hard.

Aliona, you’re a spoilt, disrespectful little cow, but you mean nothing to me or my world, therefore I will leave you alone from now on.

But if you pull the same stunt next year, you are toast bitch, you hear?

Namaste x


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OPTIMISTIC MIX TRACK 18 – I DIDN’T KNOW MY OWN STRENGTH – Andrea Faustini (X Factor UK)

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Let’s get one thing straight, I never, ever watch the X Factor.

I don’t like the way the contestants are treated, I don’t like the way they rig the competition and, worst of all, I don’t like the way they take artists with genuine talent (well, about 50% of them anyway) and then mould them into tedious reality TV clones.

Then, when they’ve made their dosh and milked the person for all they’re worth, they cast them aside, and they end up touring Butlins, Pontins and working men’s clubs until they too get usurped by the next onslaught of ‘stars’, and their dreams are in tatters.

No. 25 my friends, No. 25.

Never change who you are for anyone.  Not even portly, puppet master Simon Cowell, the twisty, greedy bastard.

Andrea Faustini is currently in the final 6 for the boys category and ‘Judges Houses’ airs this weekend, and I have to say that I hope he doesn’t make it.

Because he’s just too good for that shower.

Listen to the above and you’ll hear why.

His voice, his conviction and this song inspired me this weekend and I hope it does the same for you, m’darlin’s.

I’m nearly broke, and at the mercy of some vindictive old bitch who hates me, I have to sell up and move to somewhere, I’m having to walk away from 2 years free therapy, I have no idea what my future holds and I’m afraid.

But guess what?

The only crumble is this house is a rhubarb and ginger one, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

I did 8 of my challenges yesterday, and two of you have joined me so that’s gladdened my heart more than I can say.

Namaste and take care x