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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FEAR(LESS)

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I started the New Year on a high.

Reeling and spinning wildly to an Irish folk band with my friends, when midnight struck, I thought ‘What am amazing start to the year!  Surely only good things can follow a night like this!’

Then the rain came.

Then Christmas was over.

The decorations come down.

Then reality bites.

I’m almost broke, still unemployed, still nuts, and have so, so very much to do.

And much of it is out of my hands.  How I hate been beholden to or having to rely on anyone else.

So I made like a very grey squirrel and hibernated under the duvet as the storms ripped and swirled and howled outside my bedroom window.

So today is essentially the first day of my 2014 and dawned when I was rudely awakened by the postman trying to deliver me a parcel.  Even I was too shamefaced to start the year answering the door to him all crusty eyed and apologetic AGAIN.

Déjà vu much?

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/please-mr-postman-2/

But I’m up and about and starting to do good stuff for myself whilst waiting for the rain to stop and my group therapy to start.  Like drinking more water.  Cutting down on sugar (as much as a wannabe baker can).  Making tentative social plans for the week.  Making plans for the year over all.

As whilst 2013 didn’t kick my butt down the stairs, it did very politely escort me to the elevator and press ‘B’ for basement as far as helping me achieve my aims was concerned.

But there was stuff I needed to see down there and I’m guessing I needed to go a bit further back, just so’s I can get a good run up when leaping forward into 2014 😉

Besides, good things came from 2013, without a doubt.

And whilst I do have some New Years Resolutions to keep front of mind this year, I’m not going to bore the tits off you lot with all of them.  I’ll find other ways of letting you know how I progress in life. 🙂

But here are a couple that might resonate with some of you:

  • Not swear like a foul mouthed chav/football support/navvy all the time
  • Treat my body more like a temple and less like a graffiti covered, piss streaked bus stop in Peckham (whoops, did it again, gosh darn it!)

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  • Start one thing and finish it before embarking on something else. That should stop me disappearing into cyber space for hours on end when I’m meant to be working.
  • Practice yoga.  If it leads into a career path great, if not, I still benefit.  NO PRESSURE.
  • Workwise, stop fannying around (arghh!) doing things in a half hearted manner.  If I’m going to act, I owe it to myself to make some kind of commitment, get some good photos done, build a portfolio and treat it like a business as opposed to a hobby.
  • Focus my energy on things that count and move ME forward, and not rant about Piers Morgan/Gordon Ramsay, get caught up in reality TV, or spend days commenting on and sticking up for people like Nigella Lawson who is fabulous, but has/had a great legal team and, let’s face it, doesn’t even know that I exist.
  • Eat uncooked jelly/jello as it’s meant to be good for the nails and mine are like paper.
  • Groom my cats everyday and then they’ll vomit up fewer hairballs and I won’t walk out of the door looking like a yeti every day.

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  • And finally and most importantly, work hard to conquer the fear.  After all, what’s the worst that will happen?

Don’t even think about answering that one!

After all I may be a cat lovin’, pill popping, fear filled freak, but one things for sure, I sure ain’t no pussy….

Happy 2014 one and all!

Namaste

SS x


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THE PURPOSE OF THIS BLOG AKA ‘I WHO HAVE NOTHING’

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Hello!

I suspect the purpose of my blog might have been a ambiguous as my wording in the heading was, in hindsight, maybe a mite vague, so I’ve tweaked it and will give you a quick outline just so we’re all clear:

I started this year pretty much in the shitter with regard to nearly every facet of my life, was at the end of my tether, and had no motivation or energy to even attempt to get it back on track.

So what does our heroine do? Lay down and die? Enter a nunnery? Find a damp cardboard box under Charing Cross?  Get committed?

No!  She creates an anonymous online journal, makes to some tough, outlandish (and sometimes bizarre) New Years Resolutions with the aim of achieving them all by 31 December 2013 thus completely transforming her life as we know it.

Ta da!!

That’s where you lot come in.  Because I’ve said it now, in writing too so it’s all legal, and if I don’t do it you’ll think I’m an arse.  You might already think I’m an arse, but that’s by the by….

On good days, I also employ the things that I feel enhance my life such as cooking, music, knitting, poetry, yoga, etc) in the hope that doing things that fulfil me will help get me well.  I blog about them too in the hope that it helps others suffering from depression find solace in them too.

I also regularly host a Pity Party and play ‘boo hoo’ tracks when I feel sorry for myself or just in the mood to hear them.  This sounds pretty grim, but the plus side is that I only ever feature the very best music :-).  I even feature ‘Optimistic Mixes’ too when I need a kick in the arse!

So, you get the ups and downs, rants and raves, thrills and spills and, if you stick around long enough, you’ll get to know whether this tatty old Phoenix achieves all of her planned so-called ‘Flights’ into the real world!

To date I’ve made a teensy bit of progress, but I’ve still go the best part of 10 months to complete everything, Okay?!

So when the bongs chime on New Years Eve 2013, I hope to be….

An employed/working/solvent, outdoorsy, attached, dancing, bendy, serene, cat lovin’, successful Amazon of a woman, who gets up with the lark, so is always presentable post 9am (even at weekends – imagine!), who has loads of multi orgasmic sex (that she wears comfortable sexy underwear for), so doesn’t even have time of an evening to watch TV, has loads of friends because she  is very reliable as far as social arrangements are concerned not to mention forgiving, so is hardly ever in to drink at home,  looks after herself mind, body and spirit, and whenever she passes a mirror, she winks and whispers to her reflection ‘You FOX, you!’

I think that covers most things?

Glad that’s been cleared up, Better get on with it then……

SO NOW I’M WEARING NO KNICKERS……

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I wake up this morning tired and hung over after one of those boozy lunches that turns to dinner, that turns to last tube home, so I make myself some tea and prepare to slink back to bed.

Ping! Up pops a reminder on my phone that I have to go into town to pick up something for tonight.

Already, I’m unhappy but I jump in the bath, take my meds, pull on a towelling robe and go to my underwear draw only to discover I have no clean knickers.

Well, to be more precise, I have no clean comfy cotton panties. Cursing, I look in another drawer to see if a stray pair had hooked up with a particularly static sock.

Nope.

Then I remember my wearing sexy undies resolution. I guess now would be the perfect time to give it a go? When I say perfect, I suppose I mean unavoidable, and whilst I don’t think I’ve ever felt less sexy (or indeed receptive to knicker inspired admirers), I can’t go out in this weather without drawers, so……

I fish out a matching lacy white knicker and bra set and regard them with suspicion. M&S’s finest. The bra is still my size and the bottoms are of the ‘shorts’ variety, and given the choice, I would prefer a more substantial coverage than, say a g string.  I try them on and study myself in the mirror.

They are pretty, but…..

I check the TFL bus app on my phone that informs me that the one that stops outside my house is on its way. Shit. I quickly pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, yank on some boots, sprint down the hall, grabbing a jacket and my bag from the coast stand and hurtle towards the bus that has just pulled up.

The moment I step from the pavement onto the bus platform, it happens. My treacherous knicker gusset, as if on cue, immediately morphs into a thin elastic band like innovation and disappears up my foof.

I freeze as if I’ve just been goosed (which would be like a birthday present in comparison to this), but the bus has already started to pull away, so its too late to turn back, people behind me are tutting and sucking their teeth so, resigned to my fate, I head upstairs for a seat.

Slice, slice, slice goes the gusset turned cheese wire, practically performing an ad hoc circumcision on me, whilst simultaneously encouraging the seat of the garment to thoroughly explore between my bum cheeks. My vaguely disconsolate mood turns rapidly into something resembling homicidal rage.

Who. The. Fuck. Invented. These. Things? Clearly not anyone who understands human anatomy. To allow 2 centimetres of cloth in width for the average ADULT fanny is far from generous and hardly realistic. I bet it was a bloke.

I manage to get to a seat without punching anyone, wriggle until I’m as comfortable as I can be (i.e. numb) and try to ignore my inner dialogue:

‘What were you thinking? Haven’t you learned anything from the last time? You now have to wander around a busy shopping centre looking for a dress for tonight whilst suffering death by a thousand cuts down there, you silly…….’

‘Excuse ME!’

I raise my eyes slowly over my sunglasses and stare balefully at this enormous woman who is holding about three bags, an umbrella and wearing a really strange hat. Classic Public Transport ‘Space Invader’. And she’s looking at me like I’m hogging the seat!

Partially to save my clitoris, and partly for effect, I slowly and deliberately move an inch closer to the window, allocating her pretty much three quarters of the space. Sighing dramatically, she drops herself practically into my lap causing me to have to wriggle out from under her, encouraging the cheesewire like damp strip of cloth even deeper into my anatomy.

How I managed to restrain myself from elbowing her hard in the ribs, I really don’t know. How could this be worse?

That question is immediately answered by some huge ‘gansta’ complete with ginger dreads sitting directly behind me, shoving his knees into my back, and shouting into his mobile for the entire duration about how the lucky callee was his ‘blud’, and ‘familee to me man’ and how much he’s looking forward to meeting up with his betrothed (well, he actually said ‘biatch’) that evening and applying his huge length to her ‘gash’ until she screams for mercy. Lucky girl. She should swap with me, I ruminate bitterly to myself, what I’m suffering is probably his idea of foreplay.

The rest of the conversation was around who he was going to hurt/kill/maim, and was voiced in a faux threatening manner a mere 4 inches from my ear, no doubt to intimidate me.  Twat.  To be honest, the only reason I was glad he didn’t have a gun was that I would have snatched it out of his freckled mitt and taken out the entire upper deck.

Still simmering with fury, I draft in my head a letter to the head honcho of frillies at Marksies about how he is illegally selling instruments of torture in the guise of undergarments, and if he doesn’t refund me/compensate me/pay for my reconstructive surgery, I will seek him out, stuff this wretched garment down this throat, scoop out his testes with a melon baller and feed them to my cats. And this is AFTER I make him walk down a catwalk wearing a pair size 6’s until his scrotum bleeds. What’s good for the goose and all that……

The minute I disembark from the bus I head off to Boots, jaw clenched in agony and buy a pair of nail scissors.

I then bolt into the café next door and head for the loos.

‘EXCUSE ME?!’

Are you fucking kidding me?

I turn to regard some gum chewing, scrawny teenager festooned with  Amy style tats, bristling with metal piercings and attitude.

‘Are you planning on buyin’ sometink?’

She obviously had a bee up her arse about something and decided to take it out on me; maybe she’d ran out of syringes or meth amphetamine.

I walk slowly and stealthily to the counter, my gaze never leaving hers for one second, watching with some satisfaction as her eyes widen to saucers. When I get there I lean against it, my face inches from hers and hiss one word/syllable.

‘No.’

She says nothing.

I return with some difficultly to the loos, take a cubicle, yank down my jeans, cut the sides of offending article and carefully fish it out of my private parts.

Oh my God. The relief.

On my way out, Miss Attitude seems to have been reunited with her mojo (probably facilitated by the presence of her long streak of piss goth colleague) and starts giving it some again.

‘Oh thank you! Bye! Bye!’

I smile sweetly, give them both a one finger salute and exit onto the high street.

It’s absolutely freezing. The wind is whipping around the shoppers, rubbish is airborne, scarves are flapping, umbrellas are blown inside out, and my fangita is getting more than an airing than it probably good for it, but you know what? I don’t care if it fucking sneezes, at least the torture is over.

On the bus back, I sit on the back seat near the window. The heating is on. I thank God fervently for that little bit of grace.

I sigh and pull out my paperback.

‘Excuse me?’

Again?  Really?!

I look up. A seriously cute young guy is smiling at me mischievously.

‘I think you’ve dropped something.’

I see something white on the floor. I go cold. Please God let it not be my shredded panties.

But it’s only a tissue. I pick it up.

‘Thanks!’

He smiles and sits down next to me without impinging on my space. The pet.

So much for sexy underwear. It seems to me that palpable relief and gratitude is much more attractive to the average man on the street.

And maybe the fact that I’m wearing no knickers. And loving it. Albeit, for a very limited period indeed.

I look into my carrier bag and smile fondly at the contents.  A six pack of brand spanking new, ready to wear Granny knickers!

Well they didn’t do Bridget Jones any harm, did they?