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