The Only Way Out Is Through

I’m glad to say my difficult weekend is now in the past and I could dwell on how painful it was (and believe me I have) but that would defeat the benefit of it now being in the past.  My plan was to do something everyday to define each day with a presence rather than an absence. So I had all sorts of little activities in mind mostly revolving around wellbeing – the usual stuff like Yoga and meditation, talking to friends but that did not happen.  It all went ping pong before it even started.  I’d been invited out to an 80’s night at Floridita in Wardour St. on Thursday and I remembered it being totes amazebots the last time we went so I was there with knobs on.   The point being that I was determined to do something from Thursday to Sunday, with friends preferably to blot out or at least soften the blow of this first weekend I faced as a person who now has to share something very precious to her with someone who no longer is.  I’m being vague, I know, but I’m in disbelief that I am here, so indulge me a little until I am strong enough to say the words.  Long story short, I got drunkety drunk drunk that Thursday (so much for my high minded plan).  This for a person that has been either teetotal or taken the tiniest Posh Spice sips at people’s birthdays was the worst thing I could have done but I was caught up in the pain and the pleasure with good friends who all knew I was facing a demon filled weekend and wanted to help in the only way a bunch of PR girls know how.   The evidence of just how incredibly “helped” I had been was strewn around the house the following morning – not that I really got to see it properly until well into the afternoon as I simply could not stand up straight.  I think I was also ill with a type of throat infection – one of those 24 hour things.  Suffice to say Friday was a write-off.  Except for having to drag, and I mean drag, my repentant shell to deliver a Halloween costume, I did nothing all day but stare at the ceiling.  Small mercy then that Friday just slipped by in the way a yogi should never allow.  But then again, at the time, not that I had much of a choice, but even if I’d had any say in it, I would have chosen this emotionless abyss (if you don't count the daily sob).  That night was a lonely fade to black.  I was determined to do better the next day.  While I felt recovered, I was not yet strong enough to get back “on the mat” so to speak.  I let the hours slip by, staring ahead at the TV.  Again, the worst thing possible but sickness was a friend that day and I forgave myself for doing nothing two days in a row.  I had one appointment that evening, to meet a friend over from Ireland for dinner.  I am so glad for this.  That was one less evening of either watching TV at 90 degree angles or the cold sweats in bed.  So within the blink of an eye it was Sunday and that meant one more sleep away from a better week.  I did make it to yoga that last day and I made sure to be fully present.  Being present really does deliver in that it just feels like time well spent.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I also took my merry old time in Sainsburys – an activity I used to (and I’m sure will again) loathe.  Actually that will be my gauge that I’m starting to feel normal again.  The day I switch back to having groceries delivered, I’ll know I’m on the mend.  

Making Way for Life

Welcome back to me.  Summer delivered and now it's trying its best to leave the UK but feels bad, like a shitty husband who knows it's wrong to go so he does it in a long, lingery, painful sort of way - until one day he is gone but not before wreaking the most excruciating emotional destruction on his way out.  That is the winter I'm expecting because yesterday despite all the signs pointing to it being a wrap up day, I found myself having to slowly shed layers with each step, as trickles of back sweat began pooling around the elastic waistband of my nic nocs.

The big hard sun made a resplendent appearance instead, pretty much the whole day.  And it was wonderful. So much for Storm Gonzalo...where do they find these names?  

To say that a lot has happened since I last posted would be like saying Neville Chamberlain had a bit of an update from his meeting with Hitler in 1939.  But the gory details will need to wait until the dust has settled. Let's just say I find myself with a brand new status in life and have not yet felt the freedom or release that is meant to come with the end of something toxic.  The transition is proving more than a little difficult and I find myself relying more and more on the spirit side for peace of mind.  So much so that I dedicate an hour a night to meditating just to stay sane; to get through one more night. It does work.  I mean it helps, at least and I've received many insights in the clear abyss of a blank mind.  They are little things admittedly but they help to acknowledge either the pain or the ecstasy. Ideas come too and now I have the drive to see them through and for that in a perverse way I have to thank the situation I find myself in.  If some of these come to fruition, I will definitely be living "the dream" though much is to be said for the simple pleasure of sitting under a duvet with The Lish watching Edward Scissorhands.

This is not news but when shit goes down, you do really know who your mates are. I love the snot out of them for being there even in the smallest 2 line text once a fortnight sort of way.  Equally I would like to put the snot into a Boloni sandwich and serve it to those who have to all extent and purposes suddenly dropped off the earth. In the end however, it's up to me to make life work, not them or anyone really. To wish a snot sandwich on people that have in your eyes "let you down" is the action of a mediocre person and I've given my last minute to that type so I'm fairly keen to avoid become one myself.

This weekend will be huge for me - time to prove my mettle by doing the right thing and making way for life.  The glass is half full...with room for more of the good stuff.

The Joy of Sun

I have 22 pc battery power left on my laptop, so I'd better make this quick.  It helps that I also desperately need the loo so this is going to be a drive-by blogging - so to speak.  I don't really have a point for today's post (why change now?) also touching cloth makes it very hard to concentrate ...too much info?  OK.  I'll refrain.  I guess I just want to record, for posterity, before the irreparable rip of reality takes away this gorgeous summer loving we've been enjoying here in London and much of the UK (but not Wales or Scotland...that would just be weird).  It's just been so freaking deliciously warm and sunny.  It's been a summer of blue skies, hazy, balmy nights and happy chirpy citizens.  And I love it. It's what I imagine living on the West Coast of America might be like. I fantasize that I am in fact walking down a road in San Fran or meandering through the LA hills..cept you can't walk in LA as the distances, I've been told, are deceptively far (also it's probably not that safe).  Additionally, since turning vegan, I've lost a lot of that middle age spread that creeps onto backs, ribs and hips to the point that last week I was able to dig out two dresses I last wore when I was 31 (more than 10 years ago and we'll leave it at that) which now fit me perfectly again.  In fact, I remember the yellow strapless dress in particular feeling tight-ish back then and promptly being relegated to the back of the wardrobe whence it stayed until last week.  The unsightly hip and lower back chunks - the muffin top and cake shelf - are gone and I'm having one last body honeymoon before even veganism fails this old frame of mine.  And if you are thinking about the wisdom of a 42 year old wearing little cloths from the early 90s again, yes you'd be right, I am just on the cusp of "mutton" here but fear not, I make sure I only wear these kerchief-like dresses with flat shoes.  The face is still that of a 42 year old (albeit a well preserved one) and I do apologise in advance to any young man who has thought it was his lucky day only to have me turn around and be reminded it's been a while since he last called his mother.  At this stage, I'll consider that a compliment.

I'm off to Canada next week where mental met illness - to see the outlaws.  It will be strange arriving looking brown as a berry from London sun.  Were it not for the fact that I'm there to visit people, rather than places I'd hardly deem a holiday worth it this year.  Now that's the joy of sun.

Don't Feed the Animals

Yesterday I watched a more than grown man lick his plate clean in the cafeteria of a first class London yoga studio – let’s call it Triyoga, Primrose Hill.  He actually put his knife and fork down, out of the way, picked up his plate and licked from diameter to diameter, circumference to circumference and for good measure gave a few quick tongue darts around the radius.  At first I thought it was his playful way of giving compliments to the chef (beats farting and burping as is the custom is some parts) and that he was play licking but soon it was clear that he was not pretending at all – that he was in fact honest to goodness slurping every last morsel.  30 seconds passed before the sucking stopped.  Time it.  That is a long time licking.  He also had a beard which made it all the more repulsive.  Now, yogis tend to put the 'less' into “laissez-faire” at the worst of times and that’s all well and far out man, but I draw the line at a middle-aged gent with money enough to do yoga at one of London’s most elite yoga studios licking food off a plate.  If that wasn't irksome enough he then said to no-one in particular: “Less washing-up.”  I was not so much tempted to give a knowing (if tired) smile acknowledging the playfulness (?) of his actions/words as I was to shove that plate up his bum and invite him to wait a few moments for seconds.  As a devoted yogi, I should practice non-judgement, however in the event that this plate ever makes it under any food I order I wish to say for the record: the man is a cock.   It’s an interesting place, ‘the yoga studio’ -  in many ways it’s actually the meeting place for the world’s least laid back and most precious which I've always found amusingly contradictory but then again people who have a “healthy” obsession with yoga tend to come with tonnes of baggage they need to check in.  In fact far from surprising me, yoga studios should come with a warning:  Beware of the dogs.

Girls To The Front

I've just spent the last oh I don’t know hour (give or take 25 years) cyber stalking Kathleen Hanna.  She was the founder of Riot Grrrlll movement (that’s her corporate title); others call her a feminist punk artist and someone who left a comment on a YouTube clip of a new film about her: The Punk Singer, called her a “screamy cunt trying to tell us she is not a screamy cunt”.  Pick your potato.  To me she is a legend.  The lead singer of girl grunge band Bikini Kill who I believe really was behind the emergence of grunge in Seattle; she was mates with Kurt before Nirvana blew its load over the disenfranchised indie crowd and is responsible for the phrase “smells like teen spirit” which we all now know as the title of Nirvana’s breakthrough single.  Kurt’s then girlfriend, Toby Vail was the drummer in Hanna's band Bikini K.  Today she fronts band The Julie Ruin which she arrived at via other underground cult punk band Le Tigre.  She is at once the tithesis and antithesis of everything that feminism is generally accepted to mean – and since the term is WIDE open to interpretation, it really is a huge space she has had to at once fill and empty.

So since circa 1994 Kathleen has been seething her way through feminism using art, music and poetry.  She is a complete paradox (to my mind): all balls on stage while privately crippled by low self-esteem, too paralysed to ask for help lest her on-stage mask should slip.  Ironically she talks like a valley girl (guttural and vulnerable-like) and after trading her T-shirt, no pants look of her true F-U days in Bikini Kill for the 50s prom queen one in Le Tigre to today’s mumsy mien (she’s not a mum, just has that wholesome thing going on) she suddenly went very quiet – leaving the music scene altogether saying she was done.  Turns out she had Lyme’s Disease and didn't want to admit it was the reason behind her disappearance for fear it would make this fearless feminist appear weak.  Furthermore, she didn’t tell any of her immediate circle for ages because she felt as “the strong feisty feminist” that she has always been the one helping not asking for it.  There’s that contradiction again.  Mad ennit?  We all do it; keep it all in and it’s just not healthy.  Eventually it finds an outlet and when that happens it’s rarely a pretty sight. 

 In this case and testament to her true commitment to music and her own identity – she used the time convalescing doing what she says is “the only thing she knows how to do” write songs to sing.  In this way The Julie Ruin was born.  She recovered enough to start recording and until recently was on a world tour which was set to include The Electric Ballroom in London this August.  Then Lyme’s Disease reared its ugly head and forced her to postpone while she received treatment.  Postpone not abandon.  This is progress. 

Incidentally, she is married to Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz whom she describes as a really good husband - big words (big action getting married) for a once militant feminist worth her bra-less boobies.   Now that she has graduated from youth’s tunnel vision on the topic she is OK with being a feminist with feelings and isn't afraid to ask for help any more.  So now she can add mental health role model to her impressive list of achievements.  

Something in the Way

I'm having works done at home.  Nothing extravagant, just a few small improvements here and there but as I've come to realise, it's the small things that become the big things over time and indeed the small things together make one nice big thing.  Still, small (or big) as they are, I'm feeling the strain and this morning I woke up with a small coldsore.  I haven't had one in a couple of years  - remarkable really when I think about the stress of last year.  I can only conclude that I am better at dealing with avalanches than trickles.  Actually this is possibly true for everyone after all you can't worry about stuff that's too huge to fathom right?  Cos you just either go into shock or auto pilot.  No it's the niggly little shit that seeps into spaces until eventually you can't walk for tripping.  Huh.  I'd never really seen it like that. Ok, so now I'm not feeling so overwhelmed, now that I've dismantled that.  Clarity (of sorts) can be cool like that.  It's one of the things the therapist I was seeing last year told me to demand of myself and others. Clarity.  It avoids misunderstandings.  Gosh, it's all so freaking obvious when you stop to think.   His other tip was about spending time with myself which I now also understand to mean taking everything down a notch.  Stopping to think for instance.  Quiet time.  I could do with a bit of thinking now that I think about it as I've been feeling a little bit like something isn't quite right.  It's why I have a pain down my right side, I'm convinced of that.  The last time I had what I can only describe as a cloud of dread, I was visited by my mum in a dream who frankly looked sad for me.  She was pushing a flight of stairs.  An uphill struggle?  She wasn't wrong and she was forearming me. At first I saw it as a warning that someone in my life was in danger.  After making lots of phone calls to friends and family which I can tell you did nothing to help any political aspirations (were I to have them) it later transpired that it was ME who was in danger.  It wasn't long afterward the truth of a foul and huge deceit against me and on the part of someone whose trust and respect I should never have had to doubt came to light.  One day I will go into the sordid details but that day is not today.  Just to say that the awful dread is here again and frankly I'm concerned....so far no message from the other side and truth be told I take comfort in that.  I'm hoping this time around, it's simply the build up of strain caused by 1.) the uncertainty at work and 2.) the inconvenience of builders in the house - which prevents me from doing as much yoga as I'd like.  Thankfully this time around I have demanded clarity from the situation, including a frank conversation with myself people close to me with the power to pull punches that would hurt. I'm satisfied for now that nothing potentially soul-destroying is taking place.  So, its time for a walk, perchance a run.  The answers come to a quiet mind.

The Certainty of Uncertainty

It's remarkable really that I should be so badly injured when it is I that begins every yoga class listing contra- indications and reinforcing the importance of never pushing past your limit.  Yoga is not aerobics I tell yoginis.  Yoga should be effortless - though done with effort (reassuringly mystical, I think you'll agree).  So you can imagine my frustration that 4 weeks after noticing the first symptoms of what I at first self diagnosed as rotator cuff issues,  I am now having to teach through the cosy cocoon of codeine, entirely unsure of what it is that is wrong.  Actually, let me clarify before I continue, I'm not having to do anything - it brings me immeasurable joy to teach yoga, painfully or otherwise.  Being spiritually inclined (you may have noticed) I truly believe that illness, unexplained or sudden onset of pain is a physical manifestation of something that began in the emotional realm.  And as the lucky recipient of the best psycho-therapy private medical can buy, I no longer have to rely just on the spiritual to understand (as opposed to have to trust - the spiritual is entirely founded on faith and trust) what could be at the root of it all.  In this case, after soothing silence of meditation, the answer came.  I am carrying the weight of the world around - a.k.a the stress of the uncertain.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my role where I work is currently at risk after a company reshuffle.  On it's own it really is no biggie - I know I can get a PR job without too much fuss if I had to.  No it wasn't just that.  Digging a little deeper I came to see that I'm also holding onto the pressure of general uncertainty.  What will I really do if I'm made redundant next week?  Do I stay in PR or do I go?  Do I throw myself into my passion and start working for myself?  And I have to be honest, I was worried The Silverback was having a mid-life wobble and could be "given to fly".  I made the mistake of putting on a brave face instead of bravely facing these uncertainties.  So for the past month, I've had the most excruciating pain running from the deepest part of my right shoulder girdle to the tips of my fingers on my right side.  I know the pressure points so the little muscle on the side body about 4 fingers down from your armpit was also very very sore.  Try it. Find that little knot of "muscle" on top of the first side rib and press...if it's sore...know that it's not muscle, it's pressure and you are not dealing with  external stress triggers properly (well that and that you're probably using your smartphone too much!!).

This absorbed, I took myself off for my weekly Jivamukti class - it's the only class per week I do that I'm not also teaching and braced myself for the almost intolerable pain in my right shoulder (tut tut - rule breaker that I am) when....nothing.  No shoulder or heart opening pose, no inversion could bring that now familiar sharp jabbing.  I even managed a forearm stand - which I can tell you is like opening up the patio doors for your shoulders.  Nothing.  I came home on a bit of a high but I am a seeker by nature.  I could have just blissfully accepted this and you know I really have but I like a side of insight with my epiphanies.  And then the penny finally dropped last night.  As I emptied a whole wall of books in preparation for a load of building work (yep, then there was the building work) and aware that school started again for kids (my kid) on Monday after 2 weeks off for Easter, I saw that my issue was I was not OK with uncertainty.  But here is the ridiculous thing about that:  uncertainty is the only certainty there is.  Giving myself permission to be OK with this finally released me.

Gigantic

So I went out with my little film-o-phile friend to the British Film Institute (of course, where else?) last night.  He’s the fella that took me to see The Corpse Grinders (takes place in a cat food factory that uses human flesh as its main ingredient).  Who needs highbrow when you can have high camp? In his defense he also took me to see a film I thought I’d imagined called Over The Edge that stars a teenage Matt Dillon in his first movie role.  I had often thought about this elusive film from my dim and distant past but try as I might, I just could never find any evidence it had ever been made.  In fact I started to believe I had made this up – a mash-up of  bits from other films to form this personal portrait of teenage boredom.  If I could do that, I’d be making films not rambling on a blog no doubt – so you see my dilemma.  It didn't help that I couldn't remember the name of the film, so imagine my utter delight when it turned out to be the film for that particular outing.  This time however, the BFI is currently having an extended run of James Dean movies and my mate – let’s call him Twisted Sister – asked if I’d like to go see Dean’s last film, Giant.  He forewarned me it was “quite long”.  I mean, how long can “quite long” be?  

Over THREE hours long it turns out.  In for a penny….but I have to admit, it flew by.  I also have to admit I’d never seen it.  It flew, not because the story line bounced along seamlessly, it really didn't.  I've never seen two people tussle, court, fall in love, get married and change lives so fast.  Suffice to say the film isn’t a love story say like Gone With The Wind is.  I did get the impression it was kinda hoping to be like GWTW spanning as it does generations of the ranch farming Benedict family.  It didn't quite pull it off in my very humble (never produced anything in my life) opinion –so what do I really know?  Well, I know cheese.  And this was cheesy in many parts but in such a stylised way, I loved it.  From Liz Taylor’s pretty and contained militant-ism about the minority rights of her Mexican house servants to the predictable rise of down-at –heel social misfit Jett Rink, played by Jimmy D who finds out the hard way money does not solve problems.  

Oh but the colours, the youthful beauty of these true cinema giants; it was a step back in time when things were more vibrant and so lithe.  I didn't recognise Dennis Hopper the first few times he was on screen – he looks like a Ken doll.  And I love it.  Course by the time the film credits stumbled over the finish line there was just enough time to high-tail it to the tube for the last train.  I took the opportunity to read over the BFI information sheet you collect as you go into the film so you can get all muso about it.  It tells me that James Dean died 13 days after his final day of shooting the film.  It had a Kurt Cobain effect on the film for sure but not without basis.  Watch it if you have three weeks to spare and notice how Dean squeezes every last nuance of the character out of every scene.

The Business of Yoga

Kinesiology or Yoga Therapy? That is the question.  After some investigation (which is not like me at all) I've decided that it has to be Yoga Therapy.  I'm looking at expanding knowledge as a way of differentiating myself from the mat of yoga instructors in my area.  Yes, that's right, a mat of yoga instructors.  I think it is a perfect collective noun for us.  So rather than offer (albeit first class) yoga instruction that you can get at any good yoga outlet, I want to tap into segments of the population for whom the pills have stopped working - for whom the pills were never designed to work.  I'm talking about people suffering from clinical conditions - obesity, diabetes, muscular-skeletal problems (ipad back, joint probs, gen mobility etc..), depression & anxiety and all the effects of the things you are led to do when you are feeling anxious and depressed.  So I'm excited about the new YT course I'm signing up to.  Not cheap either which gives that unpalatable comfort that you're not just doing a community class in a room above a coffee shop.  No, I mean business and the type you get accredited for with letter after your name YO!  Then I'm looking at setting up a novel business model which of course I can't talk about here as that would be foolish but the roots of it start and end with the "customer".  However for now, you can find me leading class at your local church hall.  Meanwhile I myself have been drinking from the font of flexibility at the expert hands of my local Jivamukti yoga instructor. This is a more spiritual, mantra-led practice, however let this description lead you not into a false sense of security.  My inner thigh muscles are still feeling the effects of last Sunday's class...ahem...as I edge ever closer to a perfect split.  I have about 10 inches to go before groin and floor make contact or...12 years of practice.

I Can See Clearly Now

I've been thinking about the purpose of this blog going forward.  I mean I could use it as a very public "Dear Diary" but it would need to be a lot more revealing to create any impact.  Revealing I have, revealing I can do - believe me. However I would need to kill you all and then also kill all those whose names I had changed to protect.  So that's out. Perhaps I could turn it into something useful - a source of infinite wisdom and knowledge.  God, I can't even type that without losing the will to live.  Who am I kidding?  If I had wisdom and knowledge I wouldn't have ended up in therapy for a year (but like I said, best thing I ever did). So I'll stick to helpful and honest. That's really the best I can do on the advice front.   Then I thought, being a qualified Yoga practitioner I would impart some spiritual guidance...but again - really? Guess, this will have to continue to be my place of purging.   But here is the kicker - I don't really purge anymore.  Therapy armed me with the tools to deal with stress and other mood affecting sensations.  For instance, today I have been feeling teary and truth be told, bored.  Just bored. With nothing in particular.  Bored enough to bid on a bangle on eBay.  Seriously.   In the past this would have caused me to fret and paint everything black.  But now I demand clarity from myself.  So I know that all this is is a combination of PMT and a torn rotator cuff that has got me eating codeine like it was popcorn which in turn has brought my energy levels down.  That's all.  Nothing that an early morning yoga session won't help or a lovely 30 minutes of meditation before bedtime won't solve. In the meantime, I do have important issues to consider.  For instance, my job is sort of almost certainly on the line after my company announced a restructure and my division was cut.  I see this as an opportunity to look at where I'm going work-wise and that really excites me.  

All or Nothing

You know when you've got a build-up of stories to tell but you don't know where best to start for maximum impact, minimum effort?  Then you sort of start condensing things to the bare bones and end up whittling them down to one useless stub?  It's sort of what's happening to me right now.  See I want to lose the detail without sacrificing the soul...but somehow it has all ended up a bit insipid.  I am reminded of the Shakespeare Masterclass sketch in 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie' where Fry gets Laurie to squeeze the essence out of a speech in such a way they don't get past the first word.  It's quite funny.   Anyway, succinctness is a true art and one that has not only passed me by - it simply didn't come my way.  All of this to say I have become vegan and teetotal. Yes, it's like saying "I'm now a lesbian" (I'm not - but you know what I mean). And the result?  I look and feel younger.  Who would have thought it?  All that crap about a glass of wine a day being good for you and how the body needs protein from meat malarkey....well it took me a LONG time but I finally broke out of the media mold.  My body needs alcohol and meat like a freaking hole in the head.  If I told you I lost a dress size and the dark circles under my eyes by cutting out all things once considered life's little pleasures would you then believe that vegan teetotalism is in fact the secret to becoming and staying a skinny bitch? Well it is. I've also cut out sugar and carbs...yes, you're now thinking I've replaced one mania with another.  Maybe but I have to say this mania makes me feel (and even if I say so myself) look freaking great.  Ok, if The Silverback is reading this, he will know that I'm slightly lying about sugar.  I do still eat sweet things but I try to make sure the sweetness comes from anything but processed sugar (yes including demarara).  To wit:  I made a banana cake on Wednesday with maple syrup, vegetable fat and water and it lasted a couple of hours.  It was delicious.  I'm astounded.  As you may recall, I'm not a baker.  My cakes usually look and taste of ass.  Lesson here is that you can have vegan cakes and I certainly know how to eat them.  I probably shouldn't makes these too often...clearly I have ZERO self control.  Which brings me back to the all or nothing diet (nay lifestyle) I'm now on.  I can't cut down, I have to cut out and that is just the way it is with me.  Yoga is easier for me too now that I'm not lugging the cake shelf around - but more on that and my annual ashram retreat another time.  

PiLs

Hello to no-one in particular.  The great thing, if there is such a thing about totally and utterly abandoning a project (for over a year) is that it's unlikely anyone will notice I'm back - which means I could post pictures of me waxing my lady bits without causing so much as a blip on the statmeter...but I'll refrain from doing so all the same in case someone should accidentally end up on this page while browsing for end tables. So, I notice it has been a very fooking long time since I posted anything, so long in fact the platform disabled my account.  Luckily (luckily?) this was reversible and I'm now determined to get back and stay on the horse that threw me. To cut a long and dreary story short, I had a bit of a breakdown.  Well, it was 20 years overdue.  So now I've had it, I can get on with the business of life and you can be 100 pc sure that when I offer little insights into tricks of the mental health trade - you can take comfort in the fact that I'm talking from experience.  Crazy as it sounds, I highly recommend one.  There is nothing like a good old fashioned breakdown to put your life in order and sort your priorities out.  I'll spare you the details but my episode was the culmination of 20 years of denial stemming from unresolved bereavement.  I'm glad to say I'm better and now, thanks to therapy, also armed with the tools to ensure I never get that bad again.  It means I'm allowed off days without the paranoia and worry that I'm slipping down that water slide again.  I now control  my off days - you might say, I am in control of my moods and it's a refreshing development.  I do love being grumpy every now and again.  Nothing would get done otherwise. The trick is to "sit and spend time" with yourself whenever you feel down, odd, angry, sad or unsettled to gain clarity on the 'why?' behind these feelings. You'd be surprised what you come up with and what comes up.  Not every mood means you're manic.  And before you go diagnosing yourself with low self esteem or depression, make sure you're not surrounded by assholes.  That will be all for now.