James Ballantyne

Category: Emotions

  • The Powerful Blog I Didnt Write.

    The Powerful Blog I Didnt Write.

    Last night I was planning to write something. I also thought I might do some reading too, the latter being one of my favourite evening activities, put the music on, light the wax candles, pick up a book and sit and read

    But I was just weirdly unsettled.

    Oh, and the other thing, is that since early October I have been without my laptop to do this kind of writing. I have written quite a bit in my personal journals, free writing, sometimes crayon scrawling and inner James work, but not this kind, the blog writing stuff. What this has done in a month is store up in my mind a number of themes, ideas, pictures that I may want to write about, they are stored, I thought one would download fairly successfully into one yesterday.

    But it didnt.

    I tried picking up all the books I’ve read in the last 6 weeks and before, where the corners are folded, the pages and phrases that have inspired. I even checked my drafts folder. Ive read some wonderful books in the last 6 weeks too, Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth and Oneness with all of life, Matt Haigs How to stop Time, The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho and Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly. All wonderful books. Loved them all.

    But Nothing. Nothing Downloaded.

    Nothing felt like it was flowing from the mind, to the fingers.

    And I got frustrated.

    I felt like I wasted an evening

    I was annoyed at myself.

    I wasn’t productive.

    I shouldn’t have felt that way, I was trying to do something, but felt unsettled. There wasn’t clarity or flow.

    How did I react to my self imposed circumstance. Annoyed. Frustrated.

    I had self expectations.

    I ended up with self learning.

    I stopped.

    I was critical of myself and gave myself a beating up, over something that was of my own choice.

    I tend to do this often.

    Beat myself up.

    Think of myself as not good enough.

    Think of myself as not as creative, imaginative, talented as others.

    The critical shell on my outside can turn inwards.

    The over thinking mind that over dwells.

    Then I felt something else….. Shame.

    I felt ashamed that I felt annoyed at myself. Shame.

    Embarrassed that I felt this way.

    Shame made me feel small and useless temporarily for not being attentive to myself. Shame took me to the hiding place.

    Even in the smallest of moments, shame attaches itself to those feelings. Not careful and I’m in a swirl.

    I shouldn’t feel this way, I should be better than this, I should….

    ‘Should’ Shame.

    So.

    I Stopped.

    This was my evening for 90 minutes yesterday.

    Ive noticed this recently. The Shame Cycle. Actually maybe its not a cycle, more like shame is like a leech to feelings, attaching itself to them.

    At this point, I could easily drown or get drawn into over thinking, self criticism, self blaming and feeling pretty low.

    So what did I do?

    I remembered – who I am

    I noticed – my feelings of frustration, and stepped to one side of them

    I breathed.

    I remembered something else too.

    The True Anti-dote to Shame is Self-compassion

    Sneezy/Ziskind (eds) 2013 IFS – New Dimensions

    It was at this moment that my wife Christelle joined me on a zoom call. I told her about my feelings of frustration, and feeling ‘not very productive’ . She also reminded me that I had been very productive, and that it was ok for me to rest, to do nothing. To sit. To just be.

    Sometimes it takes someone else to help us remember.

    As someone so self-critical, from my history of self blame, over responsibility and any kind of support – Self compassion is significantly difficult. Especially as I also hear the self voices that disbelieve in it, that write it off, the voices that are scared of it, its as if shame can have an internal voice that’s screaming because it knows that its about to be listened to, cared for and have warmth applied to it.

    It hates that by the way.

    Self love wins.

    On our Honeymoon in Santa Barbara, Christelle and I went to an amazing bookstore (twice) – Paradise Found In it I could easily have spent far too much on books, and I was probably only restricted by my luggage allowance… The one book I bought was this one:

    I am going to write about the different types of responses I have had the self help books.

    Safe to say this one has been like a warm snuggly blanket from the beginning. I have felt safe reading it, and its softened my heart to discover a path of self compassion, for myself. I began a few weeks ago to write down privately a journal of self compassion, and where this path was going to take me, what I need to have self compassion and warmth for.

    It is as if every day I get the opportunity to practice. Even when it comes to ‘just writing a blog’ .

    Let me close with some words adapted from the book, that were appropriate to me yesterday.

    May I have compassion on myself, for being self critical

    May I have compassion on the feelings that I have

    May I have compassion on myself, breathing in love, like oxygen from the air, and feel that breath flow through my body

    May I have compassion on my wounded heart

    May I have compassion on my overactive mind

    May I give myself grace

    May I be a best friend to myself and to this present moment.

    May I tend to my shame feelings with warmth and gentleness

    May I have compassion on myself

    My words, adapted from HeartWork – The Path of Self Compassion (Radhule Weininger)

    In that moment of slow. Not Self beating, but self healing and compassion. Restoring my heart and soul to its core truth, feeling and loving myself, one breath at a time. I can make a choice to love, and love myself. Shame loosens its grip, peace and love flow.

    Sometimes life gives the opportunity to practice, immediately. The opportunity to note the feelings that naturally arise, and respond with self loving care.

    Last night I got frustrated with myself, and it was ok.

    It gave me an opportunity to show myself love and compassion.

    I learned something far more powerful instead.

  • Self Love is a Risk

    Self Love is a Risk

    You’ve just got to love yourself, they say

    Give yourself time

    You are important

    You are enough

    Its about being vulnerable, and embracing discomfort

    Thats what some of the books say.

    Thats what’s required for life, for creativity and innovation (Brene Brown, Daring Greatly)

    I get it. I want to get it.

    But.

    Even the first of these seems risky.

    Loving myself. Loving and listening to myself.

    Becoming aware of my feelings.

    It was brought home to me over the last few weeks.

    Its a risk.

    Complex trauma, both emotional neglect and abuse, coupled with strong childhood adherence to an evangelical faith make this risky.

    Too many self sacrificing defaults have been set.

    Too many ‘put others first’ learned behaviours have been performed.

    Too many times was it safer for me to revolve around others, my abusive mothers, needs than attend to my own – too many times soothing my abuser meant safety for me.

    Too many times I heard – ‘love your neighbour’ very few times I heard ‘as yourself’ – though with the all too often shame that was associated with too much pride. Shame.

    Ahh yes, that ‘S’ word.

    The word you’d feel if you uttered the other S word in church.

    And fear of being accused of being Selfish was the other S word. Especially at Home.

    It took a risk to start to think of myself as anything, let alone something – though I sort of knew I was ok.

    Self love is risky.

    Knowing I can love myself – without justification

    Knowing I can choose what I do with my time – can feel utterly alien and pushing through sand to feel like this is even allowed or possible

    That voice. That inner critic voice. Be useful. Don’t be lazy. Stay Busy. You don’t deserve this. Surely there’s something else to do.

    Its as if its waiting for that moment.

    Self love can feel a risk.

    A risk because it challenges so much of…well everything.. everything I once knew and had become default.

    My childhood emotional needs, my identity and adaption into an evangelical christian faith (though it needn’t have been as evangelical to still have all those ‘S’ words)

    Loving myself is a challenge and a risk. A risk that means looking inwards. A Risk because I dont often want to look at or be close to the painful bits, or shame bits, and feeling like I’m not able to love myself because I might be in trouble for doing so, or be told off for being selfish, or its something else.

    Self love is risky because i grew up with an understanding of responsibility and fault. I believed I was to blame, and I took on responsibility, because I was projected on as being spoilt, selfish, too clever, messy, not there enough for that person, not fulfilling her needs, not able to ‘fix’ the family.

    The over think everything, get lost in my thoughts, think them through, think all the options, think about what I should have done, what I didnt do, what I need to do what I am , what kind of person I was or am, think James, think, and it keeps on going, wake up with the same thinking thoughts.

    I was the fixer of, and helper of others. Responsible. Over thinking.

    Self love is a risk – for that voice tells me not to be selfish.

    I love the writing of Dr Glenn Patrick Doyle, recently he shared this on his blog

    Self love is a risk. Self love, deep self love is courageous.

    It changes the pattern.

    It undo’s the default.

    It communicates to myself that I am important.

    Its a risk. Its a risk every time.

    Its a challenge every day.

    Brene Brown is right. We are living in an age of scarcity. An age where love is scarce- but where products are traded as love. Loving ourselves is the risk to start turning to whats inside of ourselves as a source of love, a source of peace and joy, and give this the opportunity to shine. Self love may well be the source of the river, where it all starts.

    Maybe Jesus was saying, you can only love your neighbour as you love yourself. That was the challenge set down to the lawyer who asked in the question. Can you love yourself? and in that love – will your neighbour be loved too? It wasn’t just loving a neighbour for show. Where might there be balance in the love for self and neighbour/others in the Bible – just thinking out loud…

    Self love is about being brave and courageous – taking the risk and being vulnerable to myself- not just being strong and getting through it.

    Self love.

    Do you dare take the risk? Do you dare not too?

    Thank you for reading my blogs on this page, if you’d like to support my work and writing further, you can do so by making a gift donation here, thank you

  • The Joy of First Time Puddles

    It rained today.

    Actually, where I was, it more than rained today

    Rain bounced off the roof today

    Rain flooded the cafe patio where I was today

    And it deluged the country lanes off North Yorkshire today for about 4 hours.

    And it was so bad, and spectacular some people took photos of it.

    So did I

    But I was inside. With the other sweaty walkers who’d made it indoors – filling the cafe with a stale damp smell of wet boots and jackets.

    And by three hours later the water had cascaded down the hill, and it was sunny at the top, and most of what was evident in the photo above, had dried away.

    But that’s not really what I wanted to write about. I wanted to give you the first part of my afternoon.

    Rain.

    As I drove back I saw something far far more remarkable and precious.

    28 Miles later and I have driven down the hill, over the A19 to Northallerton and making my way home.

    When I’m about a mile from my house and driving in the 30mph zone and about to queue for a roundabout.

    It has clearly been raining here too.

    The paved ‘pavement’ with its undulating slabs and grass edges was holding pools of water, substantial ones.

    And next to one of these pools was a navy blue push chair, containing a baby, the handle of the pushchair held by mum.

    Standing in the pool of water on the pavement was a tiny blonde boy. Navy blue dungarees, blue trainer shoes.

    Must have been about a year old, not much more.

    Standing still in the water, water about as high up to the top of his soles, so, not too deep.

    He was standing there as if this was the first puddle he had stood in in his entire life. Spellbound.

    Not splashing the water, running in it – but just standing in it.

    Feeling it.

    Noting the moment.

    Amazed.

    Then I thought, given the lack of rain, and his age – it might well be the first time he has seen a puddle.

    Seeing and feeling a puddle for the first time.

    Standing amazed, raptured. That feeling.

    First

    Time

    Puddle

    And it was pure joy.

    And watching it, for that split second moment – was pure joy too.

    Seeing childlike curiosity and joy – was joy in itself.

    Maybe that blue dressed blonde boy reminded me of someone…

    Maybe it was joyful too to see how the mum was letting the boy just ‘be present’ in the puddle and feel it

    It was ‘just’ a moment. But it was a ‘joy’ moment.

    A moment where I saw the little boy in the arena – the little boy in the puddle – the boy risk being himself – the boy risk the reaction of others – and have this moment validated by his mum.

    The boy experience the feeling of being wet. (and not just in a bath)

    Its easier to watch the rain and take photos of it, and moan about it, or be bored and frustrated by it.

    It was easier for me to stand on the edge of the arena and avoid the feelings, and watch as I didn’t take part in being myself in life. It wasnt easier, it was, as Brene Brown says, about numbing, shielding and hiding my vulnerabilities for the sake of survival. Watching life from the edge, disconnected.

    Watching the boy in the puddle helped me realise how I started to feel.

    How I needed the safety to dip my toe into the feelings – of metaphorical water.

    To let myself feel

    Feelings ive found can be like puddles, they can be like waves, they can be like waterfalls.

    High Force – County Durham – Sept 2022

    Some are pleasant, some are calm, some surprise and some feeling like a downward uncontrollable swirl, sometimes the water is warm, other times it’s cold.

    I used to try and wear layers of waterproofs, heavy boots and umbrellas and lather myself in oil. Anything to avoid and protect myself from getting wet emotionally. Or stay in the warm spots of looking into and helping others with their emotions. I could understand aspects of other peoples water. But without letting my own feet get wet. Too risky.

    Im on a continual journey of keeping my feet in the water. Keeping my feet in. Not afraid.

    Feeling, the sand, the cold, the wet, the reaction.

    Feelings like rain, like water.

    Raw, naked feet and ankles.

    About to feel.

    The joy of the first time puddle.

    The joy of feeling

    And it was ok. It was ok to feel. Safe to feel.

    The vulnerability of feeling for the first time.

    Learning to feel

    Learning to accept

    Learning to be raw and naked

    Learning to stand in the water

    Attending to my human self, my emotional self.

    The raw joy of first time puddles.

    References to ‘The Arena’ are from Brene Browns book Daring Greatly – which im reading at the moment.

  • Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (Part 34) I had Hope – The Countdown to the end was in sight.

    Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (Part 34) I had Hope – The Countdown to the end was in sight.

    The Day I left my childhood home I was sick.

    I actually vomitted in the Midland Main line Intercity 125 Toilets from Market Harborough to Sheffield, before then boarding the Cross Country To Darlington, then two pacers from Darlington to Thornaby and Hartlepool, Sorry my train nerd distracted me there.

    It was August 1996, and I was sick.

    The train was on its way to Hartlepool for to start my gap year.

    For me it was the day I left home.

    Left what I couldn’t describe or articulate but had been a horror show of a childhood.

    The last straw of simmering fury, that I held in, had been my 18th Birthday. When I didn’t get the chance to do what I wanted to do, and in peace, (without them) without them interrupting what I wanted to do and spoiling it. March to August 1996 was 5 months, but the clock had started long before.

    The Clock had started when I was about 13 or 14, may even been earlier. But definitely by then.

    The great escape was a dim light on the horizon, a shard of yellow in the darkest of tunnels, but it was there. Freedom awaited.

    Only 4 more years, only 4 more school years, only 4 more football season years – and fortunately 1992-1996 were glorious for my team. So that was an emotional soother.

    Counting down the months, the years

    Every day , every month, every year – and they got quicker, the more I worked, saved, studied and was busy the day got closer.

    I also knew that I had to be independent from them completely. Too many stories about Parents bailing out their kids at Uni, student debt, I was alone, and had to be independent from them. So id saved up a lot.

    When there was an end date to it, there was hope.

    The light got bigger.

    Though I was in a situation of being trapped… I may have been accused of treating the home like a hotel – but at least I didnt run it like a prison. The date of escape was getting nearer and so was the light of freedom.

    That light was one of the things that kept me going.

    It gave me hope. It gave me a sense of future. It was escape. It was freedom.

    (It wasn’t the end, it wasnt dealing with all the shit of childhood, but I didnt know that then)

    The escape helped me survive, I have no doubt.

    The glimmer of distant escape was enough.

    Though it was bad, and I didn’t realise how bad. There was enough of a glimmer of light to know that I wasnt trapped.

    There was a countdown clock. I had set it too. At 18 1/2 I was out.

    It made it far easier to cope with the present – knowing there was a fixed point of an ending.

    I have just finished ‘Mans Search for Meaning’ by Victor Frankl. In it he writes about how not knowing about the date or time of release or freedom from the concentration camp was one of the hardest things. They just didnt know, so, time and days had so little meaning as there was no future to look forward too, only a past that has blurred endings and present of torture. Time was condensed. It was a ‘provisional existence’ . Once prisoners gave up on having faith in a future, they lost hope and fell into despair. He watched, the prisoners who started smoking were on the path to killing themselves, they had given up. It took a mental resolve, an inner strength to show up each day.

    I didnt know at the time how much having a known date of escape, of leaving home, gave me such strength and hope. Im not saying that the psychopathic parents didnt do what they could to ruin my plans, or manipulate those who were about to be my new employees and ministry leaders.

    But one of the reasons I survived was knowing there was a way out.

    Its no wonder that I was sick in the best of British rails Intercity 125’s toilets that Tuesday morning. It was 4 years of build up.

    I am so aware that the times in my life where I have felt a deeper sense of despair, a deeper sense of that swirl of black, hopelessness – has been when there hasn’t been a coherent sense of time – the feeling of being trapped, stuck and feeling like there was no way out. Trapped by expectations, trapped by shame, trapped by the thought of difficult processes to free myself, trapped because there didnt seem to be any way out, stuck.

    Provisional existence is a brilliant way of putting it. Knowing that there was an end in sight was such a construct of survival for me. It would end. It would be over. The day to day prison being ran by a psychopath was over and I was out.

    The only way, however, that I have got out of the stuck feeling, in the moments of real despair has been vulnerability.

    I had to say I needed help. I had to take a risk in talking to someone. I had to be vulnerable. I had to give someone else a tiny shard of responsibility when up until that moment I had held it all, and tried to cope all alone. It was and still is so important for me to have people around me to listen, support and give me the opportunity to share, reflect and give me some building blocks, coping mechanisms, therapy tools – whatever, to help me in the moments – and more importantly too, to give me perspectives. Give yourself the gift of time, a glimmer of the future, hold on to it, and know that you are stronger, more capable and more valuable a human being. The gift of future time.

  • The Greatest Challenge

    Have you worked out the Greatest Challenge in Life yet?

    The easiest thing, is to be doing something. To be continually doing something. To be planning to be doing something is still doing something.

    To be doing.

    Last week I got over 40 ‘likes’ on a facebook post about something I had been ‘doing’ – 3 days of safeguarding training with the Methodist Church btw.

    Doing something.

    It may be physically impossible to ‘do nothing’ for an hour – our bodies have to breathe, our senses listen to the sounds from outside, or music playing, but what if being was valued more that doing?

    What happens if you try and sit and ‘be’? What creeps in? – A task, a worry, a thought? A distraction – the voice that says ‘ you should be doing something’ ‘ dont be lazy’ ..its always a critical voice – and what I do when I hear that voice – sometimes give in, sometimes try and distract from that voice…by doing something… ugh, and so it continues.

    And there’s no option for this when in the moment of survival in abuse, the mind is utterly active, and my body just wants to be active to compensate. Thats why I anxiety clean. Its why I needed EMDR to rewrite my brain, so I could sit.

    But- back to this moment.

    Here,

    Now:

    Sitting still, just for a moment.

    The greatest challenge.

    It takes a fight to sit and just be.

    It takes courage to be.

    To sit and breathe.

    To listen.

    Not just to the externals of some music or the sounds from outside- that are tempting to go and see

    But listen to the noise of my internal breath

    Listen to the sound, of quiet, of silence

    And notice myself.

    Just being.

    How good are you at being? How are you in your being today?

    What if I ‘just’ sit and be? and its not even just sitting, that makes it out to be something secondary, what if ‘being’ was valued and important, what if being me, being you was the ‘most’ important thing. What if it wasn’t a luxury to have a moments peace and quiet, but something valued, and treasured by all, and encouraged in each other. I could easily do a million and one other things, but the most important and difficult thing.

    Just to be.

    Realising the life in every breath. In every moment.

    Giving your self time. Time for yourself.

    Its not about getting off one rat race and finding another, but noticing the being inside. Bringing awareness to your very soul, and being, and heart. Its you that matters.

    So just sit. And be.

    Be with yourself for a while. Sense the life within. Sense you.

    References

    Gary Zukav – The Seat of the Soul

    Eckhart Tolle – The Power of Now/ A New Earth.

  • Finding Peace

    Taken from ‘Love for Imperfect Things – Haemin Sumin

    What does every Miss World contestant – and also every abuse survivor want? Peace.

    Peace from the noise, Peace from the terror, Peace from the eggshells, Peace from the pain

    Peace

    Space

    Freedom to be.

    A safe space. Rest.

    Peace to sleep, safety to be.

    Loved…

    So, I may disagree slightly with Eckhart Tolle, as peace is found when circumstances change – when a situation of abuse changes.

    When the space is opened up, where there is safety, there is space to breathe, peace.

    And in that moment of peace, comes often the same realisation, of Who I am.

    I take myself back a week.

    I had no peace for 2 weeks. Anxiety was ruling my mind, constant swirl of a trauma reaction. I was unsettled.

    Yet I was safe, Yet I was and am loved, Yet I could breathe…I had been taken back.

    Part of recovering peace, for me was about remembering who I deeply am. That I am valuable, that a part of me was hurting (not my whole self), part of me required loving attention and warmth. I didn’t have peace until I could offer myself this tenderness.

    My mind didnt have peace until after EMDR treatment.

    It was all part of the process of recovering my emotional equilibrium and balance.

    Peace.

    I can sense that im in a state of peace, because my mind feels quiet.

    To be honest, I struggle to write, when there doesnt seem to be that urge to write about something that’s causing pain or anger, or difficulty or trauma.

    What is peace for you?

    Freedom from the noise?

    Rest?

    Quiet?

    Time to breathe?

    That deep realisation of knowing who you are?

    Our True Self can never be lost

    Even for a single moment

    Just like the present can never be lost

    it is always here and now

    whether we pay attention to it

    Haemin Sumin, Love for Imperfect things

    Find a moment to be still with your true self today.

    Be Still. Quiet. Attentive.

    Do not strive for peace.

    Listen attentively, like you’d embrace your friend.

    Discover that peace like joy resides deep within.

  • EMDR and my Anxious Mind

    When I got triggered by something a few weeks ago I went into a bit of a spiral.

    Downwards.

    And I forgot.

    My mind went into overdrive

    The words, fears and punishments from my childhood got relived into my present.

    Thats what trauma, childhood trauma, any trauma feels like.

    Mind whirlwind.

    Anxiety.

    Thinking.

    Over thinking.

    And in the midst, I forgot.

    I forgot because I had got consumed.

    I forgot who I was, I became the frightened child, the frightened me, hiding and scared.

    I didn’t even realise I was doing it.

    I needed my fiancé to keep checking in and asking me.

    The Trigger.

    Did it matter what it was? No – but it was big one.

    I spiralled downwards for at least 5 days. But tried to keep going and pretending.

    During that time wrote a bit – publically

    And wrote a bit privately – a lot of emotions out, alot

    But I was still on edge. Even after beginning to realise myself in the present.

    Beginning to regroup and rebuild

    Telling myself, that I am safe, that I am enough, that I am stronger than I realise.

    I did a great job of telling others too, but I needed to hear myself.

    But ultimately, it wasn’t what I wrote, what I read

    The things I needed to know.

    I had to learn again, and again that I didnt have to suffer alone – and my lovely Christelle sat with me on times, affirmed that I was having a trauma reaction.

    Affirmed that what I was going through was trauma anxiety.

    Taking me back to the past, unable to rest in the moment

    Unsettled.

    I forgot and also I resisted, I resisted to do the very things that I knew would help

    So I did all the other things, like comfort eat, excessive cleaning, distractions.

    Part of me was anxious, so I listened to that part

    Part of me was also resistant to and didn’t want to get rid of the anxiety, it was loving the attention

    Two weeks of the swirl, back and forth, heart racing, forgetting to breathe.

    Forgetting my safety

    Forgetting the journey to this point

    Forgetting and being over taken by mymind racing

    Forgetting my power

    Forgetting myself

    Yet in the midst of last Thursday, in the afternoon, I somehow did something that I remembered.

    Yes I had began to regroup the preeceding few days. Get myself out of the swirl

    I remembered EMDR.

    Something my therapist taught me.

    Something I had barely needed or used for a long while.

    So I sat down

    Breathed

    Closed my eyes

    And for a few minutes listened to my breathing

    and tapped either side of my shoulder blades, first quickly, then slower.

    Breathing too.

    Why had I forgotten EMDR? In the midst of a severe trauma reaction, I forgot a lot.

    The part of me that wanted pain to remain dominant raced – Tolle calls this the Pain-Body -the ego.

    Anxiety induced forgetfulness

    And what happened.

    Since I did EMDR, my brain completely stopped the anxiety patterns. And it has done ever since.

    The descending of calm on me.

    Calm. Utter calm.

    A reordering of the neurones and programming, that no amount of writing, eating or other externals would have changed. Almost miraculous to be honest, and virtually instant.

    Incredible. Its as if my entire mind has shifted. To a new place. One that isn’t racing.

    I can breathe.

    Literally 5 minutes of EMDR. After 2 weeks of trauma responding. Panic and Anxiety.

    On one hand I could be annoyed I didnt do EMDR within a few days, on the other the trigger did give me the opportunity to work through some things- part of me that needed to heal.

    Maybe I need to have mental notes around my flat – remember the good practices. Remember EMDR, or Yoga, or other good trauma healing practices. Especially when in the midst im likely to forget.

    Recognising that recovery from a lifetime of abuse is seriously hard work, so im not beating myself up, but noting what trauma and anxiety does to the memory in the present, and how it created in me resistance to wanting to, and conscious memory of what I needed to do in response.

    How a trauma reaction caused me to forget – and highlight what I might need to do to remember in the future.

  • My Problem(s) being an Abuse Victim

    What do I see myself as, A Victim or a Survivor?

    If I go back 4 years;

    I couldn’t be a victim, unless I realised that I was badly treated.

    So I was in denial

    I couldn’t realise the extent of what had happened to me, until I started to say that I was a victim of abuse.

    Because , until then, I was holding onto the responsibility of actions someone else had done to me.

    I was protecting them and fearing them, holding it all in, running from dealing with it.

    Thinking that what happened to me, was what I deserved.

    I was responsible. I was full of shame.

    Thats what emotional abuse is. The ongoing belief that I was responsible, guilty for actions other people had done to me.

    It was my responsibility to soothe them and do what they wanted, or I would be punished.

    But I didn’t know it. I lived in a daze of slavery.

    Compliant and Passive. Loyal and Dead on the inside, and outside.

    It was only when I realised that I was more than ok, that I realised I was being treated badly. It was only when I realised this, that I could stand up for myself, and pass that responsibility onto those whose it was to take.

    In fact on more than one occasion one of the accusations levelled at me, shouted drunk, by my abuser was ‘Dont you starting thinking of yourself as the victim’ …. So… I was projected and abused into not being able to see that I was being abused.

    I had to realise that those who had played victim – so that I took responsibility for their feelings, weren’t actually the real victim.

    Not that I am utterly blameless, this isn’t the point.

    In understanding what had happened to me, and the safe space to do it – was the moment that I realised, gradually and slowly that I had been a victim of domestic abuse.

    I started to see the patterns, I started to read the books, I started to assess how I was being treated, used and lied to.

    So I was a victim.

    But I didnt know it.

    And I was reluctant to own it. I didnt want to be known as a victim. Even if I did start to realise what had happened to me.

    And yet at the same time, almost at exactly the same time, because I didnt realise that I had been a victim of this for 40 years, and I was in a safe place from virtually the time I realised. I considered myself a survivor too.

    I was a victim, it was the past tense. At that moment. It had happened.

    In the current moment of knowing, and acknowledging the past pain – the present moment I could say that I wasn’t currently a victim either. It had happened.

    Why would I want to keep playing the victim card? Thats what I’ve seen all my life- to abuse me. Why would I want to abuse myself in the same way – or bring out that same needy ‘poor me’ personality. No – why would I do that? I write my story for awareness. I know my story isnt unique. Well not quite at times. I dont want to dwell in a victim mindset.

    But it was important for me to realise that I had been a victim. That I had been treated, or allowed myself to be treated badly, from a deep core of trauma, shame, codependency and people pleasing – and hiding all this, and it not being safe to deal with it.

    So.. I was a victim. But I wasnt too. ,

    Would I say I was a survivor? Is that appropriate?

    Maybe. Maybe not.

    Have I survived? Currently yes – though some weeks, this week especially has been pretty dark. Surviving is what I had to do, throughout the time of the abuse. My internal voice that constantly said ‘I am going to get through this’..

    I dont like the thought that I am still surviving. Though I did survive. Many others dont. So I am grateful, eternally grateful to be here and alive. I wasnt close to jumping off the cliffs of Roker , when my therapist asked about my mental health. I was determined to grow, to dig deep and wrestle with myself and what I needed to do, for myself. I knew I was ok. I was probably more than that. But I had also survived the worst of it.

    In the present moment; I did survive. I wasnt a victim.

    Affected by decades of emotional and psychological abuse. Yes.

    Realising and attending to myself in the process of loving myself to be me. Yes

    Choosing the slow road, the self-kind road and trying to listen to my inner childhood voice. Yes

    It feels like a choice I make every day. A powerful choice to regard myself highly.

    Am I a survivor – yes then. But what would I rather be?

    I would rather be me.

    I would rather not be defined by what someone else did to me.

    I would rather not have them centred in my story.

    I am me – I am James – I am who I am.

    I am living and alive, love and loved, present and the future.

    I dont want to be a victim, I dont want their curse to stay on me.

    I am rebuilding , I am becoming a truer version of me

    I just am me.

    Just like you are you.

    This piece was inspired by Dr Glenns one – do read it here in it he says:

    In my experience as a trauma therapist, that’s just now how trauma recovery unfolds in the real world.

    In the real world, we ONLY recover WHEN we take responsibility for our happiness and stability— and part of taking REALISTIC responsibility means acknowledging our pain.

    It is not reality to pretend we are responsible for our post traumatic pain.

    It is not reality to “accept responsibility” for injuries that resulted from other peoples’ decisions and behavior.

    It is not reality to deny the fact that we are in pain, and there are layers to our pain that we do not control and can not reliably affect.

    It IS reality to see what we see and know what we know about our past and our present functioning— that there were aspects of our past that were painful and terrifying, and there are aspects of our current functioning that aren’t great as a result.

    None of that is “victim mindset.” It is reality mindset.”

    Dr Glenn Patrick Doyle

  • Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (Part 33) Fearing the Upset Parent

    What phrases dominated your childhood?

    Were there things your parents would say to you?

    Hopefully they were good things, pleasant things – like ‘I love you’ every time you left the house, or ‘what kind of fun shall we do today?’ or a regular phrase said by one of them to you.

    I hope they were nice things.

    Sadly, often its not the case.

    What were the words that dominated my childhood?

    There was one phrase that was said by many many people.

    Because they knew.

    They already had experience of her temper

    They had already tried to stand up to her

    They had already felt the weight of her fury

    They had been bullied by her

    They didnt want the same for me.

    Try not to upset your mother

    That would be my Dad on many occasions

    You’d better eat your tea when you get home, or you’ll upset your mother

    Said my Nanna (RIP) , on the times I had lunch at her house (glorious food) to make sure id be home by tea and suffer the toxic food of the childhood home, served on a plate of eggshells.

    Id better make sure all your washing is done, I wouldn’t want to upset your mother

    Said my Granny (RIP) – who was utterly terrified of her own daughter, at the end of a week staying at her house. Usually the best week of the year, being sent to her house. The week after wed be given a taste of the ‘real’ world after being ‘spoiled’ by granny…

    Dont upset your mother

    Try not to upset your mother

    Your mother will get upset

    Mother upset

    She’ll get upset.

    Walking on Eggshells

    Everyone around

    Fearful, frightened.

    It wasn’t just family though.

    No one could say no to her.

    Whole groups of people had to remove her from churches. Not many can say No to her. Or dare too.

    One to one they had been terrified, belittled, and shocked by her behaviour.

    So they closed their doors.

    Everybody knew – but everyone was terrified.

    Dont upset _________ now (Insert her name)

    Dont upset your mother

    You’ll upset your mother

    The eggshells being laced around the childhood home. Mine fields of rage waiting to explode.

    The trouble was, was that she’d be upset anyway.

    Even if I tried to ‘do the thing’ – they’d be something else.

    Because full attention and full obedience and expectation was exhausting.

    A myriad of unwritten rules that would cause upset if unfollowed.

    Sometimes even by trying to do the thing that avoided the upset, there’d be upset because shed detect this over compensation.

    Everyone else responsible for her feelings.

    There was something else too.

    Because my role in the family, to survive, was soother of the upset one, emotional wedges were created when she got upset. Because I was loyal, I realised I began to believe the emotional upset. To a point, when I was 8 or 9, not when I was 15. Her toxic tears of upset created soothing sympathy, to the point where I was, and had no choice but to go along with it.

    Going along with it meant going without the things that she got upset by…. and those grudges were maintained for decades. Its probably where I developed a hatred of cats. Thats another story waiting to be told.

    Then I began to realise that the things she got upset by weren’t actually right to be upset by. I realised that she was the toxic one, but pretended otherwise. Because…. she wasn’t allowed to be upset…. see where this is going…

    This is the reality of a narcissistic parent, a narcissist and violent person who dominates every room and situation. To the point where so many other people around felt all the ripples, had suffered the same.

    (resources on becoming aware of narcissistic parents are in the resources section above)

    Fear of upsetting and unleashing the fury of the monster.

    Another reason why everyone knew.

    The phrase that dominated my childhood

    The phrase that terrified

    The phrase that meant childhood was a survival mode

    The phrase that meant that there was no freedom or free space that those eggshells weren’t far away.

    The phrase that dominated. Knowing how violent, impulsive, and distressed she becomes, its no wonder.

    What kind of behaviour did this fear create? Hiding, pretending, people pleasing….. absolutely…

    Constantly on guard. Constantly tempering every sentence, action or reaction.

    What am I feeling right now?

    Im 44. And the last few weeks layer upon layer of some of the childhood stuff has returned to my present memory, for a number of reasons, one of which is because of doing more work to listen to my inner child and his feelings, one has been that I encountered the phrase in a pertinent context. So, to be honest with you, the last few days I have been working through the past feelings of what this phrase was felt like when I was 6 or 8 or 11, and reliving the memories, the feelings and anxiety – often anxiety suppressed at the time. I guess in a small way this gives you an insight into the effects of childhood abuse and trauma. That memory comes back to infect the present. It is also an opportunity for me to recognise it, to feel it, to attend to myself and to note the spaces of safety, love and support I am currently in.

    Part 1 of Everyone knew – and everyone was terrified is here – in that post I recollect how other adults already had knowledge of my mother even from one meeting with her.

  • Doing The Hard things

    Hey you

    Just want to say, well done on doing the hard thing

    The hard thing? It was nothing, I just got on with it

    You are incredible, that was brave, that was hard

    Aww shucks, really, it wasn’t much, anyone could have done it

    But you did it, yes you, you are incredible

    Now you’re going too far, all I did was the thing

    But that’s such an important thing, a first brave thing, I’m proud of you, you did the thing

    Yeah, and Im just thankful for all the people who helped me to do the thing, I couldn’t have done it without them

    But you still did the thing, you made the call, you made the decision, you did the thing.

    I had no choice really, was desperate and there was no way out, I had to do the thing

    And you did the thing, at a point of desperation, you did the thing, well done, brave human, you did the thing and now you’re here, you’re alive, you are living, because you did the courageous thing, you changed the pattern to your normal, you did the thing

    True, my friend, I did the thing

    You the hardest thing, brave, courageous, strong you

    I’m just me, anyone couldve done it

    But you did it, you did the thing

    You did the hard thing, you made it happen

    Thank you

    Do you see it now?

    Maybe, but I don’t think I’m amazing for doing the thing

    That’s why I’m here to keep reminding you, you are amazing, you are incredible, you are stronger and more inspiring that you realise. You did the thing.

    How many times did I have this conversation in my journey, and I still do. Not seeing how difficult, or how brave I am for doing ‘the thing’ – whether that thing is facing the pain or shame, whether that’s going to therapy, or choosing to listen to my inner voice and respond, or whether it’s taking responsibility for my feelings, or standing up for myself or others.

    So many times I wanted someone else to do it for me.

    So often before id hidden everything and survived every blow.

    Surviving lone as a great result of being counter dependent. Pretending to survive alone.

    Doing the hard thing meant changing.

    Changing is a hard thing.

    Well done you. Just well done you.

    You Are an Incredible Human, and so am I.