James Ballantyne

Category: Journey

  • Trauma’s long Thread.

    I was given a picture this week that has , so far, been helpful to me.

    Its about string… or rope…

    I was in conversation with someone who has supported me for a while through some of the challenges ive faced in the last few years, in the conversation I mentioned that whilst I am feeling generally good (and this is true, I am) , that I had ‘moved on ‘ beyond some of the things that were requiring of the support, and this is also true.

    But I could sense in myself that a number of things recently had cause me to be triggered, affected, and I was in danger of reacting to them.

    It doesn’t matter what they are, but they are stories of abuse investigations in churches, the swirl of conversation, and realising that although I wasn’t involved, I realise quite how easily I may have been as easily manipulated, and how my emotionally spiritually abusive childhood would have set me up to be so.

    Did I ever think that I had been able to ‘let go’ of the string and cause the balloon of 40 years of abuse to just fly away?

    Did I really think that? No, but maybe I hadn’t been able to create a way of explaining the dynamic of journeying through life with that upbringing as a shadow, as a thread, that plays sometimes a larger or smaller part.

    I had let go of the string.

    Originally it was a tight rope. I was trapped. Only with an ending in sight go leaving home at 18. Until that point it was in a toxic swirl, a large tight rope that surrounded me, suffocating, squeezing, unable to breathe, relax, unable to feel. Just the metaphorical pain of the rope burns.

    Until I could see the rope, for what it is, I was led to believe I was self tightening it, that it was my rope to carry.

    The balloon string used to be a thick rope.

    I had to distance myself from the rope.

    It could be let go of, I could now detach myself from the rope.

    But as my support person said this week to me.

    The String is long.

    The balloon at the end of the string has lifted off, but the thread that is attached to the balloon is long.

    Its got a lot of ‘lifting off’ to do before it has finally left.

    I realised that there are things that happen to cause me to grab hold of the string.

    And when I do, its as if the string has been coloured with a dye, and its infected me, my hands turn red, its transferred its mucky dye, and I need to noticed this, and let this cleanse out of me too.

    I got angry this week, it was my detox, to get the dye out, to protect myself again. I got some ‘fucks’ out in the privacy of my own voice, my flat and in drawing them. No plates or property were damaged… ;-)

    The string is long.

    What if I accept that the string is long?

    Actually, I have to.

    The string may be all forms of dye. It is death.

    Yet it tries to give off a spark.

    It tries to make itself invisible too.

    Just so that I touch it. Just so that I forget about it, with the hope that it gets reignited.

    And it gets the chance to release its poison.

    Other times it convinces itself that its ok to touch, and by then its too late.

    Sometimes I do completely forget the string. Its when im having fun, its when im not thinking about it, its when im in the flow of something else.

    But other times, accidental and known cause the string to be more obvious. Anniversary days, Stories of abuse, Safeguarding training even.. All to one extent reminders of the string..

    But I can still choose.

    I can choose how close I want to get to the string.

    I choose.

    What if I do something whilst holding the string – the string wants me to blame it, to play victim to the string. Tightening the grip.

    Circulating the poisonous dye even further. Taking away my own power to choose.

    I have that power.

    Being friends with the string is to accept that it is there. It’s not to fight it. Resistance is futile and hard work. Acceptance.

    A lifetime of abuse and the string is long.

    But it doesn’t suffocate. Its is just there. It exists, and im not scared of it, just finding new ways to live with the string.

    Its just a long string.

    It requires warm playable hands to let it through my grip, to flow.

    To gently notice the string and put it in its place.

    Better to notice the string and let it go, again, walk away from it.

    Accepting that it is long.

    Noticing it and being able to talk to it, from me, the real me.

    A type of mindfulness.

    Loving myself releases it

    Loving myself cleanses

    Loving myself, doing for myself, creating fun and colour… is more rewarding that the ‘attractive’ colour dye on the string, however sparky it hopes to appear.

    Accepting the long string, the threads of abuse, is better that pretending that it doesn’t exists and trying to be completely free from it. Its not realistic, its not helpful.

    I have felt so so much better this week as I have began to accept the string, and in doing so detach from it.

    Maybe its about keeping the darkness close, being friends with the shadow, so it can be talked to.

    Its been a helpful image for me this week.

  • I think I am, therefore I am.

    I think I am, therefore I am.

    I think I am, therefore I am.

    I was ‘playing’ this around in my mind the other day, and I started writing, just to myself.

    I often write on paper, even with pencil, just to get thoughts out, to see where they flow to.

    Free writing with a conceptual starting point if you will.

    And I began to construct that what ‘I think’ and who ‘I am’ have been on a journey.

    It could be ‘my ego’ and ‘my identity’ but I prefer to use ‘I think’ and ‘I am’ . I dont mean the ‘I am’ that self talks back the lies.. like ‘I am fat’ or ‘I am stupid’ .. I mean the ‘I am’ identity. The bit of me, the bit of you that is who you are.

    So here goes…

    I am, and I think are on a journey.

    Its one where ‘I think’ has led the way, I think.

    Historically.

    Led like a shiny steam engine.

    ‘I am’ has been just been pulled along for the ride,

    a set of carriages with passengers, scared inside.

    or going to the depot, after a fraught ride.

    I think, taking them away.

    I am, passive.

    At least thats how it was- I think

    I think, shiny at the front, shiny and bright, brass cleaned,

    numbered, fed, water and polished

    The Steam engine, attracting the polaroids and DSLRs, and notebooks.

    I think.. leading the way

    I think.. wanting the attention

    I think…racing away

    I think..in control

    I think…believing the hype

    I think..denying it needed anything

    I think…lies to get all this

    I am.. just a powerless carriage trailing behind

    hosting passengers, hosting scenes, hospitality

    Trying to please, making the best of chaos.

    Making the best of disconnection between I think, and I am.

    I am, pulled along and subject to the conditions of I think

    I am, second or third class, no power, just a shell.

    I think broke down.

    I think realised the race it was on, was to a finish line that never ended

    I think had gone too far, alone

    I think was never therefore I am

    I am wants more control of the action

    I am is feeling its way

    I am has been waiting, patiently

    Watching the chaos, overcoming the scares

    Hiding, now seizing the chance, the opportunity

    Realising that I think is in trouble.

    I think and I am not separate.

    I am with a voice on the journey

    I am letting I think know differently

    Its now a different journey, with I am the driver.

    I am has discovered, that it is

    I am has emerged from the shadows, the sidings

    I am can see the lies, pride and attention

    The temptations and weaknesses that tormented I think

    I am…. just knows

    I am..is softer, messier, truer

    Human, grease, smoke, heart and skin

    its not a carriage to the engine

    Alive.

    I am now sees the whole Train

    I am can see when I think plunges into darkness

    or tries to race to destinations, frustrated or impatient, or critical of the passengers for being slow, or ignoring the signals.

    I am can let I think know that it is loved.

    I am is the driver, who knows what I think actually needs.

    The brake. the coal, the water

    And rest.

    Attention from the inside of the boiler. Not just the outside.

    The driver knows.

    I am.

    I think wrestled at first and tried to do without I am.

    I feel intervenes now and then, the guard with the warning flags, messages from the back. I think knows its place..some of the time.

    I think used to completely ignore I feel. Disregarded at the back of the carriage.

    Guard in name only.

    I am takes more of the wheel

    I think can rest, its not on his own.

    It doesn’t have to hurry or win.

    I think trusts I am.

    I think surrenders, to the I am that drives, attends and controls, to the I am that feels and knows. To the I am that discovered itself, found its place and realises it has to stay.

    I am helps I think to doubt the lies it had to believe, and those it chose to

    I am can help I think to realise the importance of I feel.. the guard

    I am can speak softly to I think, and listen to what it needs and wants to say.

    Because I am is connected to all.

    I am knows. I am is.

    I am is the divine within.

    I think I am, therefore I am.

    Maybe this is helpful just to me, as I realise the journey that I have been on, one from which was dominated by my thoughts, my thinking part of me, and how every other part of me was hidden and disregarded, for reasons ive described in my story above. And now I feel, that I am, and I think is still around, but the journey, just feels and is different.

    What about you – what metaphor might you use for how your thoughts, feelings and identity have culminated in your life?

  • Brave Faith

    Im in the middle of reading this quite brilliant book, The Fifth Agreement, by Don Miguel and Don Jose Ruiz. I guess freedom must be on my mind as ive also just finished Edith Egers book The gift, on discovering personal, emotional freedom. More to follow.

    But im just reflecting on , if Faith in myself is the real faith, and I am true.. what did I place too much energy and faith in before I discovered myself and who I am?

    More to follow, probably.

  • The tiring, futility of trying to be good.

    The tiring, futility of trying to be good.

    When you have something to prove, you aren’t free

    Edith Eger, The Choice (2017)

    It is not necessary to satisfy other peoples expectations

    Kishimi, Koga , The Courage to be disliked (2013)

    This is hard stuff for me, so I thought I would write about it.

    Most of my family, that is, both my lovely grandmothers, and more recently my Aunties, have commented on me being ‘such a good little boy’ when I was a child.

    I can remember them doing this as a child, in defence of me, against my toxic mother.

    My teachers said the same. In fact I remember astounding one teacher when I was 6 for wanting the spelling of a word that she thought I shouldn’t know. The word was blancmange. School reports aged 8 said that I was concientious. (not conceited) , and I didnt have google then to find out what this meant, so when I asked my parents what this word meant, there strangely wasn’t a response. I was told off for asking for a present for having a good school report.

    What I didnt realise aged 8, was that this was about to be a pattern. Other people would see my gifts and general goodness, my mother would see either the opposite, de legitimise who I was or what they said.. or as ive said before..take it for herself.

    But, I did learn this though… That being good (as long as I didnt ask for rewards for it) kept me out of trouble in those other places, even if I was seemingly always in trouble/danger in the home.

    Nothing was good enough at home, it was impossible to win, and it was all game. But I did realise that by staying out trouble and invisible meant I was safer.

    There was something else weird too. Because I wasn’t being seen. This is what I wanted, it was like this…

    If only they could see what I did or who I was then they might be proud of me or love me.

    But there was a complication to this.

    I didnt want them anywhere near me – not publicly anyway, and so I hid or avoided achievements. I feigned disappointment when they said they couldn’t come to my duke of Edinburgh bronze award night, they were away I think and it was one of favourite events where I collected an award. Ever. So, its complicated, the desire to be seen to be good, mixed with the impending trauma of having them see it. Moments of achievement were best avoided. When I got school prizes aged 13, I didnt expect it, and I definitely didnt the next year.

    But I was a good boy.

    When I realised I had to be, and do this on my own – I set out at doing so.

    And being a good boy, also meant and became, being a good christian boy too.

    The two became synonymous, and God became intrinsically linked to the same parent figure, always watching, to be feared, temperamental, never seeing (except sin and failings). God gave me tasks to do, God was keeping a list of sins, God was storing up every thought for the last days – so I could rewatch it all. Also.. nothing I did that was actually good, this was just ‘God’ in me doing these things, because deep down im full of darkness, sin and shame, of course I am.

    So I was pointlessly trying to be good. And it was exhausting.

    Keeping up good appearances. At church, at school… adapting to the institutions.. believing this was what life was all about. Believing that if I was good I would be liked. Actually I noticed the opposite. The fun people had friends. The other ‘good’ kids congregated together, all the oldest child, maybe all sitting in the Christian union too.

    Good christians, judging the fun others had, and being jealous that they all had friends.

    A life of performance, pretence, self protection and compliance.

    Imagine my surprise when I decided to a ‘christian’ gap year doing youth ministry and this caused probably 15 years of anger and disappointment in her.. because I didnt go to university at 18 (her plan and expectation) . Being good and even following a faith calling – didnt make a difference.

    Because it wasn’t seen though, I then had to prove them wrong, and spent a good amount of my life doing so.

    Being good didnt matter, and there was no possibility to me meeting their expectations. But I didnt know this at the time. Not until I read the pink book that saved my life, until I realised that I didn’t matter what I did.

    Somewhere deep in my conscious is this notion of ‘being good’, that being good somehow would mean being accepted and liked – especially in the institutions – and that maybe this being liked and accepted in these places were compensation for what I didnt have at home.

    Somewhere there’s still a belief that if im good, i’ll be liked and accepted.

    But this isn’t true.

    And if it is, it isn’t freedom. Its trying to meet other peoples expectations.

    And thats something neither I or you can control.

    And maybe there’s a difference, between trying to be good – to fit in – and letting that deep inner well of goodness shine through and be revealed. Goodness needn’t mean compliance. Goodness is for all humanity.

    At the risk of being disliked.

    I think I could also talk about how this applies to my writing, but thats for a different time.

    Its not that I see now and think that ‘being good’ ruined my life – no not at all, I needed to be good to survive, to be and get to where I am today. Being good in school and doing well was an achievement of my own doing, as was graduating to Masters level a few years ago.

    I just realised that it isn’t the most important thing.

    Yet I can tell that its a continual wrestle for me, as it sits so close and deep within my own psyche – and maybe yours.

    More to come on this… probably..

    Thank you for reading.

  • Realising…Its My Life

    I thought to myself today

    I am loving my life.

    I am living my life.

    Even on a wet sleety, snowy day in the North East of England.

    Then I realised.

    If I am living my life now…

    Whose life was I living before?

    When I lived according to what expectations were placed upon me… whose life was it then?

    When I was in fear of making a mistake, a mess, or making someone else upset…. whose life was it then?

    When I was worried about what other people would think of me… whose life was it then?

    When I was trying to be good.. whose life was it then?

    When I was trying to please God, or ‘worship him forever’ or for rewards in the ‘next life’ and not here now… whose life was it then?

    When I was to stick to the rules… misbelieving I was going to get praise, medals or acknowledgement for doing so….whose life was it then?

    I wasn’t living my life. I wasn’t living. I was just existing.

    Existing for the sake of others, and their expectations, their demands, their unspoken rules.

    Its taken me courage to see that I can live.

    I can live and sparkle.

    I have my own story.

    I can be who I am, and that this is good enough.

    Time to realise that

    Its taken a long time for me to see, know and realise..and trust myself..

    to know

    that I can live my own life.

    That I am. Who I am.

    And I can be me.

    And I am beautiful

    Flawed but beautiful. A project on the make.

    Its continuously time for me to be me.

    Whole me, showing up into the world.

    Happy, Free, and totally alive.

  • The two things that robbed me….of myself.

    If yesterday I wrote about my own joinery from self loathing and denial to becoming more self referential, respectful and also giving space to trust my feelings. Today I’ve pondered the question – what happened to me, so that I had no ‘faith’ in myself? What happened to the extent to which there was no ‘I’ in my life, to trust myself, my feelings, emotions, desires or wants.

    It boils down to this

    Psychopathic Parents + Evangelical Faith = No Self Trust

    In these ways:

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I was told not to be selfish

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I heard that my core was sinful

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I was told I wasn’t enough

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I was told that everything good I did…wasnt me..it was God

    Self trust wasn’t possible because I was made to feel embarrassed or ashamed for having emotions, desires or wants

    Self trust wasn’t possible when my emotions were stolen by others.

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I wasn’t encouraged for being good (or when I was accused of being the ‘eldest son’ )

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I was terrified of upsetting my abusers.

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when I was encouraged to pray that God would fix things.

    Self Trust wasn’t possible..if my ‘self’ had to be denied.

    Self trust wasn’t possible if I numbed the pain and disconnected.

    Self trust wasn’t possible, even being clever or good… wasn’t enough.

    Self trust wasn’t possible… All to Jesus I surrender.

    Self Trust wasn’t possible, if Jesus gave me all my good feelings.

    Self Trust was invalidated if I tried to express myself

    Self Trust wasn’t possible – when my body was bad (Spirit is good) – and in my body is my emotions, feelings, desires and energy.

    Self trust wasn’t possible when I was masking abuse for 40 years.

    Self trust wasn’t possible if I was told who I was…and I had to accept it, whilst dying inside.

    Self Trust wasn’t possible when my real self was hidden away, unseen.

    Just Pray – they said. Be good – they said. Be quiet. Dont make a mess. Fulfil our expectations for you – they said. Grow up and dont be silly..they said.

    Be our trophy to be proud of – they said. But do this alone.

    Dont ever be who you are. Dont ever think for yourself.

    Live to soothe and placate and please your abuser.

    Live to please and worship God…and deny yourself in the process.

    How could I respect myself, if I didnt trust myself, how could I know myself if I was hiding myself away? How could I trust myself… if God was always watching…and I had to remember sins and feel only continual guilt and shame.

    I was taken..from myself.

    What am I in all this?

    Where am I in this?

    Who am I in this?

    Today. This day. This month. These last few years.

    Have been unapologetically about me.

    Not just ‘finding myself’ – but…actually finding, connecting, listening, feeling and knowing myself. But its no fucking wonder I had hidden myself away… or that I had no sense of self in ‘my’ life. It was all about other people. Other people and ‘other’ Gods. Losing myself in the process. I can look back and see this. Realising the extent of what I wasn’t able to be.

    Reminding myself, now, of my own deep strength. Acknowledging it and accepting it, and being utterly grateful for the now.

    The spills of life going inwards, deep burning of molten lava piercing into the wounds. Feeling Raw, but feeling true, feeling at all. Being me. Healing from within. One layer at a time. One pebble to climb, then a rock, then more. Step by step.

    Soul, heart, mind and body on a beautiful discovery. Wonder from the heart outwards. Time to live. Spiritual life… from the inside out.

    Oh yes, its time to live. Time to be.

  • Talking with Respect, gentleness and care….to myself.

    Men… Can you remember when your voice broke? What did that feel like? How old were you? I remember that I didnt want to talk for a few weeks or months because I was so self conscious about how it would sound, I also hated that it was noticed by everyone, so I stayed quiet. There was a change, a weird change. How I communicated changed three times, from child voice, to breaking unpredictable changing voice, to changed voice, in a few months.

    I noticed something about my walk last week.

    It is this.

    My Voice changed again recently. But it wasn’t my external voice.

    It was my inner one.

    I used to give myself a good talking to.

    Especially if I had done something wrong. Especially if I had made a mistake.

    Especially if id got embarrassed by something

    Especially if id been made to think id made a mistake, or misunderstood, or not met another persons needs, and been punished for it.

    I would beat myself up.

    In the way I would talk to myself.

    The strongest voice inside, was the voice of the perfectionist-critic.

    My inner voice was the voice of my own media company.

    Critic, Perfectionist…

    Not only was I emotionally neglected and beaten up by others, my inner voice assumed that I was responsibility. Why… because I had no reference to know that what I experienced by others was their problem. Or that I could be treated better.

    So it had to be me. I had to be the problem. My Fault. Because Women are always right..arent they? So it had to be me.

    What kind of things would I have heard myself say to myself?

    You’re not good enough

    You dont deserve any better

    You can survive, just keep going

    Why didn’t you think of that?

    You can do better

    You should do better

    You let yourself down there, James, and God too, you should be ashamed

    You should know this by now

    You should be able to do this

    Oh.. you really messed up again

    Look at yourself James, hypocrite.

    You failed at that one again

    You upset them, you silly boy.

    You need to be strong.

    Must rush, must do, must keep on, keeping on.

    It could be worse, don’t be ungrateful.

    Talking to myself, like I was my own worst enemy. Or just trying to numb and shut out what I felt.

    Beating myself up. Because that was the only way I knew how to process. Not being good enough, not being perfect enough, not being enough.

    Why did I notice this last week?

    Because the day after I had been for a walk, I reflected on how my inner voice has changed. Maybe its like it broke again. Broke by the process of digging deep, recovering and healing.

    I noticed that I could say to myself different things

    When I walked, I said things like:

    I can take myself out for a walk

    This is for me, I can be for me.

    I am grateful

    I am ok to feel

    I am ok- as I am.

    I am love and loved

    I can be, and breathe

    I can enjoy this moment, of the rain and mud

    I can sense myself

    and be proud of myself.

    I can have feelings and there’s nothing wrong with having them.

    I dont have to be perfect, I can do mess, I can play

    I can be slow.. I dont have to rush… I dont have to do everything

    I can have fun

    I can be happy

    I am.

    I am who I am and this is enough

    and more besides….

    I just noticed how the voice changed, it wasn’t the first time in the last few years that I have spoken to myself in this way. But it was just that I noticed the difference, how I used to be a critic and perfectionist, talking to myself like I had inherited voices from others. From self loathing, self denial – to self- reverence and self compassion. Was my inner guidance system the one I had created from the places of having to adapt as a child – abusive parents, evangelical religion, academia? Probably.

    Or maybe, and i’ll be kind to myself also, this was what I needed to do and be to survive emotionally. In my own head space, the place of thinking, over thinking and self criticism.

    It’s now safe for me to talk to myself in this way. Brave to be self- compassionate. To practice it and give it a go, to see how it feels, to have the feels.

    New green life forming from the old. New tender green shoots.

    What’s it like to be a supportive youth worker, be a friend even to myself, and do this, after agreeing with it. Doing it for myself. Because I am worth it. I am of value. I am.

    It was just good to notice the difference.

    Talking whole heartedly to myself. From broken to whole.

    If you’d like to learn more about Self Compassion, I highly recommend the beautiful book Heartwork by Radhule Weininger, a link is here Heartwork, also The Power of Now by Echart Tolle.

  • A Wet Muddy Walk

    A Wet Muddy Walk

    A simple walk.

    Yet, it was so much more.

    But it was just a walk.

    Going for a walk, that meant something.

    It meant pushing through with the motivation to ‘get out’ and walk, in the grey and wet.

    For it was miserable.

    I left my flat in a break of sunshine.

    Arrived at the walk point with rain clouds, and horizontal cold rain.

    And waited in the car, long enough to unsteam the windows, and at least wait for the rain to stop.

    And it did.

    For a tiny moment.

    It was muddy. Wet. Cold and windy.

    But I was walking.

    Wrapped up warm, with camera and binoculars, with scarf, gloves and hat.

    And thermal socks on with the heavy duty boots.

    I was out. Walking.

    Brave in the cold.

    Madness maybe. But out.

    And this is a blog about a walk.

    Just an ordinary walk.

    Did I mention, cold, wet and muddy?

    A very ordinary grey, wet, cold, walk.

    But a walk none the less.

    Ordinary.

    Ordinary courage and bravery.

    Ordinary steps taken, one by one.

    At a place ive been to many times.

    Its not a mountain top experience to deal with trauma, or deal with the monsters. Just ask Harry Potter, no one wants that badge of honour.

    Sometimes the path is wet, cold and muddy and you need to be protected from the elements.

    One foot in front of the other, even in the wet muddy path.

    Even when I’m writing, there could be a temptation to show off the best bits, or most important, to biggest challenge in my personal healing. But recovery is about the ordinary.

    Its about the every day.

    Its not always about the new place, the new discovery.

    Though there are discoveries, and there are significant moments. And at the moment im loving John O Donohues Eternal Echoes. Its a warm hot chocolate for my soul.

    But sometimes there’s just something significant in going for a walk. Its about expectations, or not having any. Its about making a positive choice to do something, even if the path feels wet and muddy, but its being done. A positive choice doesn’t mean the sun is going to immediately shine, there’s a lot of mud, fog and cloud to wade through. But at least im walking. Started putting one feet in front of the other. the gritty ordinary of healing from abuse, is not pretty.

    There are beautiful moments of sunshine though.

    When the gaps open up.

    But often these are surprises. Moments when the universe makes its voice known. And when I’m ready to see them.

    Like on that walk.

    The sun did come out, and I noticed two deer resting in the sunshine.

    When the Roe deer sat down and rested in the glimpse of the evening sunshine, sat as she was on the wet grass, it was a perfect still wonderful moment. I watched, breathed, and used my camera (quietly) and enjoyed it, present in the moment.

    A universe gift.

    Sometimes the paths are made by those who walk. Sometimes the universe conspires to help the dreamer. Sometimes its just about putting one foot forward, in front of the other, even despite better judgement, but doing so from brokenness, from vulnerability, into a cloud of fog, with the gritty hope that there is another side beyond it.

    Ill tell you something else.

    I was beginning to sense boredom. Boredom being one slight step to the left from contentment. Contentment is a lovely feeling, its as if everything is early spring. What boredom felt like was the peace of contentment, but without the colour of the daffodils.

    I guess when 40 years of my life have existed with a background noise of toxic drama, then the years since of processing and recovering from this… peace can feel like boredom when there’s no drama going on.

    But something I realised, is that I have needed coping activities in the last 4-5 years. Maybe I dont need these as much, and maybe I’ts time to have more fun and creativity, to have more energy to give, because im in a different place. As I walked yesterday, I realised that I could be grateful for the feeling of boredom, and that this is an indication of where I am, who I am and the journey I have been on. Maybe instead of feeling frustrated by the grey cloudy days, its time to walk through them.

    Sometimes the grey makes for interesting photos.. but this isn’t one of them.

    Its an ordinary path, just outside darlington with the sunset reflecting on the grey wet tarmac.

    It was just a walk.

    But it was so much more.

    It was time to see. Time to make choices. Time to receive.

    Time to sense and feel. Time to be grateful. Time to notice.

    Time for me.

  • How I believed in a ‘Feelings free’ Faith

    How I believed in a ‘Feelings free’ Faith

    If you’re not in any way religious you might want to look away from this piece. If you are in any way religious, especially Christian, you might not like it.

    I want to share something about how Evangelical Christianity suited me. More to the point, how it was perfect for me.

    It’s also the story about how I left my emotions at the door of the church. Well, again, thats an inaccuracy, it was more that there was almost no necessity to show emotion in church, and that made it perfect for me. Perfect to mask and hide. But also, because of my parents influence in it, I had no choice.

    When I think about the places of my childhood, I think about school, about church, about the clubs like swimming or scouts, and also the ‘free’ space in-between.

    School was a place of intellectual development, primarily. And once I got my untidiness sorted, I did quite well. Once I realised I wasn’t going to be supported or helped, it was me or nothing, so I got on with it – despite my parents.

    Swimming Club as well as football training and the school badminton club were all physical, Scouts was a bit of physical, and other survival activities, in which I was woeful. (I wasn’t taught how to survive life, I had to work this out, strange that) . In TA terms, my adaptive child was taking over, big time, so that I could fit and belong in these adult environments, like church.

    Church was ‘Spiritual’. Yes there were physical elements, like the youth club, and badminton group, and social. But it was barely emotional. Actually.

    It was anti- emotional.

    I grew up Evangelical, and letting emotions loose in church was seen as ‘inferior’ , ‘scary’ or almost what ‘cult’ like churches did. As a very young child I remember not being able to breathe or make a noise sitting through the very boring service, with only a bag of toys to play with under the seat.

    As an older child I was rewarded by what I knew. Memorise the verses, memorise the books of the bible, find verses quickly, find the animal/fruit in the bible verse. Do reading or learning homework. Volunteer in the Sunday school. Know things. Do things.

    When I had moment of despair in my room, aged about 9, and I tried to pray, I wanted so desperately to feel something. Feel that God was listening. Feel that I was about to have some kind of divine moment that I thought I was supposed to have, then have an amazing testimony, about how God came close and I felt something. But the prayer I despaired and felt like kicking the wall, closing my eyes and ending it all felt like it didnt go any where. I remember desperately wanting to feel something. And nothing came back.

    (How I nearly ended it all aged 9 is here)

    When I was 10 1/2 I ‘became’ a christian – I prayed a prayer because I had in my head all the ‘sins’ I had been made guilty of committing (I was selfish, spoiled according to my parents – oh and I felt guilt for even thinking of suicide age 9) so I prayed that ‘my sins’ were put in an bin and got rid of.

    I was asked what I felt about this big decision I made. I felt nothing. I knew that I had done something. But I didnt feel any different – was I supposed to start feeling things? Maybe I got a sense of feeling a tiny bit spiritually clean, from things I had no reason to acknowledge were mine to carry in the first place. God I sound screwed up psychologically.

    The adage was true though, in the main most people are sinned against than sinners, but you know, lets play on the individual sin in the guidebook for encouraging guilt, then dependence, and an easy victim to it. Trauma in the family that a child may have experienced is far too difficult to deal with.

    I digress, back to the ‘knowing’….

    I remember the songs, from Sunday school and beyond.

    ‘Be Still and ‘Know’

    ‘For this is ‘Know’

    ‘Knowing you Jesus, there is no greater thing…..’ (The ‘Kendrick’ Abba song, knowing me knowing you…Jesus..)

    Dont get me wrong, there were some songs about being happy (The Happy Song) and dancing too. But these seemed forced…no one ever felt like dancing…

    Songs, Sermons, remembering information. Engaged the brain.

    Space for silence, space to feel, limited.

    Then, when I was 13 I discovered this:

    It was in a tract by Agape Ministries in the UK, and my church undertook the ministry of it (and I did as a young leader and keen one) , to do a course on evangelism, that included 5-6 weeks on it, and then use a tract, ‘Knowing God Personally’ – that described the ‘bridge’ and the had this train on the back.

    The premise of the train was that Faith was based on Fact (and not feelings) and that feelings somehow were the carriage that followed on behind. Facts. Knowledge were important.

    Feelings followed.

    Faith was based on fact, because, it was important to know the bible, know the facts, know that it was historical, know that it was true – historically, know so that an argument could be ‘won’ , know so that faith was subject to what was described as the ‘turbulence’ of emotions.

    It also meant that even if I didnt ‘feel’ happy – or ‘feel’ that God was close, that I ‘knew’ that God was and that this provided certainty… apparently.

    As a young person who knew their trains. As a young person that had disconnected from their emotions – this was all great.

    Feelings were just an added bonus extra and not to be regarded at all.

    I could hide having feelings even more. And when I did have any feelings or emotions in life, over the next few years, or more – I could then ‘know’ that these weren’t what God would want me to have – feel shame for having them – and then consider it to be sinful to feel – and then ‘get back to knowing’ . Read the bible, Read, dont feel. Learn.

    If you know, you know – but the ‘Toronto Blessing’ stuff made things interesting for a few years. My ‘knowledge’ orientated church was cautious, compared to more charismatics. People ‘felt’ in the church for the first time, and it made them weird. And I went along to some of the weirdness, and I was determined that I wasn’t going to ‘feel’ the hype. It was the only time that permitted feelings came to church in my time. And it was pretty mad. And for those who for whom it was too mad, they retreated back to the safety of knowledge and facts.

    For me?

    I went on to become a ‘leader’ in churches, and so I had to be ‘responsible’. Therefore showing emotions wasn’t part of it. I had to be mature, I had to know things, I had to lead, inspire and have integrity. I had to cope. I could be professional. I could be ‘adult’. I could leave all and any child behind.

    As someone who had a disconnected sense of self, (and what I learned about ‘self’ spiritually is a whole other post) , church could easily be a place where I could hide emotions, where praise was heaped for stoical behaviour, and the pursuit of knowledge.

    Maybe now I have language for all of this experiences, growing up even in the early 1990’s where there was no conversation about emotions…anywhere, especially not for boys. Adapting into ‘Adult’ life as quickly as I could was what I needed to do, run away from childhood asap, and leave behind what that represented, emotions, play and curiosity. Was feelings free Christianity really what was on offer? Maybe thats not what was intended, but it meant that I could negate that carriage of the train, in regard to my spiritual life.

    I wonder now what the cost is and has been. I wonder how common this is in other denominations around the UK or beyond. I wonder whether emotions in church are ‘just’ for the hysterical or depressed, and how these are to be ‘got rid of’ or ‘discarded’ for being uncomfortable or in some way unspiritual. Im not blaming the church I grew up in for what it didnt know, but I also know that there were many in that church who were as bewildered and scared of the same monster that I had to encounter every day.

    Maybe it all goes back to way before the ‘Fact Train’ , Karen Armstrong writes about how the myth of the sacred story was turned into a desire for objective fact of the Biblical narratives, around 400 years ago. The feeling of the camp fire story making way for the cognitive reading, but this isn’t a general history lesson on theological feelings and emotions, its about how I could leave feelings and emotions at the door of the church, but in reality, I could leave them buried deep down, hidden away, and mask the childhood emotional abuse that happened.

    It has been a long road, a long rail even. It has been one for me in which I have begun to let the feelings and emotions out of the shadows, and be accepted as part of me.

    If you’d like to read more on my Spiritual Journey, or the resources that have helped me to reconnect my emotional life with my spiritual one, do have a look at the resources above. I particularly recommend Eckhart Tolle, and Gary Zukav, though there are others too.

  • Healthy Emotional movies… for Men?

    Last night Christelle and I were watching this film

    Marilyn Hotchkiss’ Ballroom Dancing & Charm School

    The Trailer is here

    Robert Carlyle Dances. Yes.

    But there’s much more to it than that.

    It was a film that centred Men and their dealing with emotions, such as grief, anger and memories. Yes, it wasn’t perfect and maybe not therapeutically perfect either. But it was good.

    So it got me wondering, what films have you watched that portrayed Men dealing appropriately, though not always perfectly, with their emotions? Do comment below

    I can think of a few others, Rocketman, Hector and the pursuit of Happiness, The Day we sang all watched in the last few years – but what for you has been a good film that shows Men dealing well with difficult emotions?

    Do share below: