James Ballantyne

Category: Journey

  • On Comfort Eating, and my relationship with food

    If the end to the abuse and pain was at the end of a tunnel made of bread, then I spent most of my first 40 years on this earth trying to eat my way towards that distance unreachable utopia.

    When I say 40 years, I mean all 40 years.

    It was said of me, by my abusive mother, that James will eat his weight every day, and his friend C (best friend from 0-11) would drink his way. My friend C drank so much juice, whilst I was eating everything, once I discovered solids.

    I bet we all have a interesting relationship with food though dont we? Maybe spend a moment reflecting on yours..

    I became the eater. Known for it.

    In public I would be the first in the queue at the church fellowship teas – this food was so good, sandwiches, quick, pasta, pizza, deserts..oh my all the 1980’s deserts, cheesecakes, gateaux, jellies, laid on large tables that covered 2/3 of a length of the room, piled high.

    I only had one motto on things like that. I didnt eat the food my mum had contributed.

    But feast on everything else. It wasnt quite a competition with the contributions (probably all women , it was the 1980’s) , but many would pull out the stops.. and so it was good food, and I was known for being first in the queue, and first in the queue when everyone else had had.

    Food, glorious food.

    I know now that many of the situations, and the content of the food I grew up with was orientated with emotional trauma. Yes I was forced to eat what was on the plate – what ever it was, and some of it was highly questionable, liver, marrow, but the dinner table was also the place where that person dominated. Anything that was worth eating was worth eating fast, and getting out of there.

    What I know now, is that food was a metaphor. My abusive mum was feeding the men in the house, whilst behind the scenes abusing the women, my sister, about food. The old trick- do one thing over here, abuse over there. Eat up – youre working men, or growing boys. She was feeding the men, as a cover up.

    Problem was that food wasnt safe. Some of it at times barely edible. It was as if she couldn’t do the thing that other people did, like be predictable, she was a dangerous unpredictability when there was one ingredient missing, would get replaced by something weird.

    She was a dangerous unpredictability the rest of the time too.

    ‘They’ll just have to be grateful for what I give them’ – That was her mantra. And it was the same for gifts and presents.

    In later years, after I left home, food got even worse. Or maybe I noticed it more.

    So, what else did I do?

    Ah yes, that tunnel of bread (though it could have been cereal too)

    As soon as I discovered that glorious new meal ‘supper’ I was in for it big time.

    Early occasions of supper were about 9.30pm on summer nights after id been playing football so late and starving, or after swimming club, that kind of thing.

    But as I got older, and it got later, supper was a safe place too. The house and downstairs would be mine, space, and a few slices bread and late night comedy or sport on the TV to enjoy, to myself.

    What I also did was disconnect from my body, That was the place of shame, that wasnt important, compared to my mind, my soul and spirit (and heart didnt get a look in), but if the body was the source of a kind of evil – then it didnt matter what did to it. So I piled it with food. Body health couldn’t happen, when body value was so low.

    Was I comfort eating?

    Sometimes, as it would be a quantity of bread that I didnt need to eat for physical reasons.

    And that was pretty much the pattern that didnt change.

    I wasnt ever subject to the horrors of actual toxic food ever again, not unless we went to my parents house, for even when we visited the food was always known to be a weird concoction, or actually something inedible, to make a point, to make a point of making everyone uncomfortable. I mean who makes a chicken soup and leaves all the bones in, crunched up by a mixer (though not fully) and serves this to their 4 and 6 year old grandchildren. Or undercooks pasta. They’ll just have to be grateful……

    Childhood food included Prunes in Lime Jelly, chicken frikasee with the bones in, every meat with all the yucky fatty bits, liver…

    Its no wonder I developed places of food eating that we’re safe.

    Most of my late night eating pattern stayed the same, it was what I was used to. There would be bouts of me trying to give up bread, and trying to discipline myself on food, and strangely I did start this, in the last few years.

    But I looked forward to having my own space, when everyone else had gone to bed, and I would raid the bread.

    Bread

    Toast

    Jam

    Marmite

    Peanut Butter

    Bananas

    Honey

    Sweet

    All the above.

    I think my record was 8 slices one night. it could have been 12, I just didnt stop.

    Craving and filling emptiness.

    Then I started to make my own bread. A sure sign of a pending emotional breakdown. Breadmaking.

    The other thing I would do is raid the reduced aisle in the supermarket, especially when I was late at work, and was late at work often on late night detached Youthwork sessions, or on the way back from them. Id eat far far more junk that I needed to, over eating, and piling the weight on, one reduced wrap, doughnut, fruit smoothie, cake or cookie at a time. Secret over eating. Secret Comfort eating.

    Until I stopped.

    My 40th year I stopped, just about.

    Or maybe I began to stop.

    I wasnt looking forward to my 40th, intact, with abusive parents you dont look forward to any birthday, but I wasnt looking forward to my 40th.

    But having downloaded the STRAVA app a few years previously I decided that I was going to do 40 Strava app exercises between Boxing Day and then my 40th that year, in late march. 90 days, 40 inputs of reasonable quality, a run, swim or bike. And I did. I also changed my eating pattern too, I had always cooked food, in fact I had done most of the home cooking for 10 years, but for three months I cooked lots of vegetable soups, lentils and though in so many ways may life wasnt in a good shape, what I was beginning to do was change some of the outer things. Mostly knowing that if I carried on I was only expanding, and doing so from an already getting larger shape at the time. I may have been deeply unhappy (or just used to surviving) but I was going to make an attempt to deal with the food thing.

    And I at least started to.

    I think I lost about 2 stone that year. I was probably slightly obsessed by my weight at the time, but it was one way of checking and disciplining myself. I was starting to take control of myself. Maybe even to start to care and love myself, which started physically.

    What I didnt realise at the time was what I actually needed to do.

    Or maybe, was about to happen that was going to unravel, and how food changed even more so.

    Not many months later I’m staying in a friends house for 6 months, having left ‘my own fridge’ house, family and have no job.

    But do I comfort eat in this situation? Nope.

    Through this situation I’m beginning to realise that I’m starting a process of dealing with the inner me. If one of those onion layers is about pain, and emotional abuse, then as I reveal, and begin the work on this, and the roots, then I understand how and why I dealt with life, and food the way I did, and what I needed it for.

    As I changed on the inside, other things changed on the outside.

    My relationship with food changed, as my relationship with myself changed.

    For 40 years I coped with life, survived sometimes daily on the knowledge that late night bread was waiting for me and a safe place.

    Is it because I’m in my 40’s that I now see differently. I dont think so. I needed to breakdown and start to see, heal. I needed the disruption of clearer space, a retreat, safety. I needed to start the emotional work, therapy and see the monsters differently, and see myself who had unnecessarily carried guilt, shame and responsibility for everything and everyone.

    Am I ‘over it’ – Now that I’m in a place of safety, a place of knowing and valuing myself more, a place where I have a better body image, where previously I didnt matter, my body didnt matter, and I was grasping for something with food that food could never do. How do I feel about food now?

    On one hand it took me 5 months of living in my own space to realise that ‘I was cooking for one’ – and I enjoy cooking, following recipes, trying new things, and part of valuing myself has been to value what I eat, and value making good healthy food for myself. I like experimenting with new recipes, growing food that I can eat, and also in becoming vegetarian over two years ago, have developed other new cooking habits.

    Whether its African bean stew or Mexican Avocado eggs.. food is a thing of value and beauty, because thats what I deserve.

    Do I still eat bread? Yes.. because its nice.

    What about food and you? I can see how my relationship with food changed as I developed a different relationship with myself, my emotions, when I saw and understood myself and my life differently. As the inside changed, so did the outside. It wasnt the other way around, and thats probably the lie never told by the diet industry. Curing emotional comfort eating with a disconnected body, was not going to be solved on a diet alone- though it was a bit of a start.

    What about you and food? Other men, has food, been a part of your journey? and in what way?

  • Realising that Now I can be Happy.

    If only

    If only this happened, then I would be Happy

    If I bought this, I would feel complete

    If I achieved this..It would bring me wholeness

    If someone else did well at something – I would be joyful

    If my team won- then I would be happy

    If only

    If something.

    Until the last few years I lived my life in a state of future thinking of happiness.

    Until the last few years I avoided my current state of presentness

    Until the last few years I delved deep into my inner mind workings to survive the past things.

    Mind engaged

    Feelings switched off

    Future life will sort it

    a new job, a team victory, a day out, unexpected money, success, academia…

    Living only for a future to arrive that never arrived, whilst being trapped in a mind prison of the past and having no grip on my own feelings. Was like a prison with a door that never opened, and I had no access to a key.

    An imagined future happiness, lost in the present, and fearful of dealing with a past that I had tried to switch off from.

    This will make me happy. Nope.

    This will bring moments of unexpected joy – yes, glimpses, moments.

    The one off moments that circumnavigate my ever working mind, my overthinking brain to hit me where it hurt. Briefly.

    The breakdown summer in which I cried alot.

    Did not know

    Couldn’t think my way out of it.

    Had to live from a dormant, bruised heart, that was screaming to be acknowledged.

    Yet in the moments of breakdown, the world starts to change.

    I already saw the flowers, but now they were signs of gratitude and hope, I saw what was colour in the everyday.

    The Rainbow. That appears in my flat window, as I write this.

    Feint against the grey clouds

    Moments of the now.

    Glimpses.

    Tomorrows happiness rarely came, because I expected too much of it. I needed the future to do something for me, that was impossible.

    ‘When will you be happy’? Was a question I was asked one time.

    It wasnt just slowing down that I needed to do

    It was just breathing

    It was being.

    In the moment.

    I couldn’t think my way into feeling something that had to be felt, and I am beginning to realise, that I feel in the now. It is when my mind stops and I allow myself to feel, to listen to my heart speak.

    I noticed that I stopped needing things. I enjoyed things, but didnt need them to do something beyond what it was meant to do.

    Maybe its mindlessness and not mindfulness.

    What might it mean to be fully present and in the now?

    and.. if its not now – when.. might that be for you?

    Am I excited about something happening tomorrow, or something in a month, or Christmas coming up?

    Yes, of course, but do I need that thing to make me happy?

    Healing for me, was less about understanding what happened, but about the beginnings of the undoing of what I did to cope and survive through it. Because now I’m not needing to survive and cope, I dont need tomorrow. I have today. I have now.

    And now it full of colour, its even more so when the greyness and clouds break away.

  • Confession: I was that person who thought self-care was for weak people.

    Can I confess something to you?

    I used to think all this was rubbish too. I fell into a trap of my own doing.

    Therapy was for weak people

    Thats what I thought.

    I didn’t need help, I helped others

    Critical of the sitting ‘doing colouring’ phenomenon of a few years back

    Id rather stay busy

    I dont need that kind of help

    Im ok

    Ill survive

    I always do

    And dont get me started on Enneagram or Myers Briggs, didnt want anything to do with them, id criticised their validity, and took out of them any helpfulness they could be.

    Though I wanted to help others, actually I also invalidated the help that they may have got

    I was the right one, and strong one, I could cope

    I was that person.

    I dont think I was ‘that’ person that thought ‘God could solve anything’ in that kind of evangelical way.

    But I was the person who invalidated ‘weird’ mindfulness or therapy or personality tests… or any of this

    Do blame the trauma creating counter dependency?

    Blame, no, because I can see how I got into that trap, but also I know I could have done or seen better

    Maybe id fallen into a trap somewhere of invalidating therapeutic help, self-care and emotions – so that I could stay trapped

    But I was that person.

    I also wanted to avoid the big stuff. So I was at the same time trying to invalidate the very thing I needed.

    No wonder that onion layer skin was a hard outer one.

    I wonder whether this is the same for many of us?

    Especially, but not exclusively men?

    We have to be strong and be seen to be – and strong means criticising the very things that seem weak and vulnerable?

    I didnt want to know about myself, I didnt think I was that important, I also didnt want to face up to what I might find….

    I helped other people in a job in which I supported others, young people, youth workers, even would be the kind of person who would take the ‘support’ role in conversations with clergy…who if I let them could ask me them…I had to be the strong one, I had to look like it, strong.. and in many ways, some of those strong things, maybe even emotionally strong at times (for others) were also weaknesses.

    We as men, and women, might fill our lives with the distractions of sport or work, and dive deeply into the intellectual pursuit of these things… as a way of hiding ourselves in them, or again, was that just me?

    But I was that person, I confess, I was that person who thought they didnt need help?

    But at the same time my inside was being knawed away as week by week and year by year my woundedness was what I was living, and masking this in helping others.

    So I get it , I really do.

    Stereotypically it took that life changing, breakdown moment, to start from, to rebuild.

    But before then I avoided and was critical of the very things I needed, the things that , especially therapy, and the many self care/help resources that I began to read and discover – were soul, heart and life changing.

    I thought I was strong, but had to become weak to realise that strength from being open to myself was the strongest strength of all.

  • Me and the Colour Purple (Part 9)

    Theres a reason why I made the logo to this page purple.

    Purple became a healing colour for me.

    As a weird coincidence I watched 2 films in the summer before I left the family home for the first time.

    One was 12 Years a Slave.

    The other was ‘The Color Purple’

    Both astonishing films, both moved me to tears.

    Both began to help me see something. Just began a tiny bit.

    Abuse is sneaky, and so is the controlling slavery of it.

    Not easy watching, but good watching none the less.

    Fast forward a matter of a few weeks.

    In the confusion of having left the family home, and the emotional clouds and fog.

    I do have some freedom. Just the tiniest bits to breathe.

    I manage to negotiate my own bank account, and even though I’m only in a one day a week job, and no house, but staying at a friends, I have the smallest speck of choice. Having to buy my own food and travel.

    I also have a small amount to buy, for myself.

    A new duvet, towels as I left with barely anything.

    What I noticed was that I started to buy things for myself that were all there same colour.

    Purple.

    A purple towel

    A purple jacket

    Purple socks (in and amongst other colourful sock colours)

    Purple T shirt

    I start to see purple everywhere.

    When I chose a fleece for the winter, I chose a purple ‘Tog-24’ one. I still have it.

    Purple felt like it became a ‘thing’

    Purple.

    A cross between the peaceful blue, and the fiery red – that’s what i googled to see if there was meaning.

    I had always been blue. Peaceful, compliant, giving, surviving, silent

    Red was slowly entering.

    Slowly.

    My healing colour was the colour Purple.

    It was weirdly unintentional at the time, but maybe it was trying to tell me something.

    Colour was also returning, from a place of grey and ash.

    Blue was almost a default colour, blue was the only way to be and survive, from childhood and onwards. I wasn’t red and fiery, blue pacified. Blue water evaporates with fire, though it can also quench it.

    I started to notice the purple. I started to feel more like purple than blue.

    I was changing.

    I was beginning the tiniest journey then of seeing colour.

    Me and the colour purple.

  • Healing is possible – when we walk

    Healing is possible – when we walk

    The day started like the last 3 on my summer camping trip to the Yorkshire dales.

    Grey. Drizzly. Wet

    But, after breakfast and tidying up, the smallest semblance of blue sky emerged. Just the tiniest bit.

    The tiniest blue in a sky full of grey, after a day of mist and cloud.

    Sometimes it just takes the tiniest speck of blue.

    Sometimes, we can barely see it

    Sometimes we have to walk, even in the midst.

    Sometimes our tiniest blue is something that we cling on to to keep going, it might be our children, our faith..just something that tells us that walking is just about possible, and worthwhile.

    The tiniest blue

    Do I walk?

    Will I get wet? Hurt? Where will I go? Who will be there?

    How many questions to overthink before making a move. Thinking is the enemy of flow. Life is for living, not watching others live it.

    So I started.

    Walking.

    The map looked flat. But then again walks aren’t maps.

    When walking, the path gave me decisions, like above, 3 splintered off routes, often a muddy one, rocks or gravel, and what I realised some were better for downhill than up. They got me to where I needed to be, but I still had to choose

    Some paths were so worn down they’d been replaced, laid in concrete or wood to stop me from slipping, outside help to aid the walker.

    Clouds gathered in the distance, sweat pouring from me. Breathing becoming difficult. Hard work. But I was walking.

    Every now and then a moment to stop. Take off layers, it was warm, drink and eat.

    Signposts that told me how far I’d come. A mark to say, 2 miles done.

    We need that don’t we. Someone to say, it’s been hard to walk, but look at where you are, and how far you’ve been. Even if you’re drenched in sweat and there’s walking to do. Stop and notice.

    You got this far. Be proud of yourself …..Keep going…

    Other things to stop and notice, purple heather, a buzzard in the sky, and somehow energy returns when something natural and beautiful takes our attention. Gratitude moments.

    Walking along. Walking alone. Listening.

    A flicker of unexpected brightness, a surprise, universe conspiring, something new to focus on for a split second, watching the flight and beauty of something so graceful as the Wheatear, a moment to feel treasure, to see, to hear that chirp. An unexpected gift.

    A warning ahead. Previous walks have had bulls in fields, cows even, and even this week I had to avoid a herd right by the gate. But this one had to be walked past. There was only one path. No way to avoid. Must walk through. Keep walking.

    Breathe, I can do this one. I know what I need to do. Im less scared. Its been tamed, by many other walkers as they’ve been past.

    In the vastness of the landscape, and the pursuit of the climb, small details can get missed, the thistle, bumblebees and wild flowers are scattered around. Ancient limestone rocks strut out from the peat and grass, and attract balls of bright green moss, their intricate weave capturing all the nutrients they can, a myriad of depth perched on the rock

    How long has this moss been here for? It looks fresh, but could be weeks, months, years old, and that’s the thing, on the walk, ancient, recent and new knowledge and ideas can help to shape our path. As we look into them the myriad of depth gives us life, encouragement to walk on.

    Climbs up to gates that seem hard work, and then a view of the next section, the next climb, and a gate and stile to climb over, and another moment to pause, to take it in, to see how far you’ve come, and also the destination ahead. Legs getting ever more tired, steps hard work, even if they’ve been easily laid out, one foot in front of the other. No going back.

    Every now and then a guide present, that map, or someone descending or going faster and slightly ahead. We all go at our own pace.

    Another stop, another drink, a moment to learn, a moment to take it the surroundings, a moment to breathe before the next climb. Another decision to keep going, with 4 miles of walking in me, 1 more to go and it’s steep, the last bit. But it’s the bit I’m here for.

    The Summit in sight, still shrouded from view, steps to take when walking, ive got this far, how far to go, and will this tired, sweaty body make it up the last bit. How tired am I? How long shall I rest for? What do I need to make the next step?

    Its water, a trail bar, and a banana time.

    Every step I’m taking
    Every move I make feels
    Lost with no direction
    My faith is shaking

    But I, I gotta keep trying
    Gotta keep my head held high

    There’s always gonna be another mountain
    I’m always gonna wanna make it move
    Always gonna be an uphill battle
    Sometimes I’m gonna have to lose
    Ain’t about how fast I get there
    Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
    It’s the climb

    Miley Cyrus, The Climb

    Life at the base of the mountain.

    In an amongst the rocks, a circular pool. A swamp of vivid colour.

    Dragonfly dancing around, and rock pipits flutter.

    Views await as I get to the edge of the mountain, a valley comes into view. The other side.

    Ribblehead Valley, and the glorious Ribblehead Viaduct. Until now hidden by the mountain itself. And still hidden by the clouds, which I’m now almost in.

    A moment to recognise that there are sometimes many paths to get to the same destination, some snake the valleys, some tantalise on what seems the precipice, some, seem like more of a slow long gradual walk, but paths towards the summit none the less.

    But these clouds need walking though, to get to the top, as there’s not far. Encouraged by the new view, and within reach of the summit, one more steep push, one more step in front of the other, one more decision per step, which rock, which gulley, which position shall I put my foot, what’s going to grip, on those last few steps, steps to the summit, and then…

    Not a peak, but a large platform, a flat space, with views of other distant heights, Pen-y-ghent peeking in the clouds and others far off.

    So I made it, to the top, to the summit, 723 metres up. And that is there the sun came out. For virtually the first time all morning. The first blue sky, since the blue sky when I started. A space to sit, and gather with other fellow climbers, compare notes of the directions they took, their starting points, their perils and journeys, to admire the view, and take selfies with that most important of markers. The trig point at the top.

    Elation

    Relief

    I made it.

    And then the descent. Realising the difference of gravity on the tired limbs, its as if the earth calls me back down, pulling me down the mountain. Lighter feet, but careful feet on the rocks, mud and paths.

    Almost free flowing back down. Light. Free.

    Even as the rain really did come.

    Walking feels light. Less in the bag, more in the stomach. Every step the possibility of another, but much quicker, easier.

    The climb worth it for the climb. Worth it for the views. Worth it to have the free walk back. Worth it to have seen, lived, felt and overcome.

    We make the road by walking

    Horton, Friere.

    Some paths have already been made.

    But we still need to walk them.

    Live them, one step at time.

    Starting from the first.

    Sometimes we need to walk.

    The tiniest blue sky in the mist at the base.

    The tiniest blue sky at the top.

    The journey in-between

    Freedom, achievement and energy on the way back down.

  • 2 years of being able to breathe

    I realised this week that I’ve been able to breathe for 2 years now, these were the first two years I’d been able to breathe in my whole life

    I remember when I walked into the flat 25 months ago and being emotional in front of the estate agent. Realising that this was going to be my space, my space to look after, my space to look after myself in, my space , haven, calm

    My space, to make home. To light candles, listen to music, read, and enjoy life in my own pace.

    My space to determine boundaries of what I listen to, read or who I allow in

    My space to look forward to coming home to after leaving it

    My safe space

    I can breathe

    Stop and slow down

    41 years of emotionally abusive home space, with 2 in-between of working/living in houses with gap year teams, with me being the ‘responsible’ one

    2 years of being able to breathe

    2 years of being enough, 2 years of listening to my heart, 2 years of not having to revolve around the often crazy unpredictable needs of others, 2 years of being just me.

    2 years of healing from the 41 years previously

    2 years of starting to see

    Healing requires time, safety and connection, and in the process, self determination to make decisions, take control, for me about putting myself first, making decisions for my own good.

    It makes me stop and realise quite how unhealthy places are when breathing isn’t possible. When eggshells are the only floor covering and avoiding fighting or fawning conflict is the only reality. That’s not to mention lies and gaslighting, and trying to constantly work out who the crazy one is.

    It’s worth saying here, if you’re the one creating eggshells for others in your relationships, or family, through manipulation, control, bullying and neediness then maybe decide to give it up. You can change. Problem is, that you’re unlikely to read this. But…

    If you’re not breathing you’re not living, you’re just surviving. I was just surviving all my life. Ignoring every attempt of my heart to make itself known. Just surviving. Bouncing from one crisis to another. Fawning over the needy anger of toxicity.

    Breathing for 2 years, learning to be me. Realising who ‘me’ is.

    As I write I’m on holiday, camping in the rain, and up to now, my few holidays have been busy ones, climbing, walking, city breaks, and I’ve filled my days. Today I’ve tried to do what I am learning to do in my home. To stop and enjoy a ‘doing nothing’ day.

    Yes I’ve walked a short distance,but no rushing for trains , or climbing hills, just a short meander to the village a walk by the river and now just time reflecting on it as I write this, in a tent in the rain.

    In the past I realised that I struggle to slow down, in the last two years I’ve realised quite how much I’m able to slow down.

    Business was my ongoing distraction. Busy work, busy hobbies, busy. It’s no wonder that I’d wait to get ill during Christmas holidays only, when I had the time and my body relaxed. This was the pattern since childhood.

    Learning to slow down

    2 years of being in and feeling like being home.

    Safe

    Rest

    Breathe

    I’m sure I have more healing to do, as more layers are uncovered, as I listen more to my inner child, as I draw, write and play. But for now, a mark to note two years of being able to breathe, and feel new life, growth and change.

    Thank you to all friends and family alike in their support and encouragement to me in these last 2-3 years, and to Christelle whose healing, loving kindness is a joy

  • Saving an exhausted bumble bee

    Saving an exhausted bumble bee

    Lying motionless, almost on my small balcony lay a bumble bee in the morning heat today

    Exhausted

    Barely clinging on to the edge of the wood, nearly about to drop down a 30ft gap

    close, to death

    So I googled what to do and mixed up a combination of water and sugar in a small container

    Then put some nearby

    on the wood, so it could be away from the edge..

    then I watched and waited.

    I had no idea if it was damaged

    No idea if it would fly

    And I watched as it moved cautiously towards the liquid, stuck its leg in, then its mouth

    Sucking away at the sugar, desperate, hungry, exhausted

    It kept sucking

    finding its energy

    and gradually it moved away from the liquid

    energy returning

    but could it still fly…

    You can watch what happened next in full in this short video Bumblebee

    it crossed my mind that the Bumblebee is a good metaphor for ourselves after trauma – the pandemic, abuse, accident – what we don’t need when exhausted is to be flicked off the ledge, but something sweet, someone to pick us up and give us what we need at that time.

    Time… to take in all the nutrients we need

    Safety, away from the ledge

    Space .. to fly- when we have what we need

    I am sure you can think of personal or collective analogies for the bumblebee.

    What about young people, what about prisoners? What if an exhausted group of people needs energy, time, safety and someone who cares about them.. what if…

    Isn’t it glorious when something so weak, and exhausted, finds its feet, and wings again?

    That, my friend, could easily be you, or someone else..

    To see what happened next do have a watch of this here

    I wonder.

    I wonder what life is all about, and how life might be different to see ourselves as those who help others fly?

    What do you think?

  • ‘Why cant I just have fun?’

    ‘Why cant I just have fun?’

    It sometimes feels an effort to have fun – dont you think? well it does for me

    Nothing is stopping me, I can do what I want, So what cant I?

    But then I started to realise why… its those voices in my head, the critical ones, the sensible ones…these ones…

    ‘Are you boys having fun?’

    Came the voice of the abuser to me, on a number of times, its often at a time when I have actually been having fun.

    Its tone was accusatory. It was as if ‘fun’ was not allowed.

    Fun was ‘found out’ – look you couldn’t hide it from me, you were having fun

    Secret fun.

    You doing have fun without me, you don’t have fun in this house,

    Isnt there something more useful you should be doing… like meeting my needs instead?

    Fun guilt.

    ‘Just dont make a mess’

    Fun now has to be clean, organised, tidy.

    ‘I didnt say dont have fun, just keep the noise down’

    I gave up fun, fun was no fun..

    Another factor in the fun thing for me is the church thing.

    Growing up evangelical – meant having conditional fun, and being judgemental on other peoples fun

    ‘Look at us having fun without alcohol’ – at a barn dance that is excruciatingly painful in 1991 with other ‘young people’ who are finding it excruciatingly painful watching their parents dance and look as though they are pretending to be having fun and its just so awful. Then to be forced to dance. URGH.

    It wasnt just sex, drugs and rock and roll that were banned – it was anything that was the gateway to any of these things, school discos, pop music, smoking (anything) ..- we dont do what they do…

    Fun for me as a teenager was doing ‘christian fun’ – what was allowed – the christian music festival – and yet even there I struggled to have fun, because I was so un easy about having fun, with the exception of sports, just dont get me to dance, or draw

    Problem is in a context of what is and what isnt allowed….nothing seems much fun

    If Fun is about doing something for the sake of it, doing something that might be boundless, free, creative and spontaneous.. then I realise that part of rediscovering myself, and my inner child is about ‘having fun’ again

    I can definitely see how having conditions on fun – meant that something wasnt fun

    I can see now also that as part of the trauma of growing up with a psychopathic parent, that fun wasnt part of the deal, because more than not fun was about being responsible, staying alert. The only fun was to do the thing they wanted to do.

    Theres only allowed fun in abusive narcissist prison.

    Guilty for having fun? Shame for having the wrong kind of fun? Too responsible to have fun?

    Too inhibited to get drunk, always needing to be aware, responsible and look after others..- yes

    So when did I start to notice this, and realise it?

    I notice all the time, id rather be serious, think about serious things, learn, write (like this), digest the news (see previous post), and even some hobbies can feel like a performance, competitive…

    I really noticed about fun when I asked my inner child what he wanted to do that was fun – and then actually do it

    It was my inner child that wrote what it above.

    I noticed too when it felt a momentous action to pick up a felt tip pen and make a messy splurge on a piece of paper.

    Dont make a mess, stick to the lines, you cant draw, dont be silly, that’s silly…voices in my head, every time

    Be a grown up, dont be childish, whats the point, haven’t you something more responsible, or helpful to do – like write a blog or check twitter or tidy, or…

    I realise that its a struggle to ‘have fun’ – when the voices in my head, the critical parent – from the sources of those critical voices, abusive people and excessively moral churches – have been so dominant, and Ive been conditioned to comply, to fit, and found belonging or a trauma bond in compliance.

    Overthinking fun makes it a struggle to have fun at all.

    Just need to do it.

    So one of those things is that fun is guided.

    What do I do now for fun? new things that ive never been interested in before… and also new things I didnt know I could do before, as well as some of the old things like trains, cycling and growing food, but also photography,

    Walks, and after those occasions a few months ago, now experimenting with drawing, art and self discovery in drawing, colours, and art – something I left behind as a child. Learning to be creative will be another piece, but at this stage, just to say that ive discovered something fun in stuff that I thought I couldn’t do or hated as a child. Its like an unlocking.

    PICK UP THE PENS JAMES. JUST DO IT..so..

    Heres something I drew yesterday, just for fun….and with both hands simultaneously…

    Safety is so important in the pursuit of creativity – unless you dont give a fuck about what it is you’re creating and potentially upsetting in the process

    So often emotional abuse resolves around the shameful control of behaviour and that includes ‘what is allowed as fun’

    Often those who cannot have fun project rules onto those so it prevents them from doing so.

    I do find it a struggle to have fun.

    Maybe thats an ‘adult thing’ – but I’m more sure its a recovery from narcissistic abuse thing too. Life was about survival – and fun doesnt play a part – (maybe except outside the prison walls)

    A few thoughts on Fun:

    I can relate. When you’ve been fighting for justice or for survival all your life, it doesn’t take much to be content. A safe place to live, some peace and quiet, can be enough for a while. Your idea of fun might just change a bit. (Ryan on Twitter @Ryan_Daigler)

    I think I feel guilty for enjoying myself? And also sometimes in the past bad things have happened to others whilst I’ve been out enjoying myself so there’s that.(Lydia @Lydimoo)

    and someone trying to..

    I promised myself I would do fun things while I’ve got all my evenings to myself during the school holidays. It’s not yet working out as planned, Ive killed alot of time playing games though (Helen @Helenmt)

  • Recovery of my forgotten Inner Child

    Recovery of my forgotten Inner Child

    Over the past 8 months, through Trauma Therapy, I’ve been getting in touch with my inner child.

    The remarkable thing was, I didnt even know I had one.

    A child.

    A child part of me

    What I began to realise was…I had spent my whole life parenting other peoples inner child..

    But not my own

    So what did I say?

    How did a relationship start with a person, that I had never met?

    A person that, told me that I had left him behind

    A person that disappeared when I felt I had to grow up

    A part of me that hid

    That was scared at time to come out

    A part of me that was terrified of the anger, the abuse and shock of those who had tormented me

    A part of me that needed to know it was safe to appear

    I had to youth work myself.

    Safe

    Slow

    Easy conversation

    Allowing my inner child to speak

    To say the words that hadn’t been said in 40 odd years

    Letting it out

    Hello, little James

    Would you like to say anything?

    What would you like to do to today?

    What even is your name?

    baby steps as my vulnerable child begins a dialogue

    I am just beginning to listen, and keep listening

    Sometimes he swears at me. Sometimes he’s angry with me

    Sometimes hes quiet

    I am finding out what he likes, what he wants and what he needs.

    More that often I listen, try to hear, what my inner child is trying to say.

    Finding out who he feels safe with

    I am just discovering my inner child

    Re-covering my inner child

    Letting him out to play

    And in case you hadn’t noticed, be creative

    in his own time.

    Sometimes he writes, scribbles, draws, colours, just to get feelings out

    Sometimes I can hear him tell me off ive been too busy or distracted to talk, to listen

    Yes. He knows, as..deep down I also do too.

    What has it been like?

    Painful, raw and exhausting at times, but all of what my inner child has been holding onto for 30 odd years is having to come out, when its time, safe, and when he can trust me, to be protective, nurturing and safe.

    The things that were absent from my own childhood.

    And ive encountered the parts of me that I had inhabited, the critical parent, my wounded self, the voices in my head that say ‘stop being silly’ and try and let that inner child rest, play and pick up the crayon and make a silly mess. Because its not silly.

    And Critical me has had a lifelong field day. Ask anyone who’s been on the wrong end of my questions.

    As Lucia Cappachione writes, the fascinating thing is that the more we encounter , nurture, protect and parent our inner child.. the less we jump to rescue others, and also the less we need others to rescue us. Im not going to share too much from my inner child here, for, that is something for later, and maybe in a new relationship I will protect him and keep him safe, away from needing to be shared.

    But in re-parenting myself, ive discovering myself, and feel like a coherent person in a way that I have never done before. Im feeling my way into a real, whole person that until this year had felt disjointed, disconnected and I had lived out of a false self.

    If anyone reading this would like to start this journey, and it is recommended with a Therapist who specialises in this, the resources I am using on this, to do the work, not just learn about the work, are from Lucia Cappachione, most notably, Recovery of your inner child, 1991

  • There’s nothing wrong with me

    There’s nothing wrong with me