James Ballantyne

Blog

  • Vulnerability; The Surprising Path to Spiritual Growth

    Vulnerability; The Surprising Path to Spiritual Growth

    I written before that being involved in church as a teenager was a ‘safe place’ for me. It was a place to develop a bit of an identity, a space to have some importance – I was a junior leader, I was in the music group, I was part of the ‘Mens group’ from 18 for about 6 months, and after then was a leader in church things, team leader on a frontline team, youth leader in a church. Church meant involvement, and from about the age of 18 it was a place for me where I had some respect, importance. It was a place where I had responsibility.

    Psychologically it was the place, one of many, that as a younger child, my ‘adaptive’ child took precedence. I adapted into the adult world of the local church, was a leader, even in the youth group, and had some kind of status. This isn’t and wasn’t new by any stretch of the imagination. It happens a lot. The most significant thing for me was that it was a space where my parents left from me being around 13 years old. So it immediately became safer for me, and only their torpid residue still hung on, like tentacles of time.

    My role in churches, whether youth worker, leader or in ecumenical groups or denominations was exactly what the 20-30’s me required. Churches in which I kept some emotional distance (because I was an employee in many cases) , and could be important and useful, through either a paid role or voluntary ones involving music, young people or just by being a thoughtful, critical person who could preach or lead services even now and then.

    ADAPTED JAMES was in his element.

    The Shield.

    Wounded interior hiding behind a hard shell. Back turned.

    Oh and it was so easy.

    Adapt to rules, expectation and performance

    What I mean is, that it was so easy for me to exist in this way.

    Nothing in main could get close, because academic critical head of mine would question, criticism or cynicism it away.

    By the way that’s when I know I’m not feeling safe. I can tell.

    But then I could keep all the barriers up.

    I could hide the wounds behind the active mind. I didn’t have to be. To be honest, I didnt know, that I wasnt ‘being’ I was just aware that I wasnt alive. Not fully.

    Church was a place where I could easily hide. Keep up the appearances. Easy to keep masks on when no one else is asking that question, and if they did I would run and hide.

    Hiding behind responsibility, Hiding behind intelligence, Emotions left outside, Emotions no where.

    Though I wouldn’t have admitted it, at the time, I had tied myself into the expectations of the identity of ‘going to church’, and it helped me in some ways to have some parts of my ego massaged with some importance and influence, but I didnt want to get close. And for a number of years I didnt know why.

    I couldn’t emotionally invest myself in church. I needed it for my sake. Aside from frustrations I had no emotion to give at times. I had a head faith. But a head full of doubts. But not a heart faith – because actually that heart was well and truly hidden. And only, only on rare occasions did anything get through – especially in a church situation.

    I used to criticise people in churches for not being real and vulnerable – when that was me – I just lacked any awareness to know it.

    Projection as a defence mechanism, I shudder with my own embarrassment.

    What provoked all flow of thinking you might ask?

    I think, actually, no, I feel and beginning to know, that part of the healing journey I have been on in the last 3-4 years has been emotional, it has also been spiritual, and this has affected how I have interacted with the formative faith of my up to 40 year old self. I would say I have had more spiritual experiences since undergoing therapy than any time before. Through times when I have felt the most broken and confused, damaged and lost and also times when I have recognised my need to love myself – and to sense the spirituality and consciousness within myself. Its a journey that has taken me to Eckhart Tolle, to Karen Armstrong, to Gary Zukav, Irvin Yalom, Paulo Coelho, Richard Rohr, Victor Frankl and Haemin Sunim, and many others, as I continually discover the universe as a spiritual being, and the spiritual being deep inside of me, and spirituality of my body – the feelings and emotions. Holding in balance a spirituality that includes myself, God, creation and the other, and not denying the very heart and soul of myself – for the sake of the other.

    But what I read today was the thing to which so much of my spiritual and religious life made some sense, and for that I hand the end of this blog over the the wonderful Brene Brown.

    When religious leaders leverage our fear and need for more certainty by extracting vulnerability from spirituality and turning faith into ‘compliance and consequences’ rather than teaching and modelling how to wrestle with the unknown and to embrace mystery, the entire concept of faith is bankrupt on its own terms. …

    (Brene Brown, Daring Greatly) going on to say….

    I needed Church and I thought church needed me.

    I left my own vulnerability at the front door. It was barely on the same street to be honest.

    Performance, expectation and compliance was my safe place.

    I know I did this, but how common is it? What is the cost in ministry terms when vulnerability isnt culturally valued? Thats a question others can answer…

    Thanks Brene, for helping me see, again, and be grateful for the journey I have been on, grateful for the churches and groups who hosted and held me, who I kept at arms length and who I ran from when I got emotionally frightened. Thank you because you didnt know, and I didnt know what kind of emotional mess and what kind of emotional trauma I was and still carry. Thank you for doing your best, well most of you.

    Thank you more so for those who in more recent days have held my actual vulnerability as I have let you into the layers and I have found connection and warmth and life through this process, thank you.

    Thank you Brene too, for causing me to see the extent to which I was hiding and avoiding being vulnerable.

    Surprisingly Emotional Therapy has given me Spiritual Epiphanies. Learning to be vulnerable to myself, learning to uncover the hard shell and layers one by one, learning to be warm and loving to myself. To value the God within. To Value love as a feeling, myself as a human. To be. To be , from the inside out.

  • 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.

  • I’m Sorry (in advance)

    If I’m not already, Im going to be one of those insufferable people.

    One of them.

    Ill be one of those people who go on about doing ‘that thing’ and

    go on about it forever.

    Yes.

    I know.

    And not just going on about self help, therapy or some way of dealing with emotional awareness.

    No.

    Something else.

    No, not that thing,

    Not being a Vegan. Sorry Vegans, its not that and I love you. Thank you for being Vegan.

    Because as a vegetarian I benefit from the many many vegan shops, recipes and food stuff now in shops. Thank you

    Its not that.

    No,

    Its worse.

    Ive started something.

    Yes a thing.

    The kind of thing I used to say I would never do.

    Like therapy in the first place.

    Agreed.

    But, its not that thing.

    Its the other thing.

    And I am sorry.

    And I am ashamed, a little bit.

    Only a little bit, mostly because, you know, its that thing.

    Wait for it.

    I cant bring myself.

    Oh go on then.

    Here goes.

    I….

    went for a run a few days ago.

    I know.

    I did that thing.

    It wasn’t even that.

    I did the thing to help me.

    Because I needed help to do it.

    I downloaded that App.

    You know the one.

    This isn’t me. I had far far more dark marks of sweat dripping off me as I got to a steady jog…

    Couch. to 5K.

    For the first time in my life I have succumbed to asking for help for physical health.

    And. Whisper it quietly. Quietly. ….

    My first week, 3 runs has felt AMAZING.

    I feel great.

    Im sorry.

    Maybe, just maybe, its as much time for me to focus on physical health as emotional health – for 40 years it was one and not the other, then for 4 years, mostly the latter – now its time for a bit of balance. Time to lose the pandemic pudding around my waist.

    Time to be ‘that’ person who ‘Runs’

    Who runs regularly.

    And Enjoys it. Until I get injured, and I hope I dont.

    So. Im sorry.

    Im about to be ‘that person’ .

    The Couch to 5K progress reporting, ‘Running’ person.

    And tell you what. I might just be loving it too.

    Feels good so far.

    I might be keeping you updated. I might share the strava runs too.

    End of running progress reports.

    Im a beginning again, enjoying it Runner. And that means I might become evangelistic about it.

    Because its a good thing.

    Dont shoot me, but I ran this week, I liked it, and I want to tell you all about how good it was.

    Im Sorry.

  • 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.

  • Might the Emotionally Abusive treat pets like they do animals? (mine did)

    Narcissistic, sociopathic, psychopathic people dont see you.

    They just dont.

    They only see you as an extension of themselves

    Or as something to take from.

    A tool.

    You are their entitlement.

    Thats the humans. Or the items they see, that they take.

    But what about animals? The pets in the home?

    What happens when such a person also has a pet? or if there is one in the home?

    Research here indicates how pets are used as part of Domestic Abuse

    And here too

    They can be used as a way of keeping someone in a DV relationship, pets can be abused themselves.

    One of the ways that I have heard repeatedly is that physically violent people (often men) enact their physical violence out on their pet. The stats in this piece are frightening and awful.

    But I am wondering something else, something more subtle.

    How might the way an emotional or psychological abuser treat a pet be an indication of abuse?

    Can I tell you a short story please? About my psychopathic parent and what she could/couldnt do with animals?

    When I was about 4, for some reason, probably to be helpful, my parents decided to look after 4-5 3-4 month old kittens, whilst the owner was away open holiday I guess, but I cannot remember. In our old house my Dad was in the process of blocking off one of the old chimney breasts, the other was kept open for fires. But there was a large bricked hole in the wall which, with blankets, could act as a bed for the kittens, and could also be blocked off to keep them in there at night. If I remember too, the kittens were only allowed downstairs. I dont remember much about the stay of the kittens themselves. Only that in the last 24 hours before the owners returned, they tried to escape by climbing the chimney. I think 2 or 3 of them went for it, climbing up. One parent shrieked and got upset, whilst the other and I tried to get them down, using broom handles etc, and they did, eventually, sooty and black, they were white ish to start with. Trapped kittens trying to escape.

    Here’s another.

    My Dad loved guinea pigs, he’d had them as a child. We weren’t allowed pets (aside from a goldfish that lasted 3 years that was won at a school fair) But we could have guinea pigs, if they stayed in the shed. Yup. Nothing was allowed in the abusers domain they she didnt want or like or distracted from her and definitely not an animal. That reminds me. She hated when her favourite people had pets, and she hated the pets too.

    Completely unnecessary photo of a guinea pig, One of my childhood ones did look like this cutey.

    But back to the guinea pigs.

    During the winter they would be allowed on a Saturday or Sunday inside the house for about an hour whilst my dad cleaned out their cage. In the Summer they could be left outside eating grass and in their outdoor cage. So the two of them, salt and pepper their names, were placed in a large flat plastic sheeting covered in hay etc and allowed to run around and we could groom them, stroke their hair etc and cut their nails. All the things that were required to look after them. We all loved them.

    Well, three of us did.

    One person would sit in the corner and have nothing to do with them. I remember us, naive and young, pleading that ‘mum should have a guinea pig too’ – and she would so so reluctantly make a big deal of having one on her knee, and then get all nervous, shaky and fearful it would move, scratch.

    In Short, Psychopath, emotionally neglectful and abusive mother, couldn’t even stroke the guinea pigs.

    The guinea pig could not give her anything. She had no maternal instinct what so ever. Not even to pets. She hated other pets as I said above.

    She didnt even stroke the guinea pigs, might be the thing I wrote on her tombstone.

    Thats my experience of the emotionally abusive and animals. Want to avoid them, can’t relate to them, cant be seen to be attentive of them, neglectful and hating of them.

    So I am wondering, might other emotionally abusive, emotionally immature people extend their same behaviour to humans to their pets?

    Physical abuse is obvious and tragic, but what about pets that are emotionally abused and neglected. Animals that are a tool and not an animal with needs. Treating a pet with the same way they treat a human, as just an extension.

    Theres a definate link, but am just wondering if emotional abusive behaviour towards pets goes a bit under the radar. Do you have any examples?

    Any thoughts? Might you have examples like this, of weird behaviour towards the family pets by someone psychotic or emotionally immature in the family?

  • 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.