James Ballantyne

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  • Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (Part 19) The gifts of toxic gratitude

    ‘You’re just so ungrateful – after all I’ve done for you’

    In my previous piece I talked about how my abusive caregiver in the way in which they cooked food, often would create inedible food, that actually could be damaging to eat, making the food so uncomfortable, that expressing gratitude or thanks was an act of fakery.

    But toxic gratefulness wasn’t just food.

    To keep a narrative about being ‘poor’ and working for a faith, and gaining sympathy from people – sympathy they also rejected, my parents specialised in the distribution of valueless, token, ill thought through gifts.

    For 50 years.

    At the time the gifts stunned and often brought tears to us as children, as well as our cousins too. They were countless items over the years – Christmas and Birthdays nearly always were tinged with some level of crushing disappointment. The specific item ‘wanted’ was instead replaced by one that was ‘needed’ without any care or deliberation.

    And as children we were then punished for not being grateful for them.

    It didnt stay as children.

    My wedding present from my parents, was their second hand car, that they then expected us to pay for. They didnt want to give something on the wedding list as it wasnt what they wanted to give, so they didnt actually give anything.

    A fiat Uno , G reg, but black.. that was my first car.

    A few years later they said they wanted to pay for a pushchair/buggy for my oldest child, but in going to pay for it, in Durham mother care, the parent asked about ‘keeping the receipt, in case anything doesn’t work out with the baby’.

    How can you be grateful when you are stunned by the awfulness? And yet, what do you do? In a public place – when they then make a big deal of ‘giving’ the pushchair in front of the till.

    Food has already been mentioned. Though Toxic gratefulness occurred regularly, when theres ‘gifts’ given of food. The open cardboard box of reduced items in the supermarket they scavenged, or were going to waste, that they ‘bring’ – and ‘give’ at the front door. Yeah great.

    The problem with all of this, even now, is that I start to sound ‘ungrateful’

    And that’s it.

    When we dare criticise them for how they have behaved towards us in any way. Not only do they selectively not remember. (and they do this often)

    They hide behind, ‘telling the truth ‘ – I was just telling the truth to the cashier..

    Or

    the ultimate

    ‘You’re just being ungrateful, I did lots of things… you just dont realise how difficult you were’

    ‘You’re just being ungrateful, you have no idea how much I sacrificed for you‘

    Toxic gratefulness. Though there must be a different word for it. It what gets banded out when the abusive one feels under threat, when their generosity is questioned.

    Oh its my fault that you cant be generous now is it?

    or

    ‘You have too high expectations‘ – Well if having awareness and empathy and value for others is ‘too high an expectation’..then..

    or..the classic

    ‘I cant change who I am‘ ; Agreed, but why are you threatened when your awful behaviour is pulled up?

    Because. The truth that they aren’t actually generous would hurt if they could even see themselves. But the reality is, is that they’re in such a deluded reality that they can’t see themselves anyway, not beyond their ego, and how the world is there for their taking and getting.

    So they give minimally or not at all, or with the emotional loading attached like breadcrumbs from the table, or to try and hoover you back into their orbit, by their pretence of ‘being nice’.

    I cant remember the age, but I think it was about 8, the birthday party at my house. the one where I only asked for one thing on the table, I didnt want a cake. I wanted a Black Forest gateaux. (yes it was 1986) They were in a supermarket. They cost £3 probably. Do you think I got one?

    guess again?

    Instead I got a two layer chocolate sponge homemade with some cream and cherry pie filling on it. Glorioulsy announced in front of my friends. Her version.

    Where do you go apart from hide, or want to cry. Our birthdays, were their show.

    ‘Youre too hard on your mum, my friends would say as they laughed the next day at school, that case tasted yum’ It had no taste.

    I didnt want large birthdays or parties, because I didnt want them to be at them. Since 8 (ish) I avoided them.

    That they created birthday scenarios, and invited themselves to them, for both my 18th and 40th, and made everything so uncomfortable , not respecting or listening to me, was another thing. Having said I didnt want something, they did it anyway, because they felt they had the ‘right to’ and I had to be ‘grateful’ for something I didnt want, and be violated.

    I learned to tune out. Go into the survival zone. It was the only way to cope. It’s like a surreal moment when time goes so so slow, every breath takes 40 seconds and your desperate to need to go pee every 2 mins just to get out of there. Its awfulness upon awfulness. Yet smile, as you don’t want to appear grateful, or that this isnt walking on eggshells or all a game that they’re publicly doing. Let’s not be an ungrateful Trophy child.

    Which, by the way, they were rude to the service staff, and I had to pay the tip, for the thing they wanted to do, for my birthday.

    I really do sound ungrateful. Dont I.

    But thats just the thing. Every scenario is insidious, uncomfortable, disrespectful, and example upon example of awful behaviour that wounds, hurts, manipulates, and abuses. To start listing them, makes me out to be bitter. So, where is this kind of thing exposed? Do those who suffer this kind of awfulness from their parents have to suffer in silence?

    Emotional abuse is so difficult to quantify, as is narcissistic abuse.

    The penny drops eventually.

    The penny drops in that you get to realise over a lifetime, that when there are things that might be considered worth being grateful for, they do these things for a show ‘ look at us spoiling you now, dont ask for this again’ and then that gifts are rarely so, the penny drops that they struggle to be generous in gift giving, because they struggle to actually be nice at all. Gifts are to create toxic gratitude. A show for them.

    Its not just the stick that abuses, but the absence of anything resembling warmth, empathy, generosity and kindness. Its a kind of emotional neglect.

    So, when I point out the examples above, they are because these are the stories that are most memorable, but lets not get me started on the myriad of others, or the drip drip of the dementor like taking presence in between.

    Surviving psychopathic parenting, left a lasting effect on me, that over the last year im only beginning to understand. Gratefulness was one of the moral armouries used as a weapon.

    Its hard to write about gratefulness without being… well you know. So no wonder as a child its a weapon.

    What about in your case? Is this something you have experience of?

    Its only when I share the stories that I realise how awful it was. So thats why I share. So that you can start to see and heal too.

    If you’re reading this and its beginning a chain of thoughts in your head about your parents, or partner, then do seek support and a therapist, especially someone who can understand emotional abuse and trauma. There are resources on emotionally immature and narcissistic parenting in the resources section above, do check them out too.

  • How walking helped to heal me

    Maybe each day you should just go for a walk

    Said my friend who I was staying with after leaving the family home in the midst of my breakdown.

    By myself? I thought?

    Without a purpose?

    Just a walk?

    Not just ‘walk the dog’ or walk to a place, or walk to get to something – just a walk?

    Yeah, just go for a walk, it might do you good

    And so I did.

    Virtually every day. The walks I had done before I had done with a dog, the walks I had done before were with headphones in, the walks I had done before had been for work reasons. Distraction. Functional. Escape.

    And at first it was well, a bit awkward. Just going for a walk.

    It was a walk through a small edge of city village, through tunnels and there was the cliffs and the sea.

    But I realised that I liked exploring, and so I did.

    Whilst in the midst of so many clouds, I walked.

    Clouds etched on my face, as below you can see. One of very few photos of me. So much pain on my face, looking back, I was a shadow, grey, hiding, pretending to be ok.

    This was me.

    My friend lived near the sea and the coast, and I started to look a bit closer and enjoy.

    Sometimes I used those walking moments to take photos, to phone friends, to try and work out what was going on in my life, to try and understand.

    Mind all over the place, busy, thinking, clinging on, trying to make sense of the clouds

    Sometimes in those days I wouldn’t be completely present to the space I was in, so I’m not going to say that it was a state of natural bliss as I walked along the north east coastline.

    But I walked

    in my own cloud at times. But I walked.

    Sometimes I walked miles

    Sometimes I walked miles to place where there was a coffee shop on the coast.

    Sometimes I walked in the rain

    I would try and find new routes

    New paths, for me

    Most of the time I preferred to walk in a circle

    Id go early in the morning and get up and see the sunrise

    Other times it would be the sunset

    There was a bench on the cliffs that I could sit on and watch the sea.

    Getting out, by myself.

    Beginning to enjoy my own company.

    Beginning, the glimpses of beginning to sense a change

    Seeing nature. Seeing things. Perspective shifting.

    Tiniest specs of change

    Im not going to sit here a few years later and say that nature was healing me, but I might say that it was the beginning of something.

    Fresh air…the opportunity to breathe, when friends on the phone were saying breath, my air was coastal and by the sea.

    I could slow down. With no pressure or expectation. I could explore, get lost in the caves.

    Enjoy coffee

    Take a book even.

    And just be.

    Sit on a pebble and watch the sea.

    Sit and look at the pebble.

    Watch as others walked with their dogs.

    Eat bramble.

    Throw a pebble into the sea.

    Getting hot, too many clothes, or cold with too little, trying to get back before it got dark

    Maybe even finding the pub on the way back, or the old bits of railway nearby, that evoked that childhood railway joy

    The pub with the railway name too, and pictures

    Talking to strangers in the pub. Talking to strangers with their dogs

    Me, walking.

    There was always something to find, something to see. An angle on life that I hadn’t noticed before.

    And I was noticing.

    Todays tide was different, the sea was different, the cloud colour was different. No two walks ever the same. the world is different, and so was I.

    I was enjoying what I saw, and it was healing to the wounded soul.

    I went almost every day.

    I was bruised, hurt, confused, and yet walking was doing something, nature was doing something, my eyes were doing something.

    Something was starting to awaken.

    The silence of the sky, the crash of the waves, they took me away. Took me to the present.

    A walk will do you good.

    It did. Its the same for all of us..isnt it?

    And now I still walk, we all did during lockdown, dont you remember.

    We walked and sometimes stopped to see, to feel, to notice, that the world was bigger, and more beautiful outside.

    And that we are all wondering like strangers on beach, trying to find our way home, but doing it outside not trapped inside.

    I still walk, and now I have a better camera. I still walk and sometimes notice, and still walk and forget to.

    I sometimes walk and forget to take myself along, as im elsewhere distracted by the noise of the world. That sometimes I have to be reminded to stop.

    And be me.

    And notice.

    Notice the colour, notice the sky, notice the flower, the bird in the air.

    Just see it for what it is.

    Walking in amongst the industrial landscape, beautiful rugged, panoramic Teeside, walking along the beach, walking with myself.

    Taking myself out for a walk.

    Not just going for a walk, but taking myself, me, out.

    Nature was healing me, and helping me to see.

    As I walked, as I saw, as I felt awe and gratitude for what I could see

    Snippiets of moments where my mind could stop.

    Now I look, and look intently, and the colour, the movement, the scene, watching the eyes of the birds or dragonflies move.

    A walk gives me chance to see the possibility of something that helps me see the work differently, gives me the possibility of stopping, and focussing on something, whether its the camera or the binoculars, to see the world in detail, the smallest detail of the wings of a dragonfly

    and be captivated in a moment.

    Go for a walk it will do you good

    I rarely return from a walk feeling less calm that when I started.

    Something has usually given me joy.

    Something in me often has shifted.

    Walking might be my body way of doing natural EMDR, the treatment my therapist showed me and helped me to do.

    Step by step.

    Heart beat.

    As I walk, dont think…feel.

    Feel and walk at the same time. Sense it, sense the feeling like im sensing the sky.

    Feel alive, feel bliss, feel me.

    Sometimes a walk is just a walk.

    Its when I take myself out for a walk

    that I start to notice me.

  • 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.

  • Avoiding emotions is like driving with brake stuck on.

    Now I’ve done therapy, I can deal with everything, all the emotions!

    So when they arrive I know exactly what to do

    Disappointment, Anger, grief, self depreciation, annoyance, frustration, tick them all off, I just sit, breathe, and let wash through me like a shower of life’s joys and gratitudes.

    Do I fuck.

    Actually, I’ll make myself busy, I’ll keep moving, tidy, wash, clean, check social media, walk a bit, check social media again, alot, get a drink, check social media again, tidy, eat, maybe go for a longer walk, Facebook distraction, water the plants, watch something else, say I’ll switch off the screen, then open it a minute later, write a cute healing phrase on twitter, when I’m talking to myself and honestly..trying not to do it myself..

    And that’s not just the things I have to do, essential tasks…like work or family stuff..

    That’s what I’ll actually do

    Until I realise

    That I’ve been ignoring, hiding, avoiding

    Life is one big distraction of avoiding us being our real selves. The emotion police.

    But after I did therapy I thought I would be emotionally competent, feeler, healed and deal with it

    Turns out, I just know what I could do, but still have to make the right choices for myself to actually do them.

    40 odd years of abuse survival avoidance habits die hard. Though they were needed, and to be thanked.

    The last thing I want to do is deal with myself, yet the rewards for doing so are so much that I wonder why I put it off.

    It’s like driving a car with a fixed on brake, the brakes can come off and it drives better without, but it’s easier to keep going brakes on and not bother stopping to get it unstuck.

    Maybe this is a good metaphor to explore more, a brake being stuck on, might not show up as a warning light on the dashboard, but its a nagging feeling that something isnt intuitively right. You may be able to drive without fixing it, or put the stereo on to not sense it, but its still there. Intuitively , gut, something is provoking to be dealt with.

    It’s only when I stop, do I start again. Every moment of silence to listen to my own heart is a space of healing.

    I know what I need to do, it just takes a while to do it sometimes.

    What are you avoiding? What am I?

  • 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

  • The shame of being male

    This feels like one of the most difficult pieces I have ever written, but that fact alone doesnt stop me from wanting to write it, for theres a feeling I get every now and then, that I hate, and this week its become much stronger.

    This is difficult to write, because I know I won’t get it right.

    And that is the feeling that I really hate men sometimes.

    I hate men when they abuse women

    I hate men when they manipulate systems to allow those who abuse women to get away with it

    I hate men when they blame alcohol or women to excuse their behaviuour

    I hate men who find it easy to talk about raping and treating women as their possession

    I hate men who lie and play games with women to pit them against each other, whilst abusing others to keep them silent.

    I hate men when they say its not all men, because they are factually right, it isnt but thats not whats required, whats required is listening, learning and feeling, and standing up women, and to challenge the systems, that exist all over the world.

    I hate men, who, just dont take responsibility. For themselves, for others, and expect others to revolve around them. It is not good enough

    The men who blame women for their actions, to excuse them – ‘because they did what they did or didnt do, or wear what they did or didnt- that was the reason I acted’ they were to blame.

    So im annoyed, Im hurt and I feel powerless, but I just wanted to talk about it, why- because im tired of having to feel like whilst its not all men, its enough men, its enough systems, its enough places where male behaviour is excused.

    I was at a local railway station late last night, 6 drunk older men in their late 50’s got off the same late train as me, I knew what was going on, i could work out a late train needed a new ticket and how to do a quick change. It was as if they couldn’t and didnt want to even try to follow what I was saying to them, just reading the signs and saying things like ‘our train went early’ and blaming a train, whilst having no idea what was going on. The train they were meant to be on left, without them, and they might have spent the night in thornaby at 9.45pm on a Friday night, with not a chance of getting too Sunderland.

    Im sick and tired of men, who dispose of their responsibilities, for themselves, and expect others to deal with them when drunk.

    I wonder, what might it be like to begin to admit our collective failings as men in society.

    Dont take out the reason that life has treated us badly on other people – therapy and talking it out is a way of doing it – sports and alcohol distraction only delays it

    I wonder, if a key to healing as a man is to stop, and admit things.

    The closer we are to the pain and walking through it, the greater chance of being able to be free from it.

    Our woundedness is not an excuse for behaviour – men we can choose – and men, often we can do better, often we are just lazy. Or maybe we prefer to bully and abuse others, because thats when we get what we want, whilst clawing away at our soul.

    We have been conned by our own male orientated society to think the way that we do, and brought up in a world that has tainted our views on money, possessions, power and women. We just dont know what or who to be, too soft, too hard, too closed, too open, too feminine, too kind, not enough.

    I want to be sympathetic as well as angry. I want to see the men who act disastrously and destructively as both victim and perpetrator.

    Its complicated, I know, and thats the problem.

    What does healing for men look like when brought up by an abusive mother? When you’re angry at that abusive mother or father, or been in the care system, what is that like?

    What does healing for men look like to the entitled man who has everything, who destroys everything around him as a consequence of his moulded ego and narcissism? Can they be healed?

    What does a healed, healthy, society look like – and how significant should the male dominated media play in it?

    Whats the starting point we’re at now?

    There are times when I hate men. I really do

    I hate that victims of male abuse pay 1000’s on legal fees and therapy to recover. That should not happen.

    Yet Society rewards the bullies.

    And I am one of them.

    A white middle aged man.

    And I know I can do better. Because if I can do better, it benefits everyone.

    I can reach into the depths of my hurting damaged heart and try not to inflict that pain on others, then it is possible.

    I hate men as much as Im embarrassed to be a man sometimes, or feel some kind of gender guilt because of the 100’s and 1000’s of stories of women beaten up by men on a daily basis.

    It wasn’t her

    It wasnt the drink

    It wasnt the football

    It wasnt the mates down the pub

    It wasnt the stress of work

    It wasnt the lack of work

    It wasnt a mental health issue

    It was you.

    Because you had a choice not to, at every point.

    Maybe healing for men, is for you because you are on the brink, you are angry, you are bitter, you are running, you are hiding, you feel trapped, pressured and exhausted. It doesnt have to be this way or continue to be.

    Dont stand there and tell me that men are abused too, I know, I so know it.

    I look in horror at the Plymouth shooting and its aftermath, and the many shootings elsewhere by men.

    So maybe this is anger, maybe this is grief – for what we have all become.

    So I’m thinking out loud, heart filled splattering of hurt, pain and anguish.

    I wish it wasnt the way, but sometimes I really hate men.