James Ballantyne

Tag: abuse

  • The Lie we’re conditioned to believe.

    I will be ok. 

    Thats the lie. Right there. 

    Actually not quite. 

    Because thinking about it, ‘I will be ok’ was always true, as im still here now, and ‘I will be ok’ was what I used to say to myself a lot, when going through the bewilderment of emotional abuse and manipulation in childhood and in a long term marriage. When things got tough, or weird or both, and much was just what I had been used to since birth; ‘I will be ok’ would be what I said to myself. 

    And because im here writing this, I guess that isnt the liee then. That was grit and determination rearing its strengthening head. 

    The lie was this. 

    ‘I will be ok….if’ 

    ‘If’ that tiny little word. 

    ‘If’ could also appear at the end of the phrase

    ‘They might like me .. IF’ 

    or

    ‘They might be proud of me … ‘IF’ 

    or 

    ‘Things might be ok…’if’’

    But lets get back to the first one

    ‘I will be ok….if’ 

    Conditional Okay-ness. 

    Because thats what it is. Ultimately. It’s about having a self belief that is only satisfied when certain conditions happen. Conditional self- worth, self -respect, self-regard. 

    ‘I will be ok….. if im a little bit fitter’ 

    ‘I will be happy … if I write a piece that goes viral’ 

    ‘I will be happy…. on a sunny day’ 

    ‘I will be ok… if ‘they’ treat me ok’ 

    ‘I will be ok….. if _______ happens’ 

    ‘I will be ok… if get to put in my meditation, breathing, bath, journal, cook nice food, give myself some me time, breathe again, watch the roses grow and do yoga..twice… then ill be ok’ 

    ‘I will be ok……if’ 

    Because it’s a lie. 

    In his book ‘Living untethered’ (and also The Untethered Soul) Micheal Singer writes about how much of our lives are spend trying to avoid, navigate, deny or skirt around pain and challenges in our lives, so much that they dominate. So much so that we create a type of living in which the pain, the abuse, the darkness holds us in captive, and so we instead (I instead) would tell myself these little lies, the lies of conditional okayness. 

    Because I wasnt ok, I hoped and tried to will myself to be, but without facing the real pain, the real issues inside. I was temporarily ok….if my football team won, if I managed to get a good grade in an essay, if I could ride my bike…if , if, if, if… 

    I needed something to happen for me to have temporary ok-ness. 

    I needed something to cause me to feel a tiny bit ok. 

    I was requiring something other, to soothe… something inner. 

    I was needing ‘the world’ to fix/solve/soothe what was on the inside… without facing or dealing with the real issue. It was avoidant, I was avoidant, and yet ‘I will be ok..if’ is all around and so it was easy to go along with it… even if I was dying on the inside. 

    Because. If was depending on something to make me feel ok. Then I wasnt ok. 

    I was just in a cycle of it. 

    Being ok, needn’t be conditional. 

    It took me a very long while, at least 5 years of facing the stuff, journaling, listening to my emotions, giving myself time, safety, therapy, using the tools and having better self care routines, that helped me be in a better place. A place where I could trust myself a bit, a place where I was more aware of my sensitive nature, and awareness of the damage that had been done to me. (for more of this read my story here) . Yet, I was still trying to believe that I was ok. Yes I could relax, yes I was safe, but so much deep down, inside I was , and especially when I hit some low points, I would collapse and breakdown, which I did in 2023. 

    I knew I didnt believe in myself because the very thing that I needed, was the thing I criticised. Positive psychology. Thinking positively. Self affirmations.. yuk no no no. I can’t do that…it’s so Ammmerrican. It’s false, it’s ugh, no. 

    But I realised that my inner critic voice was still running the roost. Even with a lot of change. I still had ‘needs’ and ‘needed things’ to be ok. 

    I didn’t believe I was ok, not unconditionally ok. Self belief hung on a fragile string. 

    That little lie ‘ I will be ok…if……I change my job…if I write something…if I …..’ 

    And whilst im at it, ill not dwell on this here, but I might well have been told that ‘God loved me’ – but since that was also the belief of my abusive parent, and also church was a place I needed to belong, to be important, to be busy, to be intelligent, to know (and not feel) – two theology degrees later and a 22 year career working in faith groups in the UK… Unconditional Gods love, was lost in a kernel of conditional institutional performance and responsibility. It wasnt Gods fault. But too much pain and damage surrounded this heart, and so unconditional love or even unconditional ‘ok-ness’ was off the table. 

    So, it was easy to believe the lie. 

    I wasnt ok, and I was stuck in a cycle of believing that I would be one day ok…if…

    What I had to do was face the reality of myself, and my hurts, pains, defence mechanisms, sand strategies…and dig right deep, into the places of self loathing, self mistrust, self destruction… and find myself stronger, more loving, and more compassionate than all of them. 

    To start to rebuild a self that had been broken and tormented since birth. 

    To realise that ‘ I will be ok.. If’ 

    Was actually a lie. 

    Because the truth is something else. 

    The truth is not that I am ok. 

    The truth is that I just am. 

    Regardless of what happens. I still am. 

    Regardless of what I do… I am

    And in me there is love, and joy, and calm, and truth… 

    The funny thing is, in the last year or so I notice myself saying things like ‘I need ______’ or ‘if I buy _______ ill be ok’ – its almost as if its an unusual thing, to notice, to realise and then I check in with myself. 

    I dont need to believe that I am conditionally ok. 

    And neither do you. 

    But it’s a lie we’ve been often told to believe. 

    Because it keeps us trapped.

  • Paradox of growth.

    ‘It is the paradox of spiritual growth that through such bleak winter journeys we eventually come through a hidden door into a bright field of springtime that we could never have discovered otherwise’ (John O Donohue, Divine Beauty)

    This feels better, healthier than

    ‘All things are for a reason’  cliche.

    Even if both are virtually the same.

    Paradox.

    The paradox that facing darkness and finding strength and power through darkness…..leads to light being shone.

    Lightness appears in the dark journeys in so many ways

    When you discover the pattern of their behaviour

    When you discover the pattern of your own

    When the weight of fault or shame or responsibility falls..

    When people show up to your vulnerability

    When safety is felt….a feeling that had long been disregarded or survived despite it’s lacking

    When small shoots of personal hope, courage and strength appear…like the tiny white dots of the snowdrops in January

    Yet..the paradox is that for so long the possibility of this growth is delayed, resisted, fought against….because it feels too hard, too difficult, to time consuming to face it.

    Better to leave alone

    Too busy to face it

    To difficult

    Let it be…

    In those occasions the darkness retains it’s power, the darkness has its hold, awakened free growth stays silent behind the door,

    Talk of growth is fascinating, and what kind of growth is possible when the daily task is survival, suppression, soothing, avoidance, denial or rejection of the very thing that were consuming so much energy on, just to stay alive….alive behind so much hurt and pain that often written in our skin and eyes.

    Yet that growth that promise, that light is veiled. Hidden in mystery.

    Growth is feared, darkness clung to.

    The wrestle of continuing in between, shining light in the tension of the now, light shining in darkness, costly, draining, hard, and well done you for keeping your candle lit.

    Yet, we can want to protect the very darkness that’s hurting us, and preventing us from the lightness of growth that’s inviting us, because that’s the place of safety and security, a life we’ve been used to, in cycles of addiction, soothing and self blame, and feeling happy in designated smallness because that’s been ‘our place’.

    Yet the door waits.

    It can only block out the light for so long

    It can only let you stay restless in the darkness for so long

    It invites, it calls

    The paradox.

  • Hello again Despair; meet love.

    Hello again Despair; meet love.

    Oh Hello

    Not darkness my old friend.

    But Despair.

    I saw you.

    I heard you.

    Sneakily arriving when my guard was down.

    When tiredness and exhaustion had depleted me

    And reminders of trauma hurt like the touching of the electric fence.

    And everything span.

    You found a way in when unexpressed anger over powered

    And I had no defences.

    Thanks. Nice. Am so glad you showed up.

    Thank you for your honestly.

    Giving me the path, showing me how I could soothe myself.

    Convincing voice that I was weak, alone and it wouldn’t matter, that I was small all over again.

    Despair, the friend who’s been close since childhood.

    Since desperate moments in bedrooms.

    When suicide was a conceivable option

    But, it’s been a while since I sensed your voice.

    Until the last few days.

    When reminders came back.

    Big.

    As did the swirl.

    the headache.

    The confusion.

    Trauma tired. Small.

    I heard you trauma despair,

    I heard you.

    But this time, for the first time.

    I heard you in that moment.

    And gave you airtime.

    And told you thank you

    Loved it, for protecting me before.

    For it used to be despair in the cacophony of depression, as if constant down with despair blips.

    But this time. Despair made itself known from a place of general positivity.

    New normal is a loving powerful me.

    And I decided that it needed to be loved.

    And not shamefully hid, but loved in the open.

    Talked to, heard and for despair to realise.

    That it isnt me.

    But it used to lead me, and I didn’t care enough to fight it.

    But this time, despair, I met your pain with love.

    And trauma you didn’t overcome me, not this time.

    I will hold you, and my arms will love you.

    I am bigger than you and love will always melt you away.

    Thank you for your visit despair, it’s time you were released, it’s time to let you pass through me.

    Linger no more.

    Goodbye this time despair, know you’ll be loved next time too. If I see you again.

  • It’s not always sparkles

    Its not always sparkles

    Or rainbows

    Or endless bliss flowing freely

    Its not always sparkles

    It really isn’t

    Its not always perfect

    Its not always clear

    Sometimes it’s fog

    That feels very near

    Sometimes the weight feels heavy

    Sometimes the swirl goes around and around

    Sometimes peace is

    Struggle to be found

    Therapy isn’t magic,

    And the book isn’t a spell

    When your mind goes all cloudy

    And races like hell

    Its not always sparkles

    Its not always bunnies

    It was never going to be

    Sensing the discomfort

    Yet know

    That’s not me

    Experience the feeling

    Don’t bury it away

    Experience the discomfort

    As a message of healing

    And love it anyway

    Talk to the voices

    Bring them down from the ceiling

    It won’t be all sparkles

    It won’t ever be quick

    It might be quite blue

    Yet what is certain

    The power

    Is in you.

    💜

  • Broke, but not broken.

    But I bet you think you are.

    I did.

    I thought I was too broken to be fixed

    The fear of deep scars caused by abused too much

    To afraid to go there.

    Too weak to want to

    Too afraid of the consequences

    Didn’t know what it would take

    What it would mean

    Then all the soothing tactics when coping.

    They would need sorting too.

    And they haunted my days like heavy weights.

    Thinking I was to blame

    Thinking I was broken

    Thinking…

    I’m too wounded….I don’t want to start facing it

    I’m too broken to even face it

    I’ll be going alone.

    Yet, I had no choice in the end.

    Dug deep when everything lost and clawed my way into safety and space.

    Turned around after running away for too long.

    Turns out I wasn’t broken

    Turns out what I considered sin ..was abuse others had done to me

    Turns out I had been normalised into thinking surviving was default

    Turns out I wasn’t broken, but holding onto things that weren’t mine to hold

    Turns out I wasn’t broken, but I had been broken.

    Turns out I was light and love underneath

    But that had been sniffed out, crushed and stolen from since birth.

    I wasn’t broken….but I had been broken.

    Yet…I wasn’t broken

    Because I didn’t leave the world when suicide tempted me as a child

    Or when emotional breakdowns occured in my 30’s

    I wasn’t broken.

    I wanted a better life.

    I wanted to escape

    I wanted more

    I wasn’t broken, and neither are you.

    You are not what someone, or a system has done to you

    You are not the weight of others expectations

    You are not the mask or the shield

    You are not broken.

    You just are.

    You are light, and love and joy all along

    This is your soul, you are breaking to find love inside

    And love is withing melting it down

    Your own love, you.

    You are not broken.

    Love is within.

    Love is you

    You are within.

    You are not broken, you are complete within.

  • Walking in the darkness (and befriending it)…..(Advent reflection 2)

    I love this time of the year. Its the time of year when I wake up and drink coffee looking out of the window and see how the dark blue early morning light changes through the colours into the sunrise, admitted today it is just a grey light giving tree branches a dark effect. I love this time of the year, because this all happens at a reasonable time of the morning.

    Yet, I do the same thing every morning

    I turn on the light.

    I flick the switch

    So I can see.

    So that I can get on with..whatever the day brings, requires light

    Coffee, breakfast, reading, work….

    Its as if the darkness of the night needs to be escaped from, obliterated, and eyes drawn to the comfortable of the kettle, the sink, the phone, the laptop, the busy, the things, the activities..

    Night Walking with Scouts when I was 13 taught me about not using the torchlight until it was impossible not to see with my own night vision. My eyes could adjust. At 13 I would need lights for my bike on early morning paper rounds, so cars could see me, but I could see ok. ‘It’s not as dark as we make it out to be’ when we step outside light infused buildings into the natural light of the streets, the parks or the moonlit infused sky of the open field.

    ‘The people in darkness will see a great light’

    I used to the love the darkness of the streets, the towns the cities, as I walked them, as I had conversations with young people as a youthworker in them, the darkness often meant more interesting conversations than in the summer time, the dark autumn and winter nights full of adventure, adrenalin and unpredictability. That was a darkness, that was a terrain I was comfortable to explore in, and rarely needing a torch.

    Far easier to explore the outer terrain of the darkness, than explore the terrain within.

    The terrain within, the darkness within so full of shame, hurt, pain, not to be touched, not to go there. To be afraid, to let it have power.

    To be afraid of the dark.

    To become aware, is to see the light (John O’Donohue)

    Yet that often truthful voice of darkness remains, at times shouting, at times cajoling, at times fearing, at times reminding, and for so long it dominated my everything, and it may do you too.

    I thought I could maintain appearances

    I thought if I could just do something everything would be ok

    I thought if I did the right things, other people would change

    I thought that ……

    Yet the ache of darkness pained within, prowled, festered, and was fed daily. Telling me truths, that I tried to block out, cover it with busy, distract with drama, soothe with food, fill that aching pain of darkness. Pretend it wasnt there, false masking in life, the energy it took to keep the James show on the road, numbing the pain.

    Afraid of the inner dark.

    The inner dark maintaining its place, loving the self destruction, never wanting to be exposed, never wanting to be seen, self torture and blame its oxygen, self destruction its goal.

    Morality is often the enemy of growth (John O Donohue)

    We dont want to go there. It feels painful.

    I didnt.

    So accustomed to the light, so sometimes spiritually accustomed to God being equated with light, that darkness is shamed, darkness is rejected, darkness is suppressed, darkness is moral failure. Darkness is to be avoided.

    Yet, thought you and I may walk in the shadows, I will be with you, you will not be alone (Psalm 23)

    He will be called Emmanuel, God is with you….and with you always…

    In the dark, and not just to transform it, but walking with you through it, through the torture of trauma, through the torture of the voices that dont go away, through the torture of daily abuse, the self soothing and addiction, through the torture of feeling small, trapped, alone… through, with, alongside.. In…yes in the darkness

    About three weeks into recovering from my emotional breakdown of 6 years ago, I was reading the Anglican Morning prayer with my friend, and though I cannot remember or find the exact passage, it was something about ‘God appearing in the clouds’ it was in Isaiah somewhere, I can’t find it. And my anglican priest friend just said to me, ‘James, God will meet you in the cloud, whatever path you need to go on, God will be close, even when the cloud mystifies, hides, soaks the path, God will be there, and will appear to you, in the cloud itself’

    It gave me ‘spiritual permission’ for want for a better phrase to continue the very tentative process then of the inner walk, revealing and uncovering, that God, that I believed in was light, love and joy….was also in the darkness, also in the bewildering hidden space between. Also in the cloud.

    Like today. No mystical sunrise beyond the blue. Just grey light as grey as this screen is im typing on.

    In the darkness we are confronted with the unknown, peering cautiously around the corners, tentative steps with tiny courage, falling at hurdles never seen in the light… but thats ok.. its where courage gets tested, its where resolve gets made, its where, honestly, its where love finds us. The more we shame the darkness the more it destroys us. Thats not the path of the God of the bible, its not the path of love, its not the path of healing, its not the path of joy.

    That darkness is not us. It is not your identity. It is not who you are.

    The darkness might help us, in ways we are unable to see…yet.

    The darkness might be shielding us from too much shiny light (s) that seem false, seem unreal, seem artifical

    The darkness might be reminding us of part of our truth, a truth to be be faced, faced so that it doesn’t continue to have power over us . Faced so that we can realise that we are bigger than it. Faced so it’s a friend and loved, not a prickly pain in the corner, festering, faced so it has the possibility of transformation.

    The darkness helps us to grow, if we have the courage to turn, to, like my eyes on scout trips, adjust to it, feel our way around it, become friends with it, accept it, and love it. Slow, eye adjustment, not blinding torch. Darkness needs hugs and warmth, and whilst it tells you otherwise, you have more than enough love to give to it.

    The people who walk in darkness will see a great light… They will, and you will, and I will..and from the shadows light will emerge.

    Always Hope.

  • Why Speak Now?

    On two separate occasions when I was disclosing to the relevant authorities the abusive behaviour of my mother, I was asked the following question.

    ‘Why are you doing this now?’

    It was 25 years since I had left the family home, and been a terrified abused child. Though her behaviour was still the same even as I had been an adult.

    Internal confrontation had occurred previously to absolutely no effect. But then it wasn’t going to, I now know. So the damage continued.

    ‘So… Why now? ‘

    Because that really is the question isnt it.

    I was a Middle Aged man, making a complaint about stuff that had happened a while ago, and where the behaviour still continued.

    Yet.

    The now happened at a time when…..

    I had done the very beginnings of understanding the behaviour.

    I had done at that point the beginnings of some therapy on my childhood… this action of mine exacerbated it ( I stood up to her, my therapist said)

    I knew I wasnt alone in this.

    I thought (incorrectly) that someone might believe me.

    I was a little bit stronger than I was as a child.

    I even thought (incorrectly) that the processes of safeguarding might be strong enough to not be manipulated. ( yeah I was wrong about that too)

    I wanted to protect others. That was it.

    Stronger in myself, wanted to protect others.

    It was time to let others know about the monster.

    …and there had been at least one recent moment where abusive action had occurred, in the present.

    Because.

    It’s strange that there seems to be some weird primacy of someone being able to report abuse at the time.

    (Yes, I am thinking of this… Greg Wallace, and the BBC)

    I know how terrifying it is to make a complaint against someone who is abusive, manipulating, callous and dangerous.

    I know that, though people had faced up to them in the past, nothing was done.

    I know that there was absolutely no way of doing it in the midst, the only recourse is to walk away, run away, hide, isolate.

    I know that there is bewilderment in the moment, confusion and shame. Thats what abuse is folks. ALL OF IT HAS EMOTIONAL ABUSE in it. The vulnerable self blame and feel small, as the powerful person damages and controls.

    WHY NOW…

    BECAUSE THEY CANT THEN. THATS THE POINT.

    WHY NOW?

    I was asked.

    I shouldn’t have been asked.

    It’s completely irrelevant.

    It was the bravest thing I have ever done in my entire life.

    Yet someone in a procedural document considered ‘ why now?’ to be the most appropriate question.

    Why now?

    Because it’s the right time for the victim.

    Thats why.

    Thats always why.

    When they are ready.

    They want their voice to be heard

    They realise what happened to them was wrong

    They work it out.

    They feel brave.

    So.

    Thats why.

  • What if the story we live by, is a story we cannot tell?

    Something happened to you

    Something happened to you..that wasnt your fault

    Something happened to you…that wasnt your fault….and you had to do something as a result that you cannot talk about.

    Something happened to you..that wasnt your fault…and you coped in life with self soothing strategies…that you cannot talk about either.

    Something happened to you….that wasnt your fault….and everything since has been about staying silent about it…silent….and hiding all traces….protecting it….protecting yourself…from what happened to you.

    Something happened to you, by someone who is dominant, powerful and sometimes insane, and bewilders you from any kind of action, and you can’t share it, for recrimination.

    Something happened to you…..that you dont think anyone will believe.

    That wasnt your fault.

    That wasnt your fault.

    (even if their insanity causes you to take the blame)

    It was something done to you, when you..when I.. was a child, when I was powerless, when I was dependent…

    That set so many patterns of life in motion….

    And a story that had to remain silent.

    We live by stories.

    We all have a personal narrative, a myth, a sacred story to believe, a story to live by.

    David Macadam says in ‘Stories we live by’ that by having this personal story we then accept, reject information to fit it, or expand our story to fit the new information.

    That was one of the things I learned when I was doing my Masters in Theology and Ministry at Durham, the psychology elective that I did with Dr Jocelyn Bryan.

    In 2017, doing my Masters, I didn’t have a story I lived by, not one I wanted to talk about, it was far easier, a defence mechanism, to use my brain to disect and critique the process of story making, story telling and consider how theology, story and drama all fit together, whilst I was feeling, well, I wasnt feeling anything, just dying inside. Even the Christian story that I believed , I had critiqued and was full of doubt of it.

    Yet.

    That sacred myth that I doubted had to do a lot of work, to hold me somehow when my psychological self was a scared, wounded, abused little boy.

    The story that I was actually living by, twas a story of shame, a story of abuse, for fear, a story that I didn’t want to acknowledge.

    That was the story I was actually living by…

    Because it haunted my every step.

    It was the story that had power over me.

    It was the story that consumed.

    It broke me into a thousand pieces every day, causing…

    One trip to eat extra food every day

    One more hour watching TV news

    Three more glasses of wine

    One more hour on twitter staying distracted.

    One more week watching Friday night soothing comedy.

    One more piece of bread, then another, and another, and another

    One more football match to overlay drama with drama

    One more piece to write to stay busy

    Another long bike ride.

    More work to do, fill the diary.

    One more anything

    To run…

    Filling an ache.

    Because I was so not actually ok, that I could barely say the words, let alone say I had needs, because, that would mean being in a safe enough place where my needs were validated, even if I could articulate them.

    One more coping mechanism

    One more denial of my self

    One more day to mask and pretend.

    One more day when I couldn’t share, just keep going.

    Survival isnt a story, its fragmented existence.

    One more self soothe

    One more ‘fix others, im not important’ moment

    One more hope of change, living a story of ‘conditional okayness’

    Fear, alone, isolation.

    The story I lived by, for too long, was a story of shame, fear, anxiety and survival, and masking this so that no one could ever know.

    Shame.

    Ends.

    When stories

    are told

    in

    safe places. (Brene Brown)

    Yet.

    Shame stories

    Held

    me

    for too

    long.

    It was a story I couldn’t tell.

    It was a story I held in silence.

    It was a story that I had no control over.

    It was a story that wasnt mine.

    It was a story of what someone had done to me.

    It was a story of my coping mechanisms because of that childhood abuse and the follow up behaviour, including relationships.

    My life, was someone else story.

    My lifeless life was someone else’s story.

    How I had adjusted to be for someone else.

    How I had given away myself.

    Actually thats so not true. Because I had never had a self. Self was broken from birth.

    When real

    stories

    of us

    being alive.

    get hidden.

    There was a story I was living by. But it wasnt a story about me. It was a story about how my life was orientated around the fear of someone else, and that I was a bit part player in my own life.

    It takes so long for someone to feel the main player in their own story

    Spiralling into an anxiety I couldn’t never acknowledge. Tears hidden, as breakdowns occurred in car journeys all alone to Coldplay songs, and reduced priced Tescos wraps scoffed.

    In avoiding the negative, we only encourage it to recur (John O Donohue Anam Cara)

    I look back and realise how barely I even existed.

    To do self care, to have needs, to accept love, to do quiet, to give myself any permission, to feel power…all deemed unimportant, selfish or impossible, so invalidated all of them.

    So that story began to change.

    Or, my relationship to my story did.

    As i began to realise what was done to me, wasnt my fault.

    As I began to realise how I had been trapped in emotional contagion.

    As I realised that change on the inside brought a sense of worth, and change on the outside…

    As I began to realise how I hadn’t been loved, just stolen from.

    As I began to realise, how I had survived

    As I began to realise the damage, yet also the inner strength and resolve I had to get myself to where I have got to.

    As I began to work through every brave step, and own the bravery of it all.

    As I began to realise who I am, and who I am not

    As I began to connect with my story, to dig deep into it all, and realise myself in it all. I had ran from a past I had to connect with, to face, to love for my self strength in it all.

    As I took loving myself seriously, and self compassion, and self care, and just undoing the critical voice of inner torment. I had to love myself in a way that I had only been able to love others.

    As I began to realise my own…sense of worth….sense of love…sense of being me, wounded in many parts, but not entirely broken, and capable of love.

    As I started to be my own story. I started to be able to own the story, to make this story about me, to connect the dots, and also now, to be able to be excited about the blank pages ahead, waiting for their colours to emerge.

    As I started to write it down, and realise I wasnt alone.

    As I realised that there was life beyond it, beyond it all.

    But at the time, the story I wasn’t able to tell was the story that I was living by.

    What if the story we live by is one of abuse and the shame of what we do to cope, and the silence of both of these things?

    For, It’s not what happened to us often…it’s the silence and hiding for so long. It’s navigating a life around the shame. Thats draining and energy sapping.

    Yet, it doesn’t have to be this way, not forever.

    Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is to stop living the story that others wrote for you.

  • How Richard Rohr saved my life.

    I have written before about a certain pink coloured book (link here to that post) that I consider to have changed my life, in terms of how I could see what had happened to me, and the behaviours of others.

    However.

    There was another book that I had read 6 months previously that had as profound an importance.

    At the time, my bookshelf was a mixture of Youth work, Theology, Mission and Social Justice books.

    My head was full of ideas.

    My life, however, was, and had been falling apart and I was in denial.

    I felt completely alone, no where to go, emotionally or physically.

    With no one to talk about what was going on.

    I was already unemployed at the time, what I didnt know was that I was about to be out of the family home, with no family support, and about to battle to save a marriage. I had barely any friends, and had at least 1 breakdown in that summer.

    I have no idea when I bought it, or how it got there, but there was a copy of Richard Rohr’s book ‘Falling Upwards’ on my bookshelf. I may have read 1 RR book previously, but I can not for the life of me remember when I bought it. However, I do remember picking it up to read from my bookshelf in about the April of that year (2018), and thinking to myself that it was a bit ‘woolly’ , a bit not ‘academic’ enough, for the James that wrote blogs on books and theology, this wouldn’t cut it.

    In August of that same year, with cracks opening wide, beginning to expose the fragility of my situation, I noticed it on the bookshelf. It was more that likely that with no money I could only read the books I had, so it was this books turn.

    To Summarise, Rohr outlined the two halves of life. The first he said was about achievement, making it, ego, and accomplishments. The second, he said was about becoming real, about to being true to the person who was actually inside, and not the masks, identities created for those accomplishments.

    He said that to get from one to the other, there is often something seismic, the wake up call, the breakdown, and this could appear/be in a number of ways.

    It all depended on how we responded to it.

    If I’m honest, I didn’t recognise the first part of what he described, even if I did see bits of me ‘being an internationally known youth worker’ or ‘well known for writing’ all of these things seemed even at the time, I didnt feel like I had achieved, or made it, or anything, I was full of shame, fear, self doubt, and emptiness, trauma I hadn’t dealt with and running away from and bottled up for a day I never wanted to arrive.

    But.

    I could recognise the middle bit.

    The breakdown. The situation of desperation. The need to be vulnerable. When everything that I even thought I had did begin to be stripped away.

    And as I picked up the phone to a friend to ask for a place to stay, and cried in relief when he said yes, I kind of knew.

    I knew that I was now in the beginning of this phase. I knew, and I could choose how I would respond to what was going on.

    I knew it was time.

    I said to myself on that very day of that very call,

    ‘I do not know what is going to happen now, but I am going to learn, I am going to face it’

    It may well have been the words from a book.

    (and there’s tears in my eyes today as I write this, recognising my journey in all this)

    It didnt matter. Because, ‘Falling Upward’ gave me a roadmap, it gave me something to cling to, it gave me a sense that it will be ok, and a sense that what I was about to go through wouldn’t destroy everything (and at that point I needed to know that there was something theological/spiritual about whatever was going to happen). I could hang what was about to happen on a process, (which has subsequently included amongst other things, 4 separate sessions of therapy, a considerable amount of time seeing, understanding and processing and healing from deep psychological childhood trauma, my own coping mechanisms from this, and facing the inner demons, all over the last 6 years). In short, it gave me a structure, and it gave me hope.

    Hope because at that moment, and had been for a considerably very long time, life had been dark, shadowed, avoided and I was in perpetual survival mode feeling trapped. But now I had hope. Hope that there might something beyond what I was about to start the process of going through.

    Hope because I knew of no one, and heard of no one who had walked a similar path, yes I had heard of ‘mid-life crises’ but I was already in crisis, but no one who shared their story, it felt as though I could hope because the path wasnt completely unheard of, tiny, frightened alone me, walking, falling, held with hope from a book. But it was hope none the less.

    Hope, because at that point no one had told me I was going to be ok. I just had to believe it for myself, and now this book shone a light on the possible future.

    But that I had to face, encounter, deal with, and not avoid everything that was about to arrive. For though much was taken, and I had to cling on at times, in a way, I started from a very low point already.

    And as I walked on the top of Roker cliffs a few weeks later, having received two weeks of safety, and care, that learning process was starting. It would do, and continues to this day.

    Where did that resilience come from James?

    Asked a friend of mine a few weeks ago when I was telling them this story.

    I think it came from when I was 12.

    When I told myself the same thing.

    I knew that that point that if I am going to make it in life I am going to have to do it on my own. I could not ask for help, have needs, have dreams, ask for money even, or support, I was alone and had to make it. 28 years later, and with the framework of a Richard Rohr book and a safe place to sleep in I dug deep into that survival and determined resolve, the lowest point had been reached already. I was broken, but not beaten, and that moment of vulnerability and seeing the path, was already a very small, but significant positive fall upwards.

    Richard Rohr, Falling Upwards, Thank you. Actually, you probably did save my life. You were probably my first Angel on this path.

    Thank you.

    You can purchase it here, for you or for a friend

  • Men, Why do we find it hard to love our bodies? (Part 1)

    Trigger warning ; Childhood abuse, self harm, spiritual abuse.

    I saw this from the beautiful Kat Shaw Artist yesterday:

    Her work is incredible to predominately female audience, on the female body, healing and self image. I always love it, I love this one too.

    Yet it provided me a question;

    How many times as a Man have I been encouraged to love my body? Or to ‘love the skin’ I’m in?

    Mentally arrive at your own answer here too, how many times have you heard this about loving your body as a man?

    I hope it’s a lot, but my guess is it’s not very many.

    And what was your response when you heard it, who said it to you?

    Clearly this question was in my subconscious as when I woke at 2am this morning, and the bulk of what I write next started to take shape, and I think that this might be a series of posts on this.

    Let’s start at the beginning, what were the internalised messages, as a boy, that you received as a child, in regard to your body?

    Mine were the following.

    1. Nakedness was shameful. A story that was repeated ad finitum by my psychotic mother, to encourage shame, was the story that she and my friends mum found me and my best friend naked under a carpet rug, aged around 3, two innocent little boys. But this story was told with glee to embarrass and shame.
    2. My body could be hit as punishment. Whether her hand or his slippers, thats my body taking it. Taking the punishment my voice and mind caused through being said to be too clever or cheeky.
    3. My body could be made to feel pain deliberately in a controlled way to either create attention, or alleviate other pain – such as biting my nails until they were septic, scratching, picking spots also pulling out my own hair.
    4. Pain also got attention, I hid having verrucas for a week (I didnt know what they were on the balls of my feet, just lumps) after the horror and inconvenience of this ( I loved swimming) I clearly remember how enthused my mother was when it came to getting needles and tweezers out on a daily occurrence to supposedly deal with, but also inflict serious pain. ‘You know your mother likes to get the tweezers out and be the pain doctor’ as my Dad stood by and watched this bizarre scene.
    5. My body could be denied warmth and love as this was what was the norm, so I would lie in bed and feel deliberately cold, not deserving of warmth, or forcing all pain into my head and asking it to numb the pain. Self punishment of my body for a time when id been made to feel guilty about something.
    6. When there was a possibility that I would need braces to alleviate my crooked teeth and as the Dentist said ‘ to help him feel better about his smile and looks’ my mother said that ‘we’ll not worry about this and Im not travelling 12 miles a week to get them set up, checked and done, thats too much effort’
    7. No praise of anything I did that involved physicality, or softness of touch, hugs, love, in fact… this is what I gave my abusive mother…
    8. Clothes and looks didnt matter as a Man, Mum would control what my dad would wear and I as a child wore the most embarrasing clothes.
    9. My body was someone else’s to dictate and destroy, to shame and enact pain on.

    Most of these were from under the age of 9. I think the braces I was 11.

    What were yours?

    Other messages about my body came from church and school, and also inferred from other places too.

    They were all internalised in the context with above.

    Some of the things about the body, I heard that became implied in church were the following:

    1. The Body was weak and prone to temptation
    2. The Body was fleshly and dirty, compared to the spirit, the soul
    3. Jesus’ body was crucified, so that was ok, bodies are disposable, his mind and soul elevated
    4. The body is mortal, the soul is eternal, so only focus on the eternal
    5. The body is the Temple of the Holy Spirit, but barely attention given to what this actually means, except to use it to pray and read the bible, but it is just ‘housing’ for something more important.
    6. Some parts of the body sin, and could be ‘chopped off’ like eyes..
    7. The Lord sees what’s on the inside, the heart… your body shape, size doesn’t matter, but not in a special way, an irrelevant way.

    Not much body love happening here… right?

    And the implications for all of this for me, who already felt deep internalised body shame, self conscious, self neglect and pain that I had normalised…

    The other activities in my life, including sports and school, emphasised either the cultivation of the mind to do academic work, the physical aspects of the body for sports, some bits on healthy eating, and the facts about the body were just that, facts, how the body works, from the organs and muscles, to the smaller details of the DNA, cells, neurons and oxygenation, facts to be understood, not a body to be treasured or wondered at, just to learn about.

    Pictures of perfect male specimens started to adorn my walls, the footballers of the 1990’s in poster form. Ryan Giggs’ left foot, Mark Hughes powerful thighs, the massive hands and shoulders of Peter Schmeichel, and that utter confidence of the mercurial Eric Cantona. It wasn’t difficult to feel inferior, as though I tried to play football, I could in practice but in games I had too much anxiety and panic, and so pretty horrid nicknames were headed my way.

    And it was all my bodies fault.

    It could all be taken out on my body.

    My body didnt matter did it. And though I maybe cute and blond, i didnt like how I looked especially my teeth, and hid myself from any mirror.

    It wasn’t difficult looking at this with my eyes open, aged 46, at the damage this was doing.

    As I headed into teenage years.

    And yes, the myriad of Puberty.

    I liked what my body could do, sports wise, I was pretty fit and dived into sports, so swimming, and I wasn’t uncomfortable being practically naked each week swimming with others, I played badminton and pretty flexible, and football, and in the main, was in good physical shape. It wasn’t that I loved my body’s ability to do this, it was that I was competitive and determined to win.

    I remember a school nurse when I was 15 or so, it was ‘that’; check up, where they checked my whole body, so I stripped off except pants, and stood there, on the scales, and she commented; ‘James you have a very well toned body with broad shoulders’ and remembering this now, was the only body compliment I received between 0-18. I didn’t know what to do, but probably smile uncomfortably, and let her know that it was due to swimming a couple of miles a week. One of only a few positive body complaints I received as a young person, the other was from a youth leader who probably crossed a line when she told me I had ‘great legs’ and yes… given the sports.. but only two positive body messages in childhood. WOW.

    Wasn’t hard to see how easy it would be to disconnect from my body though. Mind and Spirit more important, body the source of pain, frail and weak. And I would berate my body if it couldn’t do sports beyond the pain, keep pushing it, keep pushing it. Or keep pushing it up late to study and learn.

    My body just the tool, the housing.

    How damaging was all of this though?

    What did it cause, self denial, self loathing, shame, self-neglect – and then self pain – from that constant nail biting until I was 17, comfort eating which started when I was 12 (late night bread/cereal was safe food, and required for the ‘growing boy’) and continued until I was 41, averaging 4 slices of bread each night, for 29 years, and thats not to mention the other times I would eat so unhealthily to mask emotional pain, the millions of reduced price doughnuts at Tescos for one example, or eating food in the car between leaving work and going home, to comfort the depression in both settings.

    I would try dieting, and it was have to be severe, and it worked for the odd month, but it wasn’t from a whole place, comfort eating soon followed again…

    So let’s go back to puberty…. eeeeuuugghhh, I know..

    Yes.

    Those body changes. All seen as humorous by those parents. The Voice cracking, squeaking, etc, trying to work out myself about shaving and also, the looking in the mirror; The spots. Oh the spots. I had learned to inflict pain. You can guess the rest.

    At this time also, though maybe also before, our eyes dont help us think that our own bodies are beautiful do they?

    Starting to notice, like and find and fancy other people. I’ll be inclusive, it may have been other boys to you, but it was girls for me. Eyes start to notice the shape of girls and not really know how to deal with what they saw. From their hips, legs, smile, breasts and bum and everything else. All of which is perfectly natural, but seriously hard to know what to do with as a disassociating teenager, with body in shame mode, trying to be a good christian boy and go to school with some well developing beautiful young women.

    And those eyes still do the same dont they, even in a healthy way, you may be reading this blog on the couch and your beautiful partner (male or female) is making you a coffee and they are hot in your eyes, they are your partner, they have something that raises your temperatures… so it can be difficult to love ourselves and our own bodies when our eyes see the beauty in other people before our own.

    I know most of this is my story. But anyone else relate?

    So.. the big question:

    Have you, as a man, ever considered that you could love your body?

    As it is… not as you think it should be

    All of it? Even if it can feel frail or has let you down

    All of it? even if it contains feelings that seem mysterious, or distractive

    All of it? as you are, not comparing it to the bodies who you find attractive

    All of it? even now, today, even after it may have tormented by others in the past, wrongfully (it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your body’s fault)

    And as Men, what have we learned to feel about our own bodies…it’s barely to love it is it?

    Men, why do we find this weird? Does it feel feminine? Does it feel soft? Does it feel impossible? It’s as if our bodies has housed all of our shame and we don’t know what to do with it, I didnt.

    I sense there is a lot more to write about this subject from both an emotional, physical, spiritual and sexual perspective.

    But I want to end this piece with this quotation, which I read yesterday, and tied with what I read above.

    ‘It takes so long to learn to take the place in your own life’ (John O’Donohue, Eternal Echoes).

    And this life includes our bodies. the inner wholeness within, the sense of peace and contentment, acceptance of and also, not using the language we have created to berate our bodies, instead loving our bodies with kind words. But it takes so long, far too long, and it’s about unlearning all the internalised messages from a long long time ago. They do not need to rule in our heads any more, another way of thinking about our bodies is possible.

    I’m a man, and have a heart too, can this not love myself and my body in a healthy way, and what would this feel like to have self acceptance, wholeness and love for myself.. within?

    Please do put some of your thoughts and reasons in the comments below or send me an email. This as I say is part one.