James Ballantyne

Tag: Childhood Abuse

  • 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.

  • Feeling (truly) safe now.

    Three days ago my mum died.

    Yeah, thats quite a start to a blog isnt it.

    I mean I could have warned you, or said something reflective, or a nice quote. But no.

    Three days ago my mum died.

    And the hardest thing about it, so far, has been trying to share this news, to friends (who know my story) and maybe all of you who have followed it on here, to illicit the kind of response that seems appropriate.

    My story. My survival and rebuilding story.

    Because, for so long my life wasnt about me, and even most of what I wrote here, wasn’t about me. She dominated… and im almost reluctant to give this news attention, but I almost want to share because it means that the story ive written about here, has completion, or reality. Its not even as if in writing this I feel like i’m processing, or hurting or sharing pain, its more just acknowledging the reality.

    On a human level, she died 9 months after being diagnosed with cancer, and it accelerated fairly quickly, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, yet also there is something in the relief of such an illness not dragging on.

    But I didnt feel the need to see her, there was nothing I needed to hear, say or see, and I am at peace with this.

    Peace. Thats an interesting word.

    If there has been a word that this has all felt in the last few days, it has been safe.. and safe is a bit like peace. The world is safer, for me and many others.

    I know other people might have different opinions or have had different experiences of her, I can’t imagine anyone who met her didnt at some point feel any sense of emotional eggshell walking, or the force of abruptness, some of you might choose to ignore these things.

    (Ive already had someone share their story yesterday to me of being on the received end of her rudeness, and my last conversation with her (March 2020) involved being shouted at on the phone and being told that covid was being over dramatised…. )

    It’s almost like I didnt want to give this news and her any attention, yet somehow, there is some attention I need to give this or should, because it is important, and big.

    Should. Thats an interesting word.

    Should.

    What should I feel.. when my life abuser dies?

    Who also played the role of mother.

    What should I feel…

    Is there a should?

    Is there a should about what I feel?

    Because..

    If you’ve known me personally this year, you will know that ive been very real and present with my emotions, safe on the inside, doing a lot of crying, happy, feeling this year.. safe… and ive felt like life has been from my heart, open.. to feel, receive and give…

    And I know what numb and suppression feels like – I had to do this for 40 years. This doesn’t feel like that. Neither does it feel like denial.

    I have space to feel, safety to do so… yet…

    Its not even as if I haven’t ‘gone there’ to find a good memory, or moment… but when I have… its not been met with a sense of grief, or happy, or anything… its just a memory.

    And the memories that have emerged, have all been negative.. and because of therapy and where I am at.. they have also been met with self love, and care… but also.. just a memory.

    A thought, a past thought, that feels distant.

    Maybe I was already ready for this.

    Maybe I had already gained life despite, or maybe realised my own self in such love and power, that she had emotionally and physically disappeared…. and the grief I gave myself safety to feel about 8 weeks ago, was the grief of what might have been .. with loving supportive parents, not those who I had to navigate, hide away from and avoid emotionally.

    Maybe when I read this book in November, (and thank you to Meghan, for sharing it with me)

    Im glad my mom died by Jeanette McCurdy

    – it gave me permission to feel what might be a reality in the nearer future than anyone thought a few years ago. (mum was only 68)

    It also helped me see what I have had to do to make my story public about what I suffered. Yes im not the only one who has done this, but not many write about their mothers publicly. It also helped me know that others have stood up to them, yet Jeanette did this when her mother was dead.

    (I raised complaints and made safeguarding statements in the last 4 years against her, when she was alive. I made others aware of her, in professional places. Yeah, you didnt know this, and this adds to all of this)

    Jeannettes story is full of heartbreak, anger and coping. Mine has been too, and you have read this.

    But im not raging, angry or feel like any sort of fight, thats been done. That fight had been 4 years with all those processes, and it nearly killed me last summer, I was empty.

    I had to finally let go, and do life for me.

    Neither …i’m not glad, happy, or even feel like dancing on her grave stuff… even if that would make for a good blog title or book cover, im not cruel, and that can be sensationalist, and its not that.

    But today I dont feel in that place, I haven’t all year.

    Its calm. Its peace. Its safe. And even writing this today isnt being met with anything other than these feelings. Feeling held and whole, love full on the inside, peace, calm, safe.

    And, I didnt wait until her death to find life, or feel safe, this been apparent all year, but now..it feels complete.

    I have let things go and doing so has felt light, for different things this year.

    So this… feels like… a release? maybe.

    It’s almost like… it’s over.

    I had created life for myself in almost every way that didnt involve her, except any processing of the strings of old abuse, and I am utterly proud of what that has been for me, its been massive.

    I know what I have had to do. I know what I have done.I know who I am. I know that I am love, I feel full of love and joy, in myself that feels so so deep.

    I do wonder if other feelings and thoughts will emerge in the next few days or weeks, and maybe they will, maybe they won’t, and they won’t hurt me, it won’t hurt me to feel them.

    This might be one of the may pieces I have written that to you feels really big as you read this… but as I write, it just feels like ‘just a part of my story, part of the reality, part of me feeling my way through all of this.

    Im truly safe now. Thats what this feels.

  • 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.

  • I’m Glad my Mom Died

    I’m Glad my Mom Died

    ..is a raw, heartfelt, inspiring book.

    It’s about the way in which the unconscious expectations are placed on a child, it’s the story of how a child, then teenager, Jeannette McCurdy, has to resist growing up to maintain the fantasy of her mother, whom she adored, of being an actress.

    I have read many books on parents and narcissism, but this is the first book I have read that describes the story of what the child had to do, and the effects long term.

    There’s much in the book that I can relate to, there’s much that I have seen in other situations too.

    If you want to get an idea of the damage emotional and coercive abuse, by a mother, can do and looks like, and how it sits under the radar of criminality, but is wholly self absorbed and destructive, then this is it.

    It’s telling that the behaviour in the book has generational patterns, the grandmother was a similar whining moaning complaining woman. The men got all the blame (not doing enough, not meeting their needs, aloof, blamed for affairs to disorientate as the women were actually having affairs.. I’ll not tell spoilers) , the women sat aloof , controlling them all.

    The thread of the mother’s perpetual victim story, of having and surviving cancer runs through. This story is forced down her own children’s throats on home videos, and used as a lever to get acting roles for Jeannette, ‘tell them your mum survived cancer as part of the audition’ is often directed.

    The effect on Jeanette is continual people pleasing, pretending, orientating her entire life around not upsetting her mother,(who was always liable to cry, get angry, scream ‘ungrateful’ , or be disappointed) at any or regular occasions. Jeannette is on emotional alert all the time, in a life that until near the end of the book is not hers, but her mothers.

    Jeannette takes on, since childhood, the emotional regulation of her mom, as the one who can soothe her, who can make her mum happy, yet.. to keep the relationship and Jeannette in her mothers orbit, nothing, not even a good audition or making a part is good enough. So Jeannette is perpetually emotionally exhausted, and notably is comes as a shock in her mid twenties that she can think of herself also. But by this time she is high on alcohol and the effects of 12 years of eating disorders.

    Im glad my mom died is raw, it’s funny at times, and I found myself cheering Jeannette on for every healing conversation with a therapist and every step forward she was making, yet the catalogue of abuse and those who could take advantage of her extended beyond just her mother, which isn’t surprising.

    It would be easy to dismiss this book as only being relevent in the culture created by child acting, the media and production companies, but it is easily relatable to other organizations and cultures, especially with a high performative, high expectation , moral expectation. The fact that Jeannette also experienced a high rigid culture of Mormonism and it’s expectations, and it’s associated shame, is a pointer. It’s interesting that Jeannette mothers pulled her away from church, as also projecting criticism of them to Jeannette, causing Jeannette to not continue to go, and feel the shame. Jeannette mom was just invalidating those who might be critical of her to her daughter.

    What I like too is that Jeannette doesn’t use the N word until the very end of the book. But what she describes throughout is her experiences, as they are, the treatment and behaviour she suffered, and her responses to it, so that when she uses the ‘N’ word (Narcissistic) is carries all the weight. Again, those of us who experienced then normalised, then survived in and amongst this will likely get this, how the naming of it heals, but also the categorising hides the varieties of behaviour behind it. It reminded me of when I first read the pink book – the words I discovered were ‘self absorbed’ or as in Lindsay Gibsons books, ‘Emotionally immature’ rather than the oft-banded around N word. But when we learn the terms having suffered it, we know.

    I was warned that I might be triggered by the book, and maybe that warning meant that I read the book prepared for what it may do. Yes, there are some aspects I relate to, high expectations, perpetual victim, emotional eggshells, at least, there are some differences, not every abusive mother looks or is the same.

    Some are more covert, some overt

    Some rely on victimhood, others entitlement

    All have prey and supply, all divide, all use people as extension of roles, none take any responsibility, all create drama.

    I’m Glad my Mom Died, is one such story of the effect of one type of narcissistic abusive mothers, it’s relief to those who’ve experienced something similar (to know we’re not alone) and insight to those who start to see the patterns from this example.

    Cheering you on Jeannette, keep on going putting yourself first.

    Im Glad my Mom Died is available here

    Thank you to my new Daughter in Law Meghan for recommending this book to me, much appreciated, and to my lovely Christelle for transporting it across the pond.

  • Abuse and the fragility of self-belief.

    ‘You shouldn’t doubt yourself, you’re really good at’

    Aww shucks, thank you

    But when those voices return

    Those ones

    You know the ones I mean

    Every action, every creative, public action is a huge sap of energy

    Self doubt shouts with a megaphone from the recess of the mind

    Ive been fighting my own voices for a few months now

    Maybe for a few longer

    I used to pretend that they weren’t there, but they just lay dormant

    ‘You’re no good at this’

    ‘You never make it work’

    ‘You’re not as good as _________ at it’

    ‘are you sure this is you?’

    ‘Faker’

    ‘Dont have ideas beyond your station’

    The voices

    Self doubt merges into paralytic self criticism

    But then again, its no surprise is it?

    The Trophy child, on display

    All the work, no pay

    A childhood ground on expectation, rules and shame

    With only a few teachers to point me in the right direction

    Relying on my own head to survive, the voices I can tell myself

    Those voices I can do this – despite

    I can be something – without

    I can make it – on my own

    Survival voices, from an unsafe land. Maybe that was it, so much energy taken up in trying to survive, self protection, understanding, trying to please, that there wasn’t space to actually be good at something, to be creative.

    Compliments and encouragement I find hard to trust, easier to dismiss than believe them, I know you mean well.

    It may be easy for you to tell me that I shouldn’t doubt myself – it really isn’t easy for me, I know you mean well

    The effort to doubt my own self doubt, keeping the darkness at bay

    realising that actually, the darkness might be a friend too, it wants to tell me something.

    The battle in my mind, doesn’t need more weapons.

    It’s not a fight. Its a reminder

    A reminder to remember, who I truly am.

    That I am not the voice. That those voices need not over power me.

    A reminder towards love. A reminder towards awakening.

    A reminder towards heart. A reminder towards soul.

    That I am is more than I can.

  • Thief in the Pen

    I am the good Shepherd. The good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep, the sheep hear my voice and listen, they don’t listen to a stranger, for they dont know his voice. (John 10)

    But Lord we asked, what if the thief is already in the pen, what then?

    The Sheep hear my voic-

    no we didnt, we hear what we’re allowed to hear, A voice that lies

    A voice that pretends to be you, but its not you

    A voice that tells us that we’re just sheep, and there’ll be trouble if we dont obey them

    And says that you’re not coming to protect us……

    Oh Hang on, wait a minute, you let them in didnt you?

    You let them in the pen!

    No, well, that ‘gate’ thing, what I meant was that, thats for you, if there was no robber or thief

    but you let them in too?

    I couldn’t stop them, you know like wheat and weeds, both

    Marvellous, great, a gate keeper with no checklist

    Its not my fault! They didnt appear to be a thief or a robber, its not like they wore it on a lanyard that said ‘Thief, about to steal sheep, D.O.B 11.04.23(AD)’ actually they gave me a great list of all their credentials of sheep care.

    They lied to you too?

    They always lies.

    So that ‘God looks at the heart thing’ you know back in the David days, how was that going, did you have a heart bypass or something, could you not see through it when you let them in, you know twitchy eye contact, a bit too ‘boasty’, seems like they tried too hard, dont you think? Could you not have done something ?

    I am the good Shepherd..

    Yeah yeah, we heard that one at the beginning, if you’re that good where have you been hiding since you let in the robber in the pen?

    Busy.

    Busy?

    Well, yeah, kind of busy.

    Say more, goody shepherd?

    Nope

    We’re waiting

    Well, there’s a pen over there you see, and its just far easier to be their good shepherd, no conflict see, and those sheep get to come and go and I can do that ‘gate’ thing over there, and its just lovely and the sheep play and eat grass

    No thief over there then?

    Well, err no…

    You went for the easy life? Gate duty over there when the thief was in our pen?

    The Sheep heard my voice and they came and went, and danced on the green pasture, and ate the green grass and I could lead them

    Whilst we were trapped and you knew it. No Voice for us

    Thats a bit harsh, you’re not jealous are you? Or just a tiny bit angry?

    (Sheep stares)

    (Uncomfortable silence)

    (Sheep stares a little more)

    We thought we could hear them..the distant sounds of something we once recognised, the sound of fun.. something that we could only ever hear but not do

    Oh yes, Peace and love and joy, sounds about right

    But not in this pen. Not with the thief inside, want to know what the thief said to us when we could hear all that ‘peace and love and joy’ ?

    Ok, yes tell me

    They’re better than you

    They’re more deserving than you

    They’re being spoiled

    They’re not as sinful as you

    They work harder

    Thats what the thief said to us, so that we couldn’t have joy, or love or peace, just more rules, and being busy, and never being good enough, want to know more?

    Yes please do.

    We had to change.

    We stopped feeling like sheep a long time ago, it made us weep to hear that it wasn’t far that sheep could be sheep. We werent our selves, and it was stressing us out

    What do you mean?

    Well it wasn’t safe, no time of day, the thief kept on watching and making us work, and gradually over time we noticed, that we treated each other more prickly too, developed hard shells, toughened our skin, we grew hair to cover our eyes, its like we forgot we were sheep inside, we had to pretend to be sheep.

    Sheep on the inside, elephant on the outside?

    What’s an elephant? All we know is this pen and the thief, oh and those fun loving neighbours, have you been playing with elephants too, in your busy times?

    No, but what else has it been like?

    Thief in the pen? One day one of the workers came up from the farm to check on us, see if we were being treated well , and we were like YAY we might be rescued, (given that you disappeared oh goody two shoes shepherd just out for the fun), and so we started to shout as loud as we could to get his attention, tried to make the hired hand listen to us

    Oh yes the hired hand, he doesn’t listen listen he just runs away

    Yeah, we know that now, thanks for the heads up.

    What happened?

    Well, as the hired hand got closer, we got louder, desperate to get them to realise that something was wrong, and you know what happened next?

    No, tell me

    Our thief smiled all nicely and said those words, ‘don’t worry about them, they’re just a little too sensitive, they get like this on a hot day sometimes, ill take good care of them‘

    And that was it, no further questions, didnt even try, just believed the charm and the smile and walked away. And then…

    then?….

    Thief hits us harder than ever , blames us for showing them up, and you know what they said next, just after, trying to be nice?

    No go on

    That if we spend more time worshipping you he’ll put a good word in and that you’d come and see us. So thats what we did, doubly hard work, making wool and now a daily regime of worship and prayer. Did you not hear us singing to you?

    erm, well, I could hear something, but it was words I didnt recognise and I had nothing to do with that arrangement, the thief always lies.

    We now know that , took a while for us to realise though, and some still can’t believe that the thief always lies, some of us still want to think the best of the thief in the pen, but the only way out was to realise that thief always lies, even when they say they try, try to be better, try to be good they say, but never for long, always lies, never realising that we have to be clever, clever to to figure them out, clever to cope in the pen, with the thief at the helm.

    Once you werent coming, I made a decision, because waiting for you, ‘pray harder’ the thief said, no I had to figure it out and find a way of escaping, I noticed the lies, and just had to ignore what the thief was saying, and realise that their actions didnt match

    And then?

    A few of us got together, kept noticing the patterns and behaviours and realised we could escape, once we remembered that we had more power, and choice, and once we stopped listening to the lies we gained more strength. But thats when thief turned nasty, violent, threatening, unravelling in front of us, we stayed firm and walked out of the gate, thief’s last words were to us was that ‘we wouldnt win, were in trouble now, we’ve made them upset‘ but we walked, and we realised then we could breathe and tasted the clean grass again.

    I can see, im glad you are free

    But others arent though, they are stuck in the pen, with the thief, what about them? What if the thief goes to other pens, what about them?

    The sheep hear my voice – eventually

    Is that what we found?

    I think so, now enjoy life, full life, now that you’ve found it, and made it happen

    Question, just before you go, are you ok with me being angry at you?

    Yes, thats what you needed to get out of the pen

    What if im angry with you for a long time?

    Just take your time, let it out, feel and be loving to all the feelings

    Thank you, and one more thing, why our pen? Why this one and not the other one? We have only known a thief in the pen

    My dear sheep, there is no one answer to that question, and it might take some time for you to realise, but know that you can now rest, and play and live, and breathe and be, and feel your own wisdom, strength and resolve. The why is because what you had was wanted by the thief, you had something they wanted, and they always want and steal, you had something they tried to take, but also maybe there’s magic going on deeper in the whole of creation that neither I or you know about, and that magic has set you free.

  • My healing started the day I realised that my mother is a narcissist.

    Sometimes days have a special significance dont they. I remember clearly the day I got my A level results, the days when my children were born, days of celebration, and where I was when I heard significant news, like my grandparents deaths. Positively recently I remember so much about the day of my wedding with Christelle (it wasn’t that long ago)

    But there is one other day in my life that had a significant impact upon my life… it was the day I realised what narcissism is, and the extent to which my mother is one.

    There is a slight blurring to this story, however, is that in 2006 I was reading a paper whilst I was doing my Youth work and Theology degree at ICC, Glasgow which described the difference between listening with a young person with empathy, and taking a story that a young person shares and using it to launch into your own, this was described as being narcissistic. That was the first time I had heard this word. I did also underline the word on the paper and write in the margin ‘Remind me of anyone’ . A seed had been sown.

    The other blurring in the clarity is that it was only a few years later in 2008 when fairly serious incidents that revealed this behaviour. The fall out from this was that ‘nothing changed’ or responsibility was taken. But at that time I didnt equate or delve into what narcissist behaviour was, was just in a swirl of denials.

    Anyway, back to the story, rather than the pre amble.

    I was in a cafe just outside Durham with one of my best friends, it was just after Christmas, the day after Boxing Day, 4 years ago. I was recounting how the few days of Christmas had gone, as there was a lot of tension around the family home at the time. For some reason the subject came up that I hadn’t spent time with my parents or spoken to them over the Christmas time, and I said something about how weird they were.

    My friend asked me whether I thought, no actually she said, ‘Your Mother is a narcissist isn’t she?’

    I may have done my usual and passed this off, or said ‘yeah I know’ or something like that. I didnt know, or didnt realise the extent to which this truth had affected my entire life, or would be part of what my life recovery would take.

    I knew that she was difficult. I knew that she sucked the life out of every room. I knew that she was emotionally unstable. I knew that also she had the capacity to upset everyone. I knew that she didnt listen.

    But a Narcissist? What’s that ?

    What I hadn’t done until that point was begin the process of doing the work.

    Firstly of recognising the problem. Secondly of releasing myself from the responsibility of the problem and changing myself. Thirdly of naming it. Fourthly and this is the ongoing bit – of realising the extent to which I have ongoing recovery to do because of the deep personality issues that dominated my childhood.

    None of this could be done until I had the space to see it.

    And I could only see it when someone who had experience of it could identify it.

    My friend recommended to me the ‘pink book’.

    This book:

    Link here if you would like to buy a copy

    A week later the book arrived as I received a copy.

    In it Nina describes the characteristics of healthy parents (none of which I could recognise) and then 4 types of Self Absorbed Parents, 3 of which I could identify in mother, but definitely strongly one of them.

    Though the book didnt stop there.

    Nina described the way in which I had reacted and responded to my parents, and my own self destructive, self limiting responses to them – to either pacify, soothe or avoid – also flight, or fight/anger responses. She went on to describe how to protect the self, in the midst of the narcissistic interaction, and afterwards. There’s also coping strategies for each type of parent.

    This was my first ‘self help’ book I had read.

    It was like scales and weights falling, as I could see clearly for the first time the extent of what I had tried to cope with, alone, and also how I had reduced myself in the process, of 40 years, yet at the same done what I thought I should do for my own survival.

    I thought that the stuff I suffered with my mother were impossible to describe, too weird, too crazy to recognise, yet this book described my experiences. It describes what emotional control, abuse, belligerence and victim playing looks like. And I had experienced it all.

    I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one.

    That was so important.

    And if this might be you, know that you aren’t alone either.

    I confess to not doing all of the exercises in Nina’s book, the scoring charts in the beginning were enough for me to be able to do some accurate identification.

    But It wasn’t that I now had someone to blame. It wasn’t that I now took this information and stereotypically ‘blamed my childhood’ , and I hope that from what ive ever written on this blog I haven’t done that, I certainly haven’t tried to. What the information did for me was to help me see who I was, how I coped and survived, and what I now needed to do, and how I had been affected by it.

    The important thing was that it was that I could let go of things I had felt responsible for.

    And four years later, can feel more compassionate about my child James, teenage James and mid twenties and thirties James – who was trying to do life with a void, a void that had had things taken.

    And now I knew. I had avoided wanting to know, feeling the pain to be too great, even though a number of people had been trying to tell me, I hadn’t listened, not fully.

    Part of my healing journey, was the day I realised that my mother was a narcissist. There were other significant moments, but this was definitely one of them.

    Thank you for reading, if there’s something in this that you resonate with, do seek out professional help and therapy if you can, acknowledging this is a first step, making a move of self love to begin a healing journey is courageous and beautiful. I have other resources in the menu above including other books, and there’s a lot on you tube on responding to narcissism. Know that its time. Today is a good first day to start to recover and heal from this.

  • Without

    I often get the question; ‘What was it like growing up with your parents?’ – especially those who have read my story.

    Ill tell you. In a moment..

    Im just reading Oprah Winfrey and Bruce Perrys book ‘What Happened to you?’ in which they describe what it would be like to ask this question (as opposed to ‘whats wrong with you?) in regard to responding to situations of trauma in society – especially amongst some of the most judged in society (notably young people). It has given me much food for thought, especially in regard to youth/community practice, and ill share more on that on my other blog.

    But the book also touches on a personal level.

    So Ill give you a trigger warning, Emotional and Parental Abuse.

    There’s a beautiful story near the end of the book in which Oprah recalls a friend of hers cutting up a strawberry in the kitchen in which the friend delicates cuts up the strawberry for the daughter in the shape of a rose, and calls them rose strawberries, it is in this moment that Oprah thinks to herself:

    This is what a mothers love is

    Oprah Winfrey, 2021

    It is when Oprah sees the example of love that she realises what she didnt have, that she grew up ‘without’.

    Without a Mothers Love.

    I have written before about how growing up with psychopathic parents meant growing up Alone. It was also about growing up ‘Without’ .

    Yet it was a bizarrely hidden ‘without’ .

    It was a ‘without’ behind closed doors. Behind the doors of respectability that didnt include any of the so called ACES (adverse childhood experiences), it didnt involve moving houses, countries or cities, or being in care. It didnt involve divorce or unemployment.

    It was like existing without care, protection, love, nurture, support.

    It was without being seen, being visible.

    It was without being able to ask, for anything

    It was without.

    It meant learning to exist with a shield, strength shield of ‘learning to cope without’ or denying the need of any of these things.

    Which is why I sought refuge into my head. And pretending that everything was ok. That I was ok.

    And buying mothers days was an activity filled with falseness, real birthday cards were blank ones.

    When I grew with a fear of seeing to be selfish – then I understood not to ask when in need of anything – to go without

    When I grew up told off for being ungrateful – then I understood not to ask for something in case it would appear that I wasn’t content with what I had.

    When I grew up without praise or affirmation – then I learnt to keep working harder without reward, in case there might be one.

    Growing up without meant – amongst other things – without pocket money (that’s what Granny does and I dont do that, also ‘you’ll just waste it’) . Money and possessions are a big deal with the psychopathic/narcissist, everything belongs to them.

    Without meant turning up to school with arm patched up clothes, packed lunches, and when the dentist suggested braces and travelling 11 miles to get them fitted and fixed every 3 months being told ‘ No you can’t have them that bad as I’m not going to do that’ .

    When I grew up trying to understand how to survive every action or moment without being told off, or ‘upsetting the mother’ – then realising what isn’t there love, care, attention, affection, visibility, nurture, protection doesn’t even figure. There was no giving only taking.

    Oh and it extended well beyond childhood.

    There was no offer to contribute towards any studies, (even though there was insistence to attend 1 graduation) , neither was any support , housing or financial during my marriage separation 4 years ago (but there was upset that I didnt ask) . These were experienced, without.

    It was also a without so many things, and yet as I use this phrase it reminds me that ‘with’ was one of their phrases around food. It would be after some fairly disastrous first course, that a second (pudding) would be unleashed. It would be some kind of over baked, under fruited, or reduced priced pie/crumble or equivalent, and to hide it various additions would be trailed out of the fridge, to hide the original monstrosity/admission of undervalue – so ice cream (value/vanilla usually), evaporated milk or custard – or at Christmas cream or the squirty cream – the ‘with it’ was a show, a covering. It was over done, to hide ‘without’ . At this point the challenge was to be true and ‘go without’ because what looked like ‘a lot’ – a table with 5 of cream, ice cream or custard – was lacking something core, but to deny it was to appear ungrateful, because there was a weird kind of choice on offer. Gifts were toxic. So actual need requests couldnt be asked for.

    That’s what growing up in a psychological abuse home was like.

    It was without care. It was without heart, soul, safety, space, or fun.

    There was ‘with’ – but it came at a price.

    So I read Oprah and Perrys book, and realise that what I have wanted to be able to give, I had to learn, but was not what I had any experience of. Growing up emotionally alone, meant going without, existing without, surviving without, making life work for me, despite them, not because of them.

    Growing up ‘without’ meant too that I was completely susceptible to any care and attention from others, I didnt have a ‘God shaped hole’ in my life – it was more emotionally psychological than that (not that I knew at the time, most of the time) , but I certainly filled this with ‘God-shaped’ activities, in becoming part of a church through my teens and beyond. Neglect is one of the biggest issues in Child Safeguarding.

    That ‘without’ has then played out in so many ways.

    As I grew up ‘without’ I had to force myself to consider valuing myself.

    To ‘treat’ myself

    To ask for help – and know it could be trusted

    To realise I couldn’t do it alone

    To realise too that I could receive love, blessings, hope and be able to see, feel and experience the love of the universe, God and others.

    Over the last few weeks I have realised that I would have struggled to read, or dwell in the ‘Blessings’ of the book that I bought a few weeks ago (by John O Donohue) – I would have discounted these as weird, ‘new age’ , ‘not very christian’ – all to hide the real truth, that I didnt want to accept that I could receive something good, or feel something good, a blessing.

    Learning to live ‘without’ – has meant having to now come close to and notice those things, notice, accept, and know. Sometimes I get angry that I realise how much I was fucked up by my parents. Sometimes, like this moment with Oprah and a strawberry it gives me an opportunity to pause again, face a truth, and remind myself, compassionately of who I truly am. To be grateful of how I survived, and my strength in doing so. To be compassionate on my wounded heart and its capacity to love.

    There are many scarcities in life, and shame is one of them, its anti dote is self compassion. So, as I close…

    May I breath in the love of the universe, kindness, goodness and generosity, may I be healed through attending to myself, and holding myself with warmth. May I hold myself with warmth as I attend to and discover what happened to me.

    Every moment acts as an opportunity for self compassion. This journey keeps on giving.

    Thank you and bless you for reading. May you receive and give love.

  • EMDR and my Anxious Mind

    When I got triggered by something a few weeks ago I went into a bit of a spiral.

    Downwards.

    And I forgot.

    My mind went into overdrive

    The words, fears and punishments from my childhood got relived into my present.

    Thats what trauma, childhood trauma, any trauma feels like.

    Mind whirlwind.

    Anxiety.

    Thinking.

    Over thinking.

    And in the midst, I forgot.

    I forgot because I had got consumed.

    I forgot who I was, I became the frightened child, the frightened me, hiding and scared.

    I didn’t even realise I was doing it.

    I needed my fiancé to keep checking in and asking me.

    The Trigger.

    Did it matter what it was? No – but it was big one.

    I spiralled downwards for at least 5 days. But tried to keep going and pretending.

    During that time wrote a bit – publically

    And wrote a bit privately – a lot of emotions out, alot

    But I was still on edge. Even after beginning to realise myself in the present.

    Beginning to regroup and rebuild

    Telling myself, that I am safe, that I am enough, that I am stronger than I realise.

    I did a great job of telling others too, but I needed to hear myself.

    But ultimately, it wasn’t what I wrote, what I read

    The things I needed to know.

    I had to learn again, and again that I didnt have to suffer alone – and my lovely Christelle sat with me on times, affirmed that I was having a trauma reaction.

    Affirmed that what I was going through was trauma anxiety.

    Taking me back to the past, unable to rest in the moment

    Unsettled.

    I forgot and also I resisted, I resisted to do the very things that I knew would help

    So I did all the other things, like comfort eat, excessive cleaning, distractions.

    Part of me was anxious, so I listened to that part

    Part of me was also resistant to and didn’t want to get rid of the anxiety, it was loving the attention

    Two weeks of the swirl, back and forth, heart racing, forgetting to breathe.

    Forgetting my safety

    Forgetting the journey to this point

    Forgetting and being over taken by mymind racing

    Forgetting my power

    Forgetting myself

    Yet in the midst of last Thursday, in the afternoon, I somehow did something that I remembered.

    Yes I had began to regroup the preeceding few days. Get myself out of the swirl

    I remembered EMDR.

    Something my therapist taught me.

    Something I had barely needed or used for a long while.

    So I sat down

    Breathed

    Closed my eyes

    And for a few minutes listened to my breathing

    and tapped either side of my shoulder blades, first quickly, then slower.

    Breathing too.

    Why had I forgotten EMDR? In the midst of a severe trauma reaction, I forgot a lot.

    The part of me that wanted pain to remain dominant raced – Tolle calls this the Pain-Body -the ego.

    Anxiety induced forgetfulness

    And what happened.

    Since I did EMDR, my brain completely stopped the anxiety patterns. And it has done ever since.

    The descending of calm on me.

    Calm. Utter calm.

    A reordering of the neurones and programming, that no amount of writing, eating or other externals would have changed. Almost miraculous to be honest, and virtually instant.

    Incredible. Its as if my entire mind has shifted. To a new place. One that isn’t racing.

    I can breathe.

    Literally 5 minutes of EMDR. After 2 weeks of trauma responding. Panic and Anxiety.

    On one hand I could be annoyed I didnt do EMDR within a few days, on the other the trigger did give me the opportunity to work through some things- part of me that needed to heal.

    Maybe I need to have mental notes around my flat – remember the good practices. Remember EMDR, or Yoga, or other good trauma healing practices. Especially when in the midst im likely to forget.

    Recognising that recovery from a lifetime of abuse is seriously hard work, so im not beating myself up, but noting what trauma and anxiety does to the memory in the present, and how it created in me resistance to wanting to, and conscious memory of what I needed to do in response.

    How a trauma reaction caused me to forget – and highlight what I might need to do to remember in the future.

  • Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (Part 32) How their ‘helpfulness’ hid the reality

    I have shared before about growing up feeling incredibly alone.

    In that piece I referred to the fact that the Toxicity of my mother meant that family members were kept at a distance, physical or emotional wedges were dug in place that meant that they stayed away or I was kept away from them. A family divided and when together – the rare occasions, there were more eggshells and mistruths than a cabinet meeting with Boris Johnson held in a poultry farm.

    But there was something else.

    Whilst Family were being divided, neglected, controlled and abused.

    There was another reason that I grew up alone.

    Sprinkles of Helpfulness.

    You see, people who are this toxic do not have friends.

    Barely did anyone willingly volunteer to come around for coffee to chat with them – victimhood persuasion was often needed and overheard on the phone, and No was barely taken for an answer.

    They didn’t have friends, because if she didnt have any, Dad wasn’t allowed them either.

    Sprinkles of helpfulness though.

    What are you on about James?

    They didnt have friends – because that mean seeing people for who they are –

    Instead, they helped people, rescued them – groomed them even.

    Often for money, or to trade ‘taking them to church’ as a bargaining tool – or to have the ‘right ‘ to judge their morality, she deserved to be rewarded for the helpfulness. (entitled, remember..)

    The list isnt endless of the helpfulness, because it was reluctant and not done with any joy or depth, it was tactical.

    People would be taken on holiday – they’ve had such a tough year

    Children would be looked after – before and after school

    ‘Old dears’ would be visited

    Actually, it was rare that a walk back from church on a Sunday wasnt via some old couple or another, knowing what I know now, they were probably being sized up.

    So called friends ‘had personal problems’ or were ‘going through a hard time’- and ‘Its good to be there for them’ – and mysteriously moved away when they recovered, never to be seen again

    Im reluctant to bring my Dad into this, but, prime fixer and helper was his de facto – when it came to fixing boilers, radiators or any DIY, and thats before building an entire church building. Oh and by the way – She was bitterly disappointed that he ‘only’ got a lamp for all his efforts. The church weren’t grateful enough for all the sacrifice she went through – their reward wasn’t enough….

    Yes, Evangelical Church 1990…she was furious when we got home with that lamp and nearly threw it and smashed it.

    Sprinkles of helpfulness

    And note, if you haven’t noted already ; It wasnt genuine. It was for show.

    She expected to be rewarded appropriately for it.

    We stopped looking after children ‘When it wasnt worth the effort’ – not because it wasnt good for the family

    People started to disappear – when they realised their expectations went up – or the fees did.

    One of her biggest projections was that ‘Other people were being taken advantage of’

    When someone else did something for nothing, because it was a good thing to do.

    Especially anyone who did this and took the attention away from her.

    Have you ever seen the film Spotlight (2002)?

    Its what the Catholic Church did – its Institutional Gaslighting.

    Create a mythical reality of helpfulness in one domain of life, whilst abusing others, in an almost similar space. It perpetuates the disbelief. ‘They can’t do that, they’re so helpful’

    Sprinkles of Helpfulness

    People to ‘fix’

    Vulnerable people to prey on

    Institutions fall for the helpfulness – until individuals work them out.

    Or, as in Spotlight, an external agency puts the patterns together.

    Anyway. As a child. The adults that remained relatively close to us – were those who were being helped

    Because no-one stayed. People who realised they were being played didnt stick around.

    There was no warmth.

    Long term friends didnt come around for meals – because there was no such thing.

    So, growing up alone wasnt just about the people who stayed away

    It was that the so many others were dazzled by sprinkles of false helpfulness

    Caught in the myth.

    And people feeling sorry for them, or grateful for them.

    They couldn’t do that – they’ve been just helpful to me

    They couldn’t do that – they’re good christian people

    And it was always someone else fault when I asked that ‘we haven’t seen ______ for a while’…

    Strange that.

    And maybe Institutions that pride themselves on helping and rescuing are places that can validate abusers who have this tactic – who are unaware or choose to ignore or who believe words, defend and protect instead of listen and change. Fixers and helpers hiding in plain sight.

    It would be extraordinary difficult to be able to articulate the level of psychological abuse and neglect we received in the family, it was even harder when the avenues of who this could be articulated to were shut down. But people knew. They were just as afraid of them as I was. But those who they helped – were indebted to them and weren’t safe. What the ‘helped’ didn’t realise – was that it wasnt genuine.

    The myth of my parents helpfulness meant surviving alone.

    Those they helped weren’t safe for us.

    Those they helped also…weren’t safe from them.