James Ballantyne

Tag: fear

  • Hello darkness……friend….not monster.

    Hello darkness……friend….not monster.

    Shining a light onto my Depression

    Hello darkness, my old friend. 

    I wrote in the first line of my journal this morning, as if I was channelling the ghost of Simon and Garfunkel and trying desperately not to rewrite the song as the outpouring of what I was feeling. I wanted a unique feeling. Not some old crooners giving it some and im just the same as them. 

    Because, the darkness monster appeared to me as I lay under the duvet just seconds after I clicked the snooze button. 

    It hadn’t appeared for a while. Actually I thought, that it may have gone forever. But. 

    No. 

    It appeared. 

    Inviting me into itself as a companion of negativity. 

    Wanting to envelop me again. 

    And before you say it, today is not a ‘back to work’ monday morning. 

    Today is actually the first of three days off when I want to do some writing and crack on with the book im in the middle of. 

    For ten minutes I let it speak to me. 

    It wanted to remind me of my smallness

    It wanted to remind me of my shame

    It wanted to remind me of how I haven’t actually written ‘the book yet’ – failings..

    It wanted to remind me that it would be easier to not bother and avoid the disappointment

    It wanted to remind me that there were easier ways to spend my day

    It wanted to tell me that it was protecting me

    It wanted to still be important… 

    It wasnt lying to me, not quite, it was giving me an easier way out…. 

    Appearing as a monster. And I felt small.

    I shaved, showered and put on clean clothes, as a defiant act of self care, and feeling my body, and in the moments of waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee, I wrote and wrote, using black pen for the darkness and pink for me. Pink for my soft heart that wasnt angry, wasnt frustrated by the return….. but wanted to hear even more. 

    I asked my darkness what it wanted, and what it was scared of

    I asked it for its message, and what it was alerting me to

    I asked it to tell me the truth. 

    And I realised that the visit this morning was brought about by a number of things, that started yesterday, when I struggled to write, and gave myself into ‘just having a lazy day watching you tube and sport’ until I got to the evening, where I read a bit and chatted to my partner. 

    Because although I find that the mornings have been a time for me where my darkness friend arrives often, it has mostly only been in the last five or six years when I have been open, safe, and able to feel it. Before this time I had underlying depression that was just constant and masked, as I hid everything away behind a stony mask of survival. Depression was in effect a constant. 

    And then I watched a bit of a documentary over breakfast. And walked into town. 

    And as I walked I realised that maybe, maybe we still dont talk about depression anything like as much as we talk about anxiety. Or maybe we do and I just dont read, or hear about it. 

    And if we do talk about depression it’s rare theres a conversation about how masking it makes it worse, and how for so long it can be hidden. 

    Last week was international suicide prevention day, and that is one easy way out from all the pressure, or all the voices of being scared, unsafe, fear and living a life masking it all, trying to stay strong, trying to be strong for others, with often no support. This is not just a men issue, but it mostly is, and no job, vocation or career is immune from it. Depression is everywhere. 

    In Johan Hari’s book ‘Lost connection’ he writes about the seven things that he realised that we have lost connection with, that all increase depression. I realised I had two of them all my life without realising it. (writing about them here ‘shining a light on my depression’) 

    They are 

    Lost connection with Meaningful values – Junk food for the soul is what Hari regards the rising of the media and cheap capitalist values. 

    Childhood Trauma – if that pain feels too large to deal with, then it’s haunting. 

    Nature – too much screen time is making us sick….the trees heal, touch them. 

    Purposeful work – as everything is standardised, AI is a threat… 

    Dreams and future – survival mode is a present reality that makes the future seem impossible, time is compressed

    Status and respect – Understanding who we truly are, and respect for ourselves and others… 

    Each other/Community – For some there is more connection and yet more isolation within technological spaces, yet depth of community and conversations can often be lost….(im writing this in a coffee shop and its lovely watching people have in-depth conversations with each other) 

    I summarise all of them, and writing them from memory. I could add a number of things to them, and in a way connection is another word for reverence, to have connections with these things is to pay reverence to them, to realise their importance and dig deep into the relevance and intention to work on them – all very difficult when the darkness monster wants to remind us of being small, alone and afraid. (and the anxiety friend helps out with these too…too often) 

    I didnt wake up this morning, or even want to spend any time writing about depression or me or trauma or recovery or healing today, in fact im almost trying not to. 

    Yet I have a life of survival and a life of masking depression and anxiety, and I didnt give in to the easy option of ending life when I was 9, or 34, 39 or 44, when I was close to, and just felt this was important today. To own it, write about it. 

    The real. 

    So here I am, and it’s whats burning to come out today. Writing through the feelings, writing through the process, writing vulnerability into being. 

    Hello darkness my old friend. 

    Friend. Thank you. 

    And then I reminded myself, that I am. 

    I am not the small thoughts

    or the fears….and there is a gift in the voice

    a seed of truth. 

    To remind myself. 

    Of my gifts, my hope

    and the world opening up and waiting for me. 

    Yeah ive now gone full circle, from Simon and Garfunkel to The Greatest Showman. 

    I dont think we talk about depression enough. 

    I dont think its as easy as ‘just talk to someone’ 

    It’s clinging on to something where the rock bottom hits. 

    Its not just a you issue, there are wider factors, there always is…

    It’s a you issue for you though and you, and I are more important than to give in to it all. 

    Darkness is a friend. (as is anxiety) 

    Not monsters. Friends.

    Trying to not feel them, or always feeling them…..reveals there is something wrong. 

    And whilst you’re alive there is a way out, change is always possible. 

    The battle between thoughts and feelings, good and bad voices, demons and angels was a lie, a lie to create shame and fear and dependence. 

    Oh and yes sometimes I would love to not feel all these things, and sometimes they feel yucky and raw and debilitating and yet, the alternative of not feeling, was not living. I cannot go back, and I dont want to. Life is journey paved with love, even if the darkness friends sometimes want to pop in and have a conversation, through tears they are met with love, and sometimes we’ll walk together. Me and my darkness and anxious friends.

  • The Invitation

    Because in this moment

    There is nothing to fear

    Just you

    And what is.

    The water, the stones, the reflection

    That, is , what, is here

    If you are here.

    Truly really here

    Notice the stillness

    And do not be afraid

    Of the moment it creates

    Do not be concerned

    About the next thing, or the past one

    Do not be in a hurry

    To rush right past

    Do.not have to please

    Or perform

    Or think

    Or fight

    There is no fight

    There is no other time

    There is no….thing at all

    Just be here

    All of you

    Invited into stillness

    By her.

    By the river, no…

    Not by her

    But by the universe, the big girl

    Notice

    Do not take

    Do not give

    Just open, your heart to be here

    Relax those weary shoulders

    And she will give you ….everything…

    The very breath you share with her

    Is hers all along

    And yours all along too

    Stay, you are invited here

    The gathering of your soul in the stillness of the water

    The gathering of.your heart and body to gaze….to delve

    To play deep into her, where you belong

    And your soul finds it’s home

    She desires and calls you into her intoxicating love

    That embraces you in love, unconditionally

    So you can stay here forever

    And not be afraid.

    Rest at the speed of soul.

    Notice her

    Notice you

    And be loved.

    Wholly and deeply,

    In the stillness.

  • God is the God of the Brave (Advent week 1)

    In amongst the usual stuff I write about, I thought I would share over the next few weeks, as a review of the year, 4 of the stories, readings, poems, that struck me in the course of this year, as a little gift for you.

    I have read Paulo Coelhos books for well over 5 years now, and this one ‘Maktub’, was translated into English in the last few years, I bought it in March, as at the time was restricting my book buying to just favourite authors or books that really stood out.

    So this one was a definite. Its bite sized stories accompanied by early morning reading and quiet space for a while.

    But it was this one that made me stop, underline, put the date next to it, and have a bookmark in it all year.

    God is the God of the brave.

    Brave. Courage.

    I could talk about Mary’s bravery in the run up to advent. The 7 months of waiting, and now the month before the birth of Jesus. What did she (and Joseph) need to do to be brave?

    Because…

    It’s the same bravery when you or I have stood up to injustice.

    It’s the same bravery when we hold someone we care about

    It’s the same bravery when we face the inner demons

    It’s the same bravery that we can use to make our dreams happen.

    Brave means getting angry and rising to do something.

    Brave means setting boundaries and saying no

    Brave means turning love for others inwards too

    And Hope.

    God is the God of the brave.

    ‘Face your journey with courage. Don’t be afraid of other people’s criticisms, above all don’t let yourself be paralysed by your own self criticism’

    Bravery means going beyond, to the new place you’ve have never been before.

    Brave, means taking on your world to make it different. Whatever that is.

    What might it mean for you to own your bravery today?

    (and yes, God, it’s fucking tiring feeling like being brave is a constant…I get it..)

    But own it as it’s your inner strength coming to the party, and so that one day, that power will be yours to have for you.

    God is the God of the brave.

  • 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.

  • The Wild Path

    With the love of new companions

    Angels that found me and a loving self

    I go

    To

    The wild path.

    Step out onto its mysterious threshold

    hurting, pained, afraid

    The first act of love

    To walk the wild path

    Alone, but not alone.

    Stones reveal their shapes

    Masking my pain.

    Unable to feel,

    their jagged shapes,

    Cuts my feet, brushed off as nothing.

    Walking the wild path,

    In blind hope

    More that expectation.

    The wild path,

    Awakening the wild one within.

    Wild,

    Daunting,

    Wild,

    Where unpredictable thorns tire each step,

    Where danger seems to lurk,

    Wild, for it doesn’t seem to end.

    Wild,

    Yet,

    On that path, feeling mysteriously held

    Where vulnerability to walk is met

    hand in hand with the awakening of heart.

    Walking the wild path

    held by an invisible chord

    that becomes a friend.

    A chord laid by angels

    Angels webbing

    Shining, dangling, hoping in the darkness

    Wild path

    The call, the chord, the mystery

    Wild path promises.

    The wild path.

    Alone.

    Facing the elements

    Clinging, unsure, fighting

    Only the wild path.

    I have to go.

    I have to stay on it.

    I have to do this by myself.

    I have to cling on.

    I have to believe.

    I have to believe in a love so strong.

    That has hidden itself for so long,

    Its Mine.

    Mine to face.

    Mine to receive.

    Mine to feel held,

    by that angel string

    and grow.

    I walk, alone, along

    The wild path

    Where anxiety and dreams go hand in hand

    Where I find

    That I find

    and face,

    The demons I once avoided.

    The shadows

    and the bridge of haunted memories,

    the caves of cravings.

    I walk, I have to walk

    towards them

    with love

    and know that everything I need is on the path.

    There is nothing else.

    Even if I feel

    I can’t do this,

    I can’t face this,

    I don’t want to face that shame any more,

    I don’t want to,

    I don’t want to go there.

    But

    I have to.

    I just do.

    The wild path takes me there

    The wild path

    leads me straight to that door

    to that cave

    to that space

    where I have to

    I have to walk

    and can do nothing more

    than

    follow the angel thread

    and follow the angel heart

    and face the strange parts on the wild path

    with love.

    Angels meeting me in their light.

    Angels grace the path with love.

    Angels help my heart to grow.

    Angels and me,

    walking the wild path.

    Walking the wild path

    Alone, but with love.

    Walking the wild path

    Love, making me brave enough to go.

    Taken by an invisible chord

    To take me back to myself

    All along.

  • Love; the healer, today and forever

    It doesn’t matter.

    It doesn’t matter if your heart feels heavy

    wounded, broken, or hard

    It doesn’t matter if you are acceptable or powerful

    It doesn’t matter if you are in prison or free

    It doesn’t matter what you have or what you dont have

    It doesn’t matter if you are at the beginning or the end of life

    It doesn’t matter if you done so much wrong, or tried to keep to all the rules

    It doesn’t matter if you have ran away or whether you stand up and face it

    It doesn’t matter if you have tried and tried and tried

    It doesnt matter if you feel shame, guilt or fear

    It doesn’t matter if you denied the need for love, or had that stolen from you

    It doesn’t matter if you have met all your goals, found all your dreams or just trying to survive one day to the next

    It doesnt matter, only now matters, only today matters, only here matters.

    When it comes to love, none of the other matters

    When it comes to love, and the choice of love, only today matters.

    Today love can change you

    You deserve love.

    As you are.

    You deserve love.

    Let love in.

    Love

    Love beyond the fear, the guilt, the shame

    Love beyond the gear, the dreams, the pain

    It is true, that no matter what, you are a wonderful human and you deserve to be loved, and you are love.

    Love cries in your pain

    Love waits for you, in your shame

    Love holds as you grieve

    Love shows in your confusion

    Love fires in your cold

    Love is, the rain and the sunshine

    Love just is.

    And it is all yours.

    The gifts of love in the universe are all yours

    Today, and every day.

    May you feel love today

    May your broken wounded heart be held by surprising love

    May your soul receive the love sprinkles of the universe

    May there be an awakening of love and fire in your body

    May your mind trust the love you receive

    May love today open and cleanse you

    May love change you and surprise you

    May love show its joyful caring face to you

    May love be yours today.

    Love doesn’t mind, it just loves.

  • There’s no such thing as bad feelings.

    Every time I click onto my ‘WordPress’ app on my phone it gives me a different question prompt for the day, as an example, todays is ‘What do you know about where you live’ , and normally, because there’s often a few hundred answers recorded and I dont always want to answer it, I ignore it.

    Yesterday however I was about to. It asked the following question:

    What positive emotion do you feel the most often?

    I looking at this whilst I was out and about shopping in the morning, and so it occupied my thinking around Morrisons.

    My mind went to times of deep content and happiness, about the times of being at peace and still, about times when I feel safe and loved, and I smiled a little reflecting on these as I was doing my food shopping. It felt good to have a bank of experience of good feelings and emotions to draw from.

    So I nearly answered the question.

    But then I stopped myself. A tiny bit.

    I realised that as I was thinking about the question I had fallen into a bit of trap.

    in which I was labelling ‘good’ emotions and ‘bad’ emotions – or positive feelings and negative feelings. (and I know emotions and feelings are slightly different but im using them interchangeably here)

    And by doing so giving so called ‘bad’ feelings a further reason to avoid them or feel fearful of them, if they are ‘bad’ then I can have reason for feeling shame for having them – anger, fear, distress, frustration, grief , yet these are all part of the human experience – more so – they are part of your and my collective humanity.

    I have had to dig deep over the last few months, circumstances that ill not disclose, have caused me to face a number of situations, that have required intense emotional energy, both in fearing, in feeling injustice and feeling horrified, angry and grief.

    I know in the past I would have faced difficult situations with a Stoical ‘I will survive’ kind of mentality, or dismiss my own feelings at the time, for others, or project anger or grief elsewhere (Twitter was great for this). More often I would avoid the feeling, it was shameful and unsafe to have them. I had internalised that having feelings made me a bad person. So ‘Im Ok’ would suffice.

    By being stoical and ‘avoiding’ the deep emotions and feelings – that included anger, anger that revealed grief, and grief that meant loss, I would keep all of that buried underneath. I couldn’t have feelings, and definitely not ‘so-called’ bad ones.

    But suppressing feelings and emotions – meant not experiencing life, its goodness and beautiful moments too. As I read recently Sensitive by Hannah Jane Walker, she described the effect on a child of having parents who nurture or ignore a Childs emotions and their expression of them. My parents stole my emotions, to comfort themselves and keep up pretences. The more I realise this, the more that I understand the complex nature of what I have had to work through to be better and healthier emotionally, for myself and others.

    Back to digging deep, I have days when I can sense that I feel unsettled, out of kilter- mainly also because I have an experience of days in which I feel calm, content and happy too – I can sense that there is ‘something’ and nagging feeling – and I can make a choice as to what I do with it, and I know there are days when I dont want to. I know there are days when I become afraid of what I might be feeling or wanting what is behind it to reveal itself.

    I am never upset for the reason I think

    Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth (Taken from A course in Miracles)

    The temptation , because of learned behaviour, would be for me to avoid whatever it is. It’s more than likely to be be painful. At least that what ‘that voice’ says in my head. Those days then become a bubbling pot of anxiety and forgetting to breathe. They do more damage in, than out.

    I wonder if the problem isn’t the feeling or the emotion itself, but our relationship to it, and the means in which we have to express these healthily.

    So the labels of ‘good’ feelings and ‘bad’ feelings aren’t helpful, they are what they are – feelings.

    They happen, and it is better to notice them, feel them and find ways of giving them healthy air.

    If you’re anything like me then you may have felt unsafe expressing your feelings or found a way to talk your way out of them, suppress, deny and invalidate.

    So it makes it more of a challenge to do this when feelings get associated with judgement like good or bad. Ironically – a ‘bad’ feeling about something.. might be a good natural early warning sign – that you can choose to ignore or do something about – it’s a protective good thing, potentially.

    I was wondering whether there might be a better way of ‘collectivising’ feelings and emotions- could they be like tools in a shed, or toolbox – different feelings appropriate and used in different ways – but this metaphor almost give the impression that when we see a need we can choose the right tool, but feelings can be more intuitive and instinctive than this, its not a matter of picking the right feeling for the occasion, its that those feelings accompany the occasion or situation, and its important to adopt a healthy relationship with the feeling.

    How do you respond when you can sense the feeling? Does a critical voice tell you off for being joyful at something you felt joy happening? or a voice tell you that you’re not supposed to feel a certain way? Because, you are allowed to. It’s totally natural. Totally. But that voice suggests that it’s not valid, not to be trusted. A feeling, is just that a feeling, and whilst it’s not to be fully trusted every time, it’s equally not to be dismissed or ignored either – or invalidated. It is neither bad, nor good, it is what it is.

    Those feelings aren’t bad, but need appropriate attention and releasing, space and warmth to accept them, to become friends with, to feel them as they are, in all the human messiness and complexity. There is no shame in feeling, there are no bad feelings.

    But, there are pretty awful things that we can do, because of giving into anger, fear or grief, and thats something different altogether.

  • Realising…Its My Life

    I thought to myself today

    I am loving my life.

    I am living my life.

    Even on a wet sleety, snowy day in the North East of England.

    Then I realised.

    If I am living my life now…

    Whose life was I living before?

    When I lived according to what expectations were placed upon me… whose life was it then?

    When I was in fear of making a mistake, a mess, or making someone else upset…. whose life was it then?

    When I was worried about what other people would think of me… whose life was it then?

    When I was trying to be good.. whose life was it then?

    When I was trying to please God, or ‘worship him forever’ or for rewards in the ‘next life’ and not here now… whose life was it then?

    When I was to stick to the rules… misbelieving I was going to get praise, medals or acknowledgement for doing so….whose life was it then?

    I wasn’t living my life. I wasn’t living. I was just existing.

    Existing for the sake of others, and their expectations, their demands, their unspoken rules.

    Its taken me courage to see that I can live.

    I can live and sparkle.

    I have my own story.

    I can be who I am, and that this is good enough.

    Time to realise that

    Its taken a long time for me to see, know and realise..and trust myself..

    to know

    that I can live my own life.

    That I am. Who I am.

    And I can be me.

    And I am beautiful

    Flawed but beautiful. A project on the make.

    Its continuously time for me to be me.

    Whole me, showing up into the world.

    Happy, Free, and totally alive.

  • Surviving Psychopathic Parenting (part 27) Without making a Noise

    I walked on tip toes for a good few years after learning to walk – I must have known the importance of having to stay quiet

    When I was told of for sneezing at the dinner table, I learned to sneeze, without making a noise

    Dont touch the water when peeing, too noisy

    Turn the TV down – I don’t want to hear it – came the voice from the kitchen

    Knowing which floorboards were creaky on the stairs, and avoiding them

    Helped to know this, so that ‘operation turn bedroom light off’ could be invoked when these same stairs were landed on by those whose noise was constant.

    As well as mild, and loyal – being quiet was a survival strategy, don’t make a noise

    Dont draw attention….away from the one who’s attention was demanded

    Dont touch the piano– unless you’re going to play its properly

    I dont want you to learn the violin – ‘I cant bear the sound’

    And as for other noises…

    No burping or swearing allowed.

    No raised voices.

    Learning to be quiet – it was the only way.

    No shouting, no anger, no aggression

    Nothing to upset the monster.

    Creeping quietly around the house, hoping not to be found.

    Sneaking into the front room, whilst she was in the kitchen.

    A parent with a ‘do not disturb’ sign hung permanently around their neck.

    This wasn’t because she was working from home with a major investment project – or on the phone to clients – or with friends round – we were an inconvenience, unless useful.

    My role every day was to set the video each morning, to record the lunchtime episode of neighbours so we could watch at 4pm after school, so that she could be cooking at that time for when Dad got home. That was the ‘shared’ family moment – watching TV, the rest of the time..

    ‘Do not disturb’

    Quiet toys, lego (get them out one by one, don’t make a mess or a noise)

    Trains that didn’t have batteries

    Pocket calculators, chess, colouring

    Books to read

    Toys that didn’t involve anyone else to play with, so I could be on my own, all the time.

    Only one person could make a noise, only one person could dominate the sound.

    Other noise was a threat.

    Challenge it was seen to rebel. So stay quiet.

    What happens when you’re scared to make a noise? Utter inhibition.

    Learning to be quiet

    Learning to stay invisible , except where it was acceptable, on the trophy shelf.

    Noise was shameful, noise was disrespectful

    Noise challenged, noise rebelled

    So to comply, and to be loyal, I stayed quiet. Until I learned

    Until I learned how quiet had damaged me, and others around me, until I realised I could use my voice, speak and let my heart rise again.

  • Survival of the Mildest – born to be Mild

    Survival of the Mildest – born to be Mild

    I realise the other day how much ‘second-guessing’ that accompanied every decision I had to make – to do with something that was about me.

    One of the consequences of being ‘Born to be loyal’ was that what accompanied it was the fear of stepping out of line. Conformity was embedded. As was the sheer terror of her, mother. Upsetting her, making her angry, all of which she was capable of being at anything- or nothing.

    What this meant for me, was that to keep myself safe I was fulfilling the role. Survival meant the survival of the mildest, the quietest.

    This was reflected in everything I did.

    The children books that I read were comics and Roald Dahl, toys were lego and trains.

    I didn’t listen to music – in fact music was practically banned in the house, except TV soundtracks (this was the music on cassette tape in the car on family holidays, or tape childrens books) TV soundtracks…and my parents were around during the 1960’s but you wouldn’t know it – its as if they went through the 1960’s in an evangelical cult, avoiding the real world. So, no music. So what was my first single. I was a child of the 1980’s… Duran Duran, Pet Shop Boys, Metallica, Guns n Roses? – nope…. A TV theme song…. yes that one from ‘Neighbours’ 1989, Angry Anderson – there’s an irony, the closest I got to angry from the age of 11 – mild song, mild me.

    The same theme continued – having to stay safe with music, the most rebellious I got, was to play Meat Loaf loud – and then I was made to feel guilty for it, or asked – ‘Are you sure to be listening to this’? yuk yuk.

    But it meant I didnt buy songs with swearing in, and kept things safe. How many 17 year olds were listening to christian worship music?

    Born to be wild… yeah… frankly anything but….

    Mild.

    So that I didnt have to ask them for anything, I worked from the age of 13, paper rounds, babysitting, and then retail work. Id learned not to ask for what I wanted or needed – but I noticed that even when I bought things it was interrogated – certain things were a ‘waste’ of my own money…too many sweets.. or ‘shouldn’t you be saving some of that’ .

    Everything I chose to buy, even with my own earned money – was commented on or interrogated.

    What I realised was that I hated any comment from them, it was never genuine, it was loaded, with patronising criticism, jealousy, or projection.

    ‘Is it Christian?’

    ‘are you sure thats appropriate?’

    ‘Should you be listening to that?’

    ‘Don’t you think you should have been home earlier’

    So I had to second guess what I bought for myself.

    Useful things were ok, like a bike, a hi-fi, camera – but given that I had the money to buy clothes – I still had to buy ‘bargains’ or safe clothes that weren’t rebellious. Usually plain, unless it was the favourite checked shirt or waist coat – or football tops. What I realise now, is that my second guessing brain was in charge of my purchasing. I remember going to Leicester on a few occasions, armed with a few hundred pounds, and not able to buy clothes I liked – but trying to buy clothes that weren’t too expensive, were reasonable, and didnt stand out , spending hours walking between three different shops to try and make a decision about a shirt, a jacket, jeans or whatever it was.

    I was in a teenage body, but reasoning decisions like a frightened child or adult – and not anything like a normal teenager would be.

    Mild – also wasn’t going out, getting drunk, coming back late. Nothing external to rebel.

    Mild was babysitting at a friends house on New Years eve, so that I could finish A level homework – and still being told off for being late home. When my 18 yr old friends were getting drunk. Mild.

    Mild was doing a Christian gap year at the end of those A levels, but this didnt fit in with their plans/trophied expectations – still a mild way to rebel.

    Mild was taking the car once id learned to drive to Christian music festivals.

    Mild – was never getting angry or emotional.

    Mild – I remember not being allowed to have to colours I wanted in my room – they were too bright. I wanted Red….but a brighter red that I was allowed.

    Mild meant not being really good at something, or failing either. I levelled out somewhere in the middle, and hid anything extreme. If I did something that good, credit was taken from it…

    And definitely not swearing.

    As a consequence of being born to be loyal, survival meant being born to be mild. Being the safe, invisible, oldest child. Doing nothing to upset the apple cart, not asking or needing, not standing out, not rebelling, not noisy, conform.

    I was easily criticised for being indecisive. I had to over think every ‘seen as selfish’ decision – and so this paralysed my decision making. In fact, strange how the persons who caused the indecision that criticised me for being indecisive at times. Utterly overthinking, second guessing, trying to please, partly, moreover, trying to not upset, trying to not stand out, trying to be stay invisible, trying to stay loyal, meant born to be mild.

    Why did I notice recently how mild I had to be?

    Because for the last few years I have bought my own clothes. I put colour in my choice of socks, I bought even more checked colourful shirts and t shirts. I now take my inner child shopping, and little James has fun trying on things, trying on fun things, being brave with colour. Little James makes impulse buys. Little James is growing a music collection.