James Ballantyne

Tag: safety

  • How Journalling has helped me (and why I found it difficult to start)

    How Journalling has helped me (and why I found it difficult to start)

    I had the weird moment a few weeks ago when I was standing in the well known outlet store ‘TK Maxx’ in the stationary and journal section, where I was joined by….another man in the aisle, looking for a new suitable journal. It was a rare experience. I have never encountered another man in the journal section of either TK Maxx, Waterstones or WHSmith. The lesser spotted male journaller.

    In amongst the array of pink, peach, ‘self care for you’ , ‘be your better self’ journals, that were mainly targeting the female journaller, in conversation we realised we were both looking for something very similar. A plain looking, plain inside journal. No ‘Year planner’ no ‘Goal setting’ no ‘write your dreams for 2026’ – just plain, so that we could write, and write without prompting.

    Oh it wasnt allowed to be pink. Sorry. Just plain. A blue, green, black or purple.

    I didnt feel like asking this random stranger male what he journaled, or what he wrote, we just looked for a while trying to find what we were both looking for.

    Given that its incredibly important that we men have healthy avenues to try and describe, write and formulate our thoughts and feelings – that it seems that its a market more targeted to women, is another tiny obstacle men face when beginning the inner journey. (dont mishear, this is not an excuse..just an observation)

    So, I journal. And I realise that over my lifetime I have written down my thoughts in different ways.

    Firstly, given that bedrooms weren’t safe, there was no way I could write about what was going on at home as a child, nor leave it in a place. Some of my girl friends (friends who were girls) wrote diaries, as did the girls in TV shows, but rarely did boys. The times that I did I kept everything factual and boring, like the weather that day, school homework and probably football scores. Thats all that was safe to be left in my childhood bedroom.

    Between then and 5-6 years ago I would write thoughts and ideas down, usually stemming from what I had read in the Bible, talks or conferences, training notes or my academic notes or ideas for essays. Rarely entering the world of my feelings, or heart – just ideas, thoughts, concepts.

    I probably baulked at the idea of doing journaling back 6 years ago. It seems like a ‘girly’ thing to do. But that I know now was my reactions to it, because it wasnt a safe thing to do in the recent or long term past. But now, I had my own flat, my own space, and I was learning to realise that i was safe to write, safe to express myself and safe to put anything I want down on paper and in any shape or form. Even if at times this had to be fought against the inner voices that were inhibiting it at times.

    I would say that I have used writing in four main ways in the last 5 years, the private stuff, not what I write here.

    1. Free writing – This can take the form of wax crayons, colours and plain paper, closing my eyes and just scribbling, and writing anything on the page depending on the feeling that wants to come out, anger, rage, frustration, hurt, pain, and it can be anything, swear words, scrawl – anything at all – sometimes its a fight to come out but I just sit there and let it, however much thought resistance there might be.
    2. Therapy homework and dreams – After one particular time of therapy I was introduced to inner child writing, and so, i have a journal in which i have an ongoing inner dialogue with my ‘self’ or my feelings, my childhood ego state, and listen, love and care for it. I do this one more often when feeling anxious, depressed, or fearful – but also, when calm too, as it’s a good way of assessing my inner feeling temperature. I followed the ‘discovery of your inner child’ book by Lucio Cappacione for a very long while. I needed to do..not just understand.
    3. Dreams. I write them down. So that I notice what my subconscious is having a play around with during my sleep.
    4. Raging words and trying to understand things. One of my journals was about trying to understand things, trying to write out the questions, the reasons, the hurt and pain of what I suffered.
    5. My Affirmation journal. I began this in 2023 (Here is the story), and continued it each day (give or take a few) , in which I write to myself affirmations, no negatives, no questions, just positive affirmations, as if the universe and its angels were looking at me with delight and then telling me, or as if I as a friend to myself was telling me my truth. Who I am. This has been utterly transformative, not using the language of lies and limitations to shape my inner voice or self any more. To re – orientate my inner critic into something small, and let me heart and soul speak into my life.
    6. The blank one. There always a blank journal on the go, for anything else, just to grab it and write something, a sentence, a phrase, a line from a book, a meme. It’s a bit like the journal equivalent of saving screen shots from healing memes on fb, that also include stuff from books too. Sometimes words just find me, and so I let them arrive and put them down, sometimes these become titles for blogs too. Oh and more recently writing poetry has begun from this.

    For most of these I use coloured pens, to express myself inwardly, and also because blue and black are too close to official colours of study or work. My inner life deserves purples, pinks, greens and yellows, and feelings often emerge in colour.

    I have used writing in a number of ways to listen, and speak from my pain and trauma, from my heart and to my wounded parts, and as the process has continued I have developed different strategies as different aspects have required attention.

    I definitely didnt start this process thinking ‘I am going to journal’ though maybe it was likely given my blogging history and love of writing academically, that writing was going to be one way that was going to be a very useful tool for my healing processing and journey. I did find it painful to start, to force myself to write deep things, as I had spent so long writing thoughts and ideas and my inner heart and feelings were so locked, shamed and hidden away. It was always going to take time, and the guidance of psychological professionals to help me unlock and unblock.

    Sometimes it’s a quick grab of the paper and write down something, sometimes I realise that ive been fighting myself for hours and I just needed to sit, and write and listen and respond. It doesn’t matter, it’s just day by day doing the work, rebuilding, noticing, revealing and loving my self through its own expressions.

    This has been, so far my journey of journalling, what about you? Id love to hear in the comments below your hints and tips for journalling and how it has been part of your healing journey through whatever the situation has been for you.

  • Cold closes, Warmth opens

    They open up with warmth

    Just like you do

    When sunlight makes them brave

    Exposing their inner beauty

    Opening up their delicate petals

    Revealing.

    Warmth that opens.

    Delicately.

    Preciously.

    Raw openings

    Tender core

    Hidden behind the closed

    Frightened unsafe cold.

    Love that heals, is warm

    And it doesn’t need the sunlight

    It doesn’t need anyone

    For you have it within.

    And so do I.

    Love energised courageous colour.

    Healing feels raw, as the exposure to the hidden gets aired, seen, believed, held, loved.

    Held and opened by love.

  • I had an Anger issue, but had to pretend I didnt.

    Let the flame of anger free you from all falsity

    (John O Donohue, To Bless the space between us)

    In one of the books I am writing at the moment, I am about to talk about the feeling and emotions around Anger, it is already half written, it needs expanding, yet, as today I read the blessing and prayer above, it has caused me to realise the complexities of how I didnt deal with anger, or couldn’t.

    I share, because I know I am not alone in this, not at all, I share because the damage we do when not dealing with anger in the right way can be horrific both for ourselves and the people we love around us, those who we transfer it to.

    A few weeks ago I was talking to some friends of mine, with foster kids, they shared how the kids would rage and destroy things because they felt angry about what had happened to them, as they realised how they had been treated. We both agreed that this, was a good thing, for them, that pain is so raw it has to come out.

    In the conversation, I said, that it took me 40 years to be in any position to process what had happened to me, and have any sense of anger about it.

    I remember a friend react with anger as something my parents said to them, and I witnessed them be angry and punch the door, at the tender age of 15, I said, ‘theres just no point in being angry’ or words to that effect, because I had to delegitimise being angry for my own good, and I had shut this all down, because for me, to survive was to stay small and quiet. But someone else, my friend, in their home was safe to be angry.

    I held on to it. I held it inside.

    No emotion was safe, so all inside.

    Playing sports got some of it out, and I pushed myself hard at this from 12-40 in different ways.

    Talking to young people about Anger Management in my late 20’s was all about me hiding and pretending that by ‘being calm’ that was the way to deal with it all.

    And even though I had probably realised that Anger wasn’t a sin (just something I had held inside) from better theology, I still couldn’t be angry, denying the self, meant staying emotionally small and invisible..and safe this way…

    I did my best to add things on top of the inner pain. Keeping busy, being responsible, adding more things that were brain things, study, read, write, think, get consumed by sport, politics and the news, adding more on top of the real, layers upon layers. Burying the real.

    I couldn’t be angry about the real thing, so I directed it to other things; politics and twitter, blogging, being harsh on my kids when they were v young, the dog, these got my anger at times, because they were ‘safe’ to receive it.

    Was this a conscious thing at the time, not sure, but it was how I was trying to cope.

    I couldnt be angry because I had a reputation of being soft, kind, patient, caring, loving… keep up the facade… and yet inside so much was hurting, raw, empty, and still in survival mode.

    And, because a survival technique as a child was to ‘be there’ to soothe other peoples emotions, especially those who were also abusing me, I internalised that my emotions weren’t important, though other peoples were. Soothing other peoples angry was a safe place.

    It was a matter of feeling like I had to be the strong one for others. I could be safe for others, whilst feeling false and dead inside.

    Had to be good, Had to be helpful, had to be ‘christian’, had to be mild, had to be small, had to accept, had to be ‘grateful’, had to please others, had to…

    I couldnt be angry because that would mean that me and my feelings had validity, and that wouldn’t have been safe or acceptable. So I denied the possibility, I denied myself.

    I couldn’t be angry about what happened to me, because I had been given the suffocating rope of responsibility within this, so there was no one to be angry about it… except myself

    So I internalised it, and gave in, caved in to comfort eating, self neglect, self criticism, being annoyed at myself, despair, self loathing and shame – yet trying to hold it all together….to keep face.

    Even transferring it to others, in ways such as cynicism, passive aggression, sullen awful behaviour.. created a negative cycle of shame and further torment, and I was utterly miserable. In a pattern I could see no way out of, and felt responsible and condemned through it all. Shame cycles. Avoidance cycles. But I knew no different and had to be strong and safe for others.

    Bottling it inside, sullen energy, masking, yet reacting to everything, a mess. A hurting, bruised, mess. When pricked, acted like the frightened hurting teenager, sullen, moody, that even as a teenager wasnt allowed to be.. lid on. Raging inside with no where to go.

    All this took considerable energy, but survival and avoidance was the place of known comfort for decades.

    I couldn’t be angry at was happening to me, because until I was 40 I didnt fully see it as abuse.

    That’s the bewilderment of emotional abuse, especially by narcissists or the emotionally immature. (Check out a few resources here on this, they helped me see this for what it is, there’s also tons of this stuff on You tube, I like F Rieberson on it here)

    I couldn’t be angry because I felt shame to feel angry. It felt wrong to be angry.

    Anger wasn’t valid, because Anger meant facing reality, and facing reality was only going to be difficult, and at that time I had no where to feel safe to even start this process, and no one I thought would even know or understand what it all was.

    I was running from the external monsters, like a frightened child, running from the reality I couldn’t and didnt want to face, and running from wanting to deal with all the feelings inside and how I had tried to deal with it.

    Not being angry, was a falsity. I get it now.

    Holding Anger in was a blockage, it meant I couldn’t feel anything else, not fully.

    I was stone. Suppressed rage. Suppressed pain.

    Lifeless.

    Starting with realisations, self awareness and safety in many ways, I began to recognise what happened.. but it still took a while to deal with the anger. It was as if I had 40 odd years of it stored up and I was afraid of it, pretending it wasnt there, too self conscious to want to feel it.

    When a friend 6 years ago told me to swear and use the F word, it took me almost 30 minutes to meekly say the word. I was so scared of that feeling, the shame of letting out the depth of feeling, i was so inhibited, so afraid.

    Afraid of letting out a reality in myself… that I was angry, and it was valid, I was valid. Hiding truth had been a falsity, and I was protecting something that needed dealing with.

    And I did.

    Within the safety of both therapy and my own safe space of home, I wrote.

    Red crayon, red pencil, anything, and felt every bit of rage inside come out by letting the crayon write deep, painful scribble and lines and anything.

    Moment by moment, memory by memory, trigger by trigger.

    It had to come out.

    It had space to come out.

    It was better out.

    And yes tears, many…rage.. a lot… but all leaving…

    I began to let some of what was held inside… go…

    I wrote other writing, that will never see the light of day, but it had to just be given air to and let out

    I started to feel the truth.

    I became more able to stand up for myself and create boundaries in saying no, to them (and to others).

    Anger made me realise I was important, and vice versa.

    I had to finally recognise that what I had experienced wasn’t my fault.

    I started to feel my heart burn

    I started to feel… my heart at all

    Pretend peace and suppression became slowly slowly something real.

    Something real beyond.

    Somewhere real beyond a place I was comfortable in for too long.

    Somewhere I had to go.

    How am I today?

    Like I said in a previous piece, it’s so hard to describe.

    There are moments when I feel angry, desire and hurt and pain…because thats one colour of my heart- red – and this is legitimate and beautiful!

    There are moments when I feel peace, joy, wonder and curiosity – and thats a different colour too – orange or purple – equally beautiful too!

    And much much more, but previously everything was grey.

    Now life is colour, life is joy and my heart feels utterly alive and open.. and I love it! But God it’s taken work… but so so worth it.

    I didnt want to get real about my stuff. It felt too big and I didnt feel worth it to do so.

    And you may not want to either. You may not be able to. But my friend if you are reading this, know that there is nothing to be frightened of by feeling angry, it means there is something wrong and something needs to change….

    To take the courage to realise that you are important and worthy to be angry and act.. for your own good.

    What we get angry about is rarely the real thing, and is often expressed in places where it’s safe to, rather than directed at the situation that it needs to be.

    It could be a whole other things beyond it, like grief, frustration, overwhelmed, injustice… Anger might be the cork..released to enable us to see other things..

    What we can get angry about is how we’ve been treated and its time, time my friend to let that anger burn away the falsity, so that you, your truth and your being may emerge and be felt.

    And so, as I write a book about the feelings of anger, I realise how my own anger ‘journey ‘ has been so so complicated, but writing it, and this today in a place of health and light.

    Anger is real. Anger is so so real. I was trying not to feel it, but it was still real.

    If you are suppressing it and damaging others….. time to face this too…

    Anger… It may heal you, it may make you and take you to your truth.

    May it free you from all falsity.

  • Shining a light onto my Depression

    Its ok to not be ok

    But what if ‘norm’ was a depression that I didnt realise was?

    I’m pretty sure now that I was depressed but I just didnt realise how this had been my normal experience.

    Thats a conclusion I came to a month or so ago.

    I had never thought of myself as being depressed, that was something other people experienced and not something I would want to or could conceive of being the lens to which I was experiencing life, maybe I was masking it.

    But I can imagine now how a cloud, mostly grey, was being taken into every room that I was in, and, not intentionally.

    Oh and I dont mean the obvious emotional breakdown moments, the teary moments that i’ve experienced in the last few years, as my emotions have welled up, have broken up through the layers of cold, hardened exterior.

    I’m more talking about the cold, prickly, exterior. The despairing hopelessness. The Self doubt and beating myself up on the inside.

    So let me wind back a bit.

    I read two books back to back just before Christmas, whilst also being in the process of therapy. (I tell a lie, there were probably 5 books on the go…but anyways..) The first was Stolen Focus, and the second was Lost Connections, Stolen focus was the gateway for me into the writing of Johann Hari (ive written about Stolen focus Here on my youthwork blog, as this is all about play).

    Lost Connections is Johann Hari’s personal exploration into his own depression story, how he was prescribed anti depressants as a late teen, the journey of medication, and his research into the causes, indicators and alleviators of depression.

    So, I read Johanns book with interest. But not with the thought that I was depressed, more that it intrigued me that he was going to talk about the importance of social relationships in mental health. But no, not that I was depressed.

    Buy the book from Hive bookstores here: Lost Connections

    If you’ve read my story (in the menus) you will know what’s coming, but it is very accurate to say that one of my survival strategies for dealing with a psychopathic mother, was to hide my emotions, including any semblance of happiness or joy. In fact I would go further and say that any moments of being happy were stolen: ‘I need to feel your joy for you passing your exams’ , and times when I felt happy outside of her influence were negated : ‘ I need to get all that toxicity out from when you were at grandmas’ – as there were and are photos of me smiling and happy at grandma’s. Any place where I was paraded or made an example of, I hid my smile, including family and school photos. If I was going to be on a mantel piece for others to see, it would not be with a smile.

    Yet I was aware I wasn’t smiling. It was ok when other people took the photo, like church events or elsewhere, but if it was photo heading to the mantel piece or taken by her, no smile.

    Thats just one example, there were many. But what it meant, and I knew that expressing any emotion was unsafe – it was stolen. Or I had to be responsible for soothing her emotions, yes thats what happened, me aged 5 and above was the one who soothed her upset ‘only you can make me feel better, not even Dad can’ was one message from when I was a child, a young child.

    Talk about being emotionally tortured. It’s what I had to do. And also, this was a survival strategy, even if I didnt have a choice to do it.

    It all makes sense now doesn’t it. It makes so much sense to the extent to which I was desperate, alone and wanted to end it all, aged 9. I wanted to wake up as someone else, failing that wondered what it would have been like to jump out of my bedroom window, or wait for a midland main line train to hit me. Aged fucking 9. Thats not normal is it?

    Funny thing, when I tried to talk about this in starting my testimony at a church event in my teens (17) no one actually believed me, thinking that I was making it up as I didnt think I had a good ‘Jesus saved me’ story. But, folks, it was utterly true.

    I couldn’t actually talk about how I was actually feeling, because I could hardly describe it, and very few people who I could talk to were safe, or would understand. It surely wasn’t normal to be scared of your own mother. But that was my normal.

    But I was stony cold, prickly, critical and only able to let my head have any responsibility in how I was dealing with daily life. Not hard hearted, but wounded, heart hiding, protected. I was trying work out things, trying to work out how to cope, having to be one step ahead to know what to do in a situation, always trying to predict.

    In some ways, this is all for me just ‘coping/survival’ stuff. I wouldn’t have categorised it as depression.

    That was my normal, and if you’ve been in any type of abusive relationship you will know what that is like. Adopting to their unpredictable rage, strategising safety.

    I wondered what it might have been like had I gone as a 10 year old to my GP and said, ‘is it normal to feel suicidal aged 9’? or ‘I feel like I have to hide my emotions around people who should be protecting and nurturing me?’ – but I didnt, anyway back to the book.

    Oh, and one more thing, this actually was the thing.

    I didnt know what I wanted to do with my life.

    Throughout school, throughout my twenties, thirties even, ask me, and I didnt know.

    My usual answer, was ‘Whatever God wants’ that was my get out, but that wasn’t what I wanted, I just didnt know.

    I had no idea that not having any concept of a future was a sign of depression, a key sign. As Johann explains, it’s like the future is wiped away, inconceivable, as the present moment is the only valid space (and the haunted past) to attempt to survive in. Getting through. Making it out alive. One day at a time.

    The other reason for me, was that my future was also something stolen. It was made conditional by that person again, as I had to do something to ‘make me proud‘ ‘not disappointing me‘ or I would have to ‘prove her wrong’ by things that had been decreed as things she was upset by. Stolen Future indeed.

    Another indicator of depression, described in the book, was the lack of being in control. This is fascinating. In the book, research is conducted into 1,000 people all working in the same building, from the very top, to the bottom, CEO to the cleaners. It was found that depression was linked to those who had less control of what happens, in short, insecurity of the future was linked to depression. Being able to dictate and decide gave people more responsibility and stress, yes, but not depression, because they could see the way ahead and have some say in it, Insecurity led to depression.

    It reminded me of Deci and Ryans work in that intrinsic motivators are linked to Relationship (connection/belonging) , Competence (being good at something/positive feedback) and Autonomy (being able to have decisions on the future) (in Human Being by Jocelyn Bryan) . I think this is extraordinarily interesting in relation to faith and systems of faith, especially in a time when status anxiety is rife. I’ll write more about this another time I think.

    Anyway, back to me.

    Well, back to the book to be honest, Johann outlines 8 ‘disconnections’ that are significant causes of depression, they are

    1. (disconnection from) Meaningful work
    2. Other people
    3. Meaningful values. (Capitalism and the need for stuff that kills the soul)
    4. Childhood Trauma
    5. Natural World
    6. Status and Respect
    7. Hopeful/Secure Future
    8. and ‘the Role of Genes/Brain changes in depression’.

    Each of the chapters is utterly fascinating, each is woven with his own personal story of what he needed to alleviate his own depression, something to blame, something that wasn’t himself, a chemical (low serotonin- this is a myth btw), a story. But each of these ’causes’ made a lot of sense. When he talked about depression and anxiety being very similar that resonated too, but what’s interesting for me, is the extent to which I hid and buried all of this, to not feel anything. The other thread being the social dynamic of depression, the lost connections with the human, natural experience. 

    I was ok, I would say. But dont we all say this?

    There was some I definitely scored myself high on. Given that its only been recently (4 years) that I have reconnected inside with the effects of childhood trauma and abuse, connecting with my feelings, and also, been able to consider myself as important and have status (and not a victim) , a lot resonated, not just the ‘future planning’ section.

    The book was another window, a light into my own life, a lens even.

    It was only when I could see all of this that I realise the extent to which my ‘normal’ could only have been an underlying depression.

    Reconnection has been the journey I have been on, probably without realising it, some of that has been to have deep, real , brave conversations, and learn to be vulnerable, some of that has been to seek professional help, and some of that has been to do the work, to reconnect in myself – all sounds simple doesn’t it, well, its so not, its a daily ongoing process. But reconnection (and gentle loving repair) is definitely a good word for it.

    I guess I didn’t realise I was depressed, or parts of me were, until I felt what it was like to feel happy, to feel calm.

    As my therapist said a few weeks ago, there’s now a bright room light shining on all of the museum artefacts of past hurts and parts, rather than trying to fumble around in the darkness trying to look at things with a tiny torchlight.

    As I sit here, I have candles glowing on my window sill, I have relaxing music playing, and I feel a calm inside, a peace inside, a sense of connection inside – that yes can be disturbed and im sure will be even today, but holding my hands to my heart, I sense the breath of love and life in my soul and body, a deep love that is holding me. And the warm glow of the sun shines on the trees, the love of the universe is awakening the darkness. Sounds blissful, and it is, but it’s been a hard road to get here.

    I write this with peace and hopefulness, with a sense of love for my past wounded self, my ignored and hurt parts, and where I am now.

    You need your nausea, you need your pain. It is a message and we must listen to that message. All these depressed and anxious people, all over the world – they are giving us a message. They are telling us that something has gone wrong with the way that we live. We need to stop trying to muffle, silence, pathologise, or soothe the pain. Instead we need to honour it and listen to it. It is only when we listen to our pain that we can follow it back to its source – and only there where we can see it true causes, that we can truly overcome it

    Johann Hari, Lost Connections (2018)

    And yes, I recommend the book, especially if you know or are working with people who are suffering from depression or anxiety.

    References

    Lost Connections (2018), Stolen Focus (2023) Johann Hari

    Human Being (2017) Jocelyn Bryan.

  • Permission to be Happy

    Yesterday I wrote about learning the choice to be Happy.

    What I realise today is that there’s something else.

    Being Happy requires safety.

    Its easy to be moany, negative, critical,

    easy to be unhappy, easy to be numb

    easy to hide feelings even.

    When I was these things I was easy to manipulate.

    Easy to sink into the swamp.

    Easy to be abused.

    Easy to stay in the fight for the others, and be unknowingly co-dependent with it.

    Why would I want other people to be happy, if I had barely a concept of it.. maybe I wanted people to need me….

    Happiness wasn’t a dream for me – I numbed emotions

    Happiness wasn’t even a ‘concept’ I could conceive for myself. Not deep down.

    Reality was that for 40 years I’d lived with people who didnt want me to be happy. (they weren’t Happy themselves…)

    So why even chase it, easier to theorise or criticise the notion of it.

    Being Happy for me, required safety.

    Actually.

    It required permission.

    Specifically, I needed to hear and accept the possibility that I could actually be happy.

    It was one of my friends who said to me; ‘James, When are you going to be Happy?’ but not in that critical way, more in a ‘James – when are you going to consider that you could be happy and that being happy is ok and safe to be‘ kind of way.

    James…. Its ok… you can be Happy….

    I needed permission, and safety, and the opening of a possibility that I could feel such things, or live in a way that was about happiness.

    And my mind raged with it.

    Because, my happiness was selfish – id been told, My needs weren’t important – id been told, other peoples happiness was more important than my own – id been told , happiness is for an ‘eternal life’ – id been told, happiness was shallow – id been told…. all the messages..and others besides.

    I could easily overthink being happy and drag myself into that thinking space.

    So I needed permission to be Happy.

    Safe, brave, permission.

    Permission to begin the process of searching, seeking and feeling Happy.

    Even from in the midst of controlling relationships that had another few years to be dealt with. Not before. But in the midst.

    It wasn’t that ‘when id sorted everything id be happy’ – because that was a lie. It was that in the beginning of being happy, or that the potential removal of unhappiness was possible even at that point. It was on the table.

    Choosing to be… happy…in the midst of abuse and oppression is likely to challenge…. as the oppressor is losing control. Dancing in the metaphorical fucking rain.

    Even beginning to realise that happiness was possible, and having the courage and safety to permit myself to it, invoked a glimpse of lightness, of happiness in itself. I stepped a tiny bit, another tiny bit, out of the leadened swamp.

    So as I shared my learning yesterday, and awareness of the choice of my emotional awareness, one small step at a time, I realised that my awakening to happiness personally was about permission giving, about possibility, and about safety. I had received in so many ways the kindness of the universe through a breakdown and rebuild, yet that rebuild would not be full until I could see the lights above and know and feel that these could be true for me too.

    Today, 4 years on I can give myself permission to be happy. What I needed the first time was the safe permission from others.

    I can be happy, and so can you.

    It is possible and permissible Now.

    It might take courage….

  • Why I struggle to sleep on a flight

    Why I struggle to sleep on a flight

    There are some people who can sleep on an aeroplane.

    But I, sadly, am not one of them.

    Since February 2020 I have now had the experience of many transatlantic flights to both Montreal and San Diego to meet, visit and spend time with Christelle. At least 12 flights over 6 hours long.

    I had the ‘joy’ of the cancelled flight in July (re arranged to a direct 9hr flight :-)) , and last week a double cancelled, staying overnight in random city (Seattle) only for 2 more flights the next day experience.

    This was me at Seattle…

    Early in my flight experiences I didn’t have many ideas of ‘what to do’ and how it works, so I think on my first Montreal flight I packed a bag full of food, as I didnt click the ‘food option’ but then on the BA flight got a decent 3 course meal, wine, beer and snacks, to my surprise.

    But I often note other people to see what they are doing, like the use of the complimentary cushion, blanket or what’s on their TV to see if that’s something I would like.

    Its not just what other people are doing. I like to know what is going on.

    Every bell noise in the plane, I’m checking to see which of the lights has gone on or off, or whether this causes any sudden movement in the airline crew. What calls are being made. I like to know what’s going on.

    The sleepers I guess dont care, they sleep.

    But for some reason I care, or at least I feel as though I should care or be responsible, or be ready.

    Even after an overnight of 4 hours sleep, and then on the second night flying from Detroit to Heathrow and losing 5 hours, I slept for less than 2 hours, but I at least slept a bit, I think. But it took for me to be completely exhausted to finally sleep, though never feeling that I was actually asleep. The display on the TV went from ‘4hr 40’ to arrival, to ‘1 hr 45’ and I know id been dozing only for much of it.

    What I did this time was have an eye mask on, and ear plugs – and yes ive tried these things before, but they did work for the 2 hours or so this time. It helped me close away from the light and noise that represented things and situations I might need to be aware of.

    Maybe that’s the same as everyone else. But, horror of horrors, there are some people on long distance flights who sleep so well they dont eat or drink anything complimentary? I mean what’s that all about? Who are these people? ;-) Hiding under a blanket and out for the count. Maybe they in that moment are doubly exhausted, and they can just crash.

    But there’s something else.

    There’s three things that come to mind as I reflect on my ‘plane’ sleep experiences.

    The first is my experience of climbing.

    Although I did have some outdoor experiences as a boy, climbing wasn’t one of them, it wasn’t until I was part of the leadership team on young peoples camps in Scotland that I took part in climbing, at two compass centres and on a trip to Edinburgh. I was a nervous, shaking wreck on the first two occasions, trying to get my feet into the ‘sockets’ and my arms reaching up, with barely any arm strength. The third time I went I made a mental note to myself. I would trust the rope. I would trust that the staff had done their work properly to set it up safely, and as a 29 year old I would be ok. But the main thing was, was that I would trust the rope. And I so enjoyed that third climbing experience. Trust.

    The second is that Biblical story of Jesus being asleep in the storm, whilst the waves crash around their boat, Jesus slept, and yet the disciples exclaimed how it could be the case. I guess that some of the disciples stayed awake knowing they felt they had to be responsible for Jesus, given that they knew a little about who he was. As well as try and keep their boat afloat.

    The third thing is that I remember taking ages to get to sleep as a child. I had to stay awake as I simultaneously felt responsible and scared of my emotionally immature psychopathic mother. So, in between reading books, I would be listening at each loud shouting conversation in the kitchen, in the floor below..and it was only one screechy voice that was making the noise. Id be awake listening for each time the hall door would open (as then id turn off my light) or know that the 2nd stair creaked, and then I would turn it off. And then there would be footsteps all the way to my bedroom door, because that’s also where the bathroom door was, next to mine, so I had no idea if I was about to be told off. Often I would be awake long after they would themselves be in bed. It was safe. Many books were read.

    There was no sleep when there was a monster to be aware of.

    Being aware of danger. Trust the rope (plane). Feeling responsible.

    There is a different kind of awareness I often feel on a plane too.

    Its a gap, a space.

    And though I often take books to read (very old school) , what I often find is that I have felt travel tense until I get to the gate and on the plane. However I dont have anything to worry about, there’s travel to the airport (trains to Newcastle or London), security queues and going through it, and any check in required, it doesn’t sound much, writing it, but even with trains on time or a short tube from somewhere in London to Heathrow, I still have some residual travel anxiety. So, getting into my seat on the plane, each time, I get a sense of relief, and also a sense of excitement of the travel to Christelle, which up until then has been mixed with the travel anxiety.

    A breath. An awareness moment on the plane. I go from being anxious about my own getting on the flight process – to then feeling like I am needing to be aware and responsible for other people on the plane. Hence the no sleep. Weird huh. But what I dont have or do on the plane is have wifi – I just charge my phone, eat the food and take time selecting and watching a movie or three. (Yes I have now watched the entire LOTR and Harry Potter films)

    Awareness. Presence. Even on a plane.

    This morning I watched this

    How to be present in 2023 – Eckhart Tolle

    in it he talks about responding to that great challenge… The Cancelled flight. Also about how to have a kind of alertness on a plane. ✈️

    Im learning. I noted how I responded to my double cancelled flight issue of last week, that’s for another piece I think. Life spills over even on 48 hours of travel.

    Tolle talks about the right kind of alertness. About acceptance and surrender.

    Maybe noticing all my feelings is part of all of this. It isn’t taking me long to note how I’m feeling anxious, or overly alert. Sometime my survival skills kick in, other times I give myself the time to stop, note and feel, and remember to breathe. Continually practicing presence.

  • New Beginnings

    Yesterday I shared one of John O Donohues blessings for the morning taken from his book ‘To Bless the space between us’; as I read the next few pages of his book this morning I discovered this, its entitled, ‘For a New beginning’

    Maybe this is for you, maybe this is for me, every day is a potential new beginning, do share with others whom it may be helpful to.

    A New Beginning

    In Out of the way places of the heart,

    Where your thoughts never think to wander,

    This beginning has been quietly forming,

    Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

    For a long time it has watched your desire,

    Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

    Noticing how you have willed yourself on,

    Still unable to leave what you had outgrown

    It watched you play with the seduction of safety

    And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

    Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

    Wondered you would always live like this

    Then the delight when your courage kindled,

    And out you stepped onto new ground

    Your eyes again with energy and dream

    A path of plentitude opening before you

    Though your destination is not yet clear,

    You can trust the promise of this opening,

    Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

    This is at one with your life desire

    Awaken your spirit to adventure,

    Hold nothing back, learn and find ease in risk,

    Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

    For your soul senses the world that awaits you

    (John O Donohue, To bless the space between us)

  • 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.

  • I found myself in the Wilderness

    Wilderness wasn’t a choice

    I didn’t go, I didnt choose, it wasnt what I had planned

    It was where I found myself

    lost

    confused

    pushed

    with no-where else to go

    asking for help

    asking for love

    asking for safety

    lost..but closer to who I am

    but I didnt realise it,

    not at the time

    I wanted to survive it, like I survived everything

    not feel it

    not listen to it

    find a way to make it over

    not sit in it

    I will be ok – but I need to get there

    I am ok – but I have to walk through this

    slowly

    listen to the heartbeat of silence

    feel the steps

    wilderness found me in it

    but I felt safe there

    Safe in no mans land

    Safe to feel

    Safe with less

    Safe in the sanctuary

    Safe to discover

    not lost, but found

    I found myself in the Wilderness,

    It chose me.

  • My Early morning Wetherspoons Epiphany (Recovery and Healing part 10)

    Im writing this in Wetherspoons Newcastle waiting for my hourly train back down the coast.

    Don’t Judge.

    I can see the pint of beer for £2.19 or less, and food on the menu with a free drink for under £7. 

    The table is slightly sticky. 

    My bum is on a hard seat, as the more cloth backed moon chairs around a table are taken. 

    It has 3 floors, and it has an air of something in it, that I cant quite work out. Maybe freedom, reluctant freedom against a system, somewhere between that and content to be stuck in a victim mindset. 

    Faded images of the old city off Newcastle adorn the walls.

    Yet. It is full. 

    (for the non UK reader, Wetherspoons is a pub chain in the UK, known for, well, cheap beer, food and Brexit)

    And not that long ago, four of the Wetherspooons pubs in the north east had my fairly regular custom. 

    One of them was a place I went weekly to eat, the meal out with my friend who housed me when I had no where to go. 

    The first night I got there, penniless and with nothing, he took me out for food. 

    And that was the same every week. 

    Then another one nearby was one weekly bus pass away. So, if I went out for a walk, and I walked loads, take a bus into the city, then walk along the river and up to the beach, then back to Wetherspoons for a cheap lunch and drink, before getting the bus back. 

    In that same one, it was full. 

    And I was in it at 10am.

    For coffee, when the coffee was 99p for free refills (I knew the prices of all the coffee in all four of them), when I had very little money, coffee, or 3 cups of it at 99p was great, Costa or local independent coffee shop was out of the question. 

    People were drinking at 10am. 

    It was their place to be. 

    I was in there on my own, lost in many thoughts.  

    In Wetherspoons, I began to see them. Talking to the staff every now and then, or maybe the other people not far away, on adjacent tables, get a sense of peoples situations. Their torments, their issues, who had offended them, their rage. 

    Rarely any joy. 

    Drinking at 10am. 

    What were their lives like? To need to be in Wetherspoons drinking at 10am?

    But then, it dawned on me. 

    Its like what they say, don’t complain about the traffic when you are traffic. 

    I was practically homeless, jobless and drinking in Wetherspoons at 10am. But I was alone. 

    The only difference was that I was drinking coffee. 

    It wasn’t just a place in which I could see others. But I saw myself. 

    I saw at the time that I was no different to the 10am drinkers in Wetherspoons. 

    I was scraping around for the last 99p for 3 cups of coffee, some weeks.

    There was no moral superiority to be had, my pretense at even trying to read a book was just that a pretence. To all purposes I was the same, a human being lost, and wondering where their home was. Also realising that it was one thing walking alone, drinking alone was something I wouldn’t do, and being in a busy Wetherspoons meant that I was in the vicinity of people, alone, but not on my own, alone, actually but never lonely. 

    And where was I, also somewhere between feeling wounded and oppressed, and not being able to see, myself or the situation I was in. 

    Once I began to work, Wetherspoons was a great place, like now for working and writing, cheap coffee, the noise of people around, lunch at a fairly reasonable price, and it became a place that was distant from the home I was staying in, gave me a break and a boundary. 

    Was I the kind of person who would judge people in Wetherspoons before all this? Nope not really, and even now, there’s a difference between the persons in Wetherspoons and the values of its Owner. Sometimes I would be afraid of the noise in Wetherspoons if I was standing outside it waiting for a bus on an evening, sometimes when I walked in I realised I had to toughen up and be confident in myself just a little bit more, to walk in. Amongst the noise.

    Did going to Wetherspoons help me, heal me, save me? I’m not sure, was it somewhere where I could be invisible, where I could feel human, where I didn’t have to pretend and ultimately be anything or anyone other than a person in need of a coffee at 10am on random Wednesday mornings. Was it a place that gave me an insight into the darkness of my own soul? No, but I was a place which holds a kind of static, stable memory of a safe place to go to be just like anyone else. Where I didn’t have to be the me that looks like they have everything together, that has degrees and can think, the me that has a reputation, the me that had ‘a ministry’ or a ‘calling’ . 

    Where I didn’t have to talk to people where I had to try and pretend to be ok. Even people who I know now would have been fine with me saying my real stuff, i didnt know even how to articulate it, or want to ask for help, or bring others into the drama I was hiding. I wasn’t going to be asked the question ‘How are you’ in Wetherspoons at 10am in the morning.

    In Wetherspoons at 10am I didnt have to do any of these things.

    I was just a stranger in a pub drinking at 10am. Just like anyone else. Because I am like anyone else.

    Life might be more about being the lost stranger in the pub.

    Someone trying to find their way home.

    Speaking of which…my train is due..