Broken and sadness

I feel despondent. Down. No motivation for almost anything. My youngest is getting on my nerves.

This morning as I lay in bed, I became aware that I feel.. what.. sadness. As if someone had been in my house whilst I was away and broken into little pieces everything that was valuable to me. And there is a very definite sense of childhood mixed in with it. So as if my toy train, my soldiers, my cars, my games, my secret only boy things had all been broken and smashed. And the resulting feeling is one of pain and sadness.

What else can I say? I feel crap - in the sense of down. My favourite things have been broken. What's the point? I just want to sit here and feel sorry for myself. Allow myself to grieve their passing.

And it's not lost on me that those precious things that were broken during my childhood was the very inside of me. It's as if I am broken on the inside. Smashed into little pieces - the real me. And all I can feel as I stare at the mess is sorrow. Pain. Grief. It ought not to have been so.

36 hours with my family - my daughter and me

So. Thirty six hours we set off for South West Wales, which was around 200 miles away. My wife wanted to stay at a "green" campsite. There were a range of tents already set up, some bog standard ones (like the one we stayed in) but also Tepees and other larger ones with stoves, beds and arm chairs! A novel idea. Using standard toiletries was not permitted either, so we had to purchase natural toothpaste and toiletries. The location was lovely, and we could hear rutting stags howling out their call to arms throughout the night.

It took 4.5 hours to get there - primarily as once you pull off the motorway there are almost train like lines of cars doing no more than 40 mph. The girls both whined about being car sick (they are 12 & 15). The youngest one being the worst. The oldest one is just starting that time of the month and was in pain and feeling generally very uncomfortable.

Neither wanted to do anything when we got there, but we still went to see Cardigan for some tea. That was ok. We had an enjoyable time together, before making our way back to our tent with some snacks. There we lit a fire in our fire bucket and enjoyed maybe two hours of chatting, laughing etc - despite the oldest still feeling out of it. The youngest one is, at times, still very childish. She demands attention and wants to be the centre of it all. It can get very wearing, her acting like a two year old.

In fact I'd say that was one of the least enjoyable aspects of our time together. My youngest, as usual, being a complete drama queen and acting, frankly, spoilt. It has been a major battle since she was born. From that moment she has turned our lives upsidedown. She would only sleep if we held her,. despite trying everything. Plus she would only sleep during the day, not at night. We did all we could to keep her up during the day, and then making her sleep at night. One night I even stayed up all night walking with her to try and change her sleeping patterns.

When she was older (toddler) she used to get out of her cot/bed and come downstairs. After a while we resorted to barricading her in her bedroom. She would scream, shout, demand, pull all her bed clothes off, trash her room whilst we waited outside. Eventually (say 11pm) she would fall asleep behind the door and we would put her back into her bed. It was impossible, and very stressful. We didn't know what else to do - as she would flatly refuse to stay in bed, no matter what the time.

She would wake us up constantly at nights too - right through till at least five years old. Each time we would patiently take her back to her bed, trying not to reward the behaviour. It was knackering for us..

She didn't want to go to school. She would take an age to get dressed in the mornings (even if she wasn't going to school). She didn't like her socks. She didn't want to eat breakfast. In fact pretty much everything has been a battle with her. Once she got to school she was fine, and apparently happy. She's had friends throughout. We've supported her in her love for dancing - meaning lots of lifts. She currently does; ballet, tap, street dancing and jazz. That's four classes a week, which rises to six when she has a show coming up as now.

We've been strict and disciplined, loving and gracious, soft and cuddly, firm but fair, we've pulled our hair out, and had to stick it back again.

It's been upsetting, annoying, irritating, hard work, tiring, exhausting, heart breaking. She's demanded and demanded. And demanded some more. She takes over if we are not careful. She takes over if we are. Her older sister complains that we let her get away with too much. She would eat every piece of chocolate in the house if she could so we have to hide it. She's the same with sweets. I have to watch her very carefully with her dinner money as otherwise she would spend it on chocs, icreacreams or sweets.

She has the most gorgeous blue eyes, and fantastic lovable temperament. She dances into every room, takes forever to get ready as she prances during that too. She demands what her older sister has. She can be very dominating, and needs a strong and firm hand to ensure she isn't.

She has had loud and anger fuled rages where she would cream at the top of her lungs that she hates us. Slam her door repeatedly. Scream. The last time she did this was probably almost six months ago so thankfully she is maturing. But she would do this from 2-3 years old up to maybe a year ago. Again it would require firm discipline - "you are now to stay in your room for ten minutes, the ten minutes only starts when you are quiet. Once the ten minutes is up you will need to apologise to us for your behaviour." "No I won't.. screaaaam." As I say, very tiring.

It also spoils everything. It spoilt the journey down yesterday. She had a long face, and clearly stated she didn't want to be here, didn't want to camping. I explained that this was important to mum and that we do plenty of things for her, so now it was our turn to do this for mum. "I feel sick, I hate the car, I don't want to be here, I want to be at home" etc. etc. Yet once we were around the camp fire she lapped up the attention - and wanted to stay a second night (we came back after one).

So - interesting - I thought I would write my thoughts about our family time together. I end up writing about how hard work my youngest was. Despite the fact that my oldest didn't want to do anything as she was knocked out with girly stuff. But she isn't a drama queen, and doesn't make a fuss.

I also realised as I sat down to write that I hadn't thought about anything whilst we were away. It's as if I go into survival mode - go with the flow - look for a bit of fun. When I returned home I wanted to switch off, maybe play the xbox, later watch a switch off man film. Why is that?

Supposition - it's because that's how I survived when I was a kid. Go with the flow. Don't think about anything as having an opinion will just get me into trouble. Don't upset dad. So now - I would like to maybe read and write this blog, then talk with my wife. But my other side wants to veg and escape. Not deal with anything.

Ineresting. It's like that most evenings. If I am not seeing a mate I want to do the same. Veg and escape. Yet another part of me (hopefully growing) wants to stay connected, read a good book, get ready for bed early so I can read.. Think. Relax.

So why I do I switch off so readily? Because it's easy. Because it's safer (according to my six year old). Because doing anything else when I was a kid wasn't an option. Talking about real things with my parents was a no no - they weren't interested. I remember being nineteen and returning from university for a weekend's break (no doubt beause I felt guilty I hadn't been home for a while). I sat down in the living room to talk - and they were watching the TV (news) on full volume whilst mum was reading. I tried to make conversation - nothing. Nadda. Nothing. Sweet zero. It just confirmed that they wanted the appearance of us being together, but not the work or reality. And I remember thinking how much it sucked, how much it hurt (they didn't want to talk with me) and how much I wouldn't try this again.

So maybe I'm still in that mode.. Get through it, do what's expected of me, go with the flow, ride with the punches. Certainly not be fully engaged, switched on and contributing in unexpected ways because that was a one way road to trouble.. with a capital T.

Shooting and Humiliation

So there I was. I'd gone to a clay pigeon shooting event and I'd done terribly. So terribly in fact that when they announced the "Bottom Gun" - out of around 65 people - they named me. I had to go up and pick up my "prize" - a 12 inch diameter clay. I felt so humiliated. I can't remember the last time my face went so red - maybe when I asked a girl out on the school bus and she said no..

There were reasons why I'd done so badly. To start with apparently I'd been holding the gun wrong (which the chap spotted near the end), and secondly I was wearing contact lenses meaning what I don't know. So. Bottom. My male ego shattered on the floor.

When I left and drove home I felt terrible. Angry. Humiliated. I knew that I was I was feeling was based on years ago - when I was at school and those sods made my life so miserable. Total humiliation. When my dad laid into me and totally humiliated me. Feeling powerless. Lord I've tried so hard to ensure that would never happen again. And there it was today. WHAM. BANG. Bottom. Men and women, all local business leaders. And I was bottom. By some margin. CRAP. And the bottom gun is Mark Andrew. Wonderful. I buried my face in my jacket. My face went deep red. I stood up and with grace accepted the "prize". The guys around me apologised. Told me I'd handled it well.

CRAP. I'd been humiliated. Something that somehow I'd vowed that I would never feel again. I'd never feel people's eyes on me like that again. I'd never be the worst. I'd ensure I was near the top. With every sinew and every fibre of my being I would ensure that was not me. And wham. There I was, it was me. And all the old emotions came flooding back.

Where did they come from originally? I understand with my adult mind that it's no big deal. I was wearing contacts, have something strange with my right eye and was holding the gun wrong. So what?

Yet my inner self was desperate. Old wounds opened. Torn open. Like a vulture picking at old flesh. That's what happened today. Open. Bare. Unguarded. Powerless. Lame. Weak.

Ring any bells my therapist would say.

Yep. My dad. Again. He used to drive into me and I was open, bare, unguarded, powerless, lame and weak. I could not stop his direct assaults on me. The real inner me where I was desperate to be loved, accepted and affirmed. No. Instead his personal attacks on who I was meant I had no defence. Meaning the kids at school could bully me with impunity.

Dad. You miserable sadistic bastard. You swine of a man. Why did you target me so? Why did you beat me? Was it because I was so small I couldn't fight back? Was it because you hated me? Was it because I wasn't good enough? Or was it because you were pitifully small on your insides that you had to make yourself look big in comparison to a four year old? You thought you would drive your fist through my spirit. Crush me. Dominate me. Intimidate me. Make me petrified of crossing you in any way. Ensure that I agreed with everything you thought and did. Back you up because you weren't big enough yourself. You needed your small son to do that too. As well as your wife, and my sisters.

You little man. You miserable man. How you continually abused me. Dominated me. Frightened me. Raised your fist to me. Shouted at me. Glared at me. Fought yourself to ensure you didn't knock a hole in me. Put me down. "I thought you were clever?". "I thought you went to a grammar school?". THWACK as the garden canes were hit across my legs. THWACK as the belt went across my bare bottom for stirring a potty. SMACK as the slipper landed squarely on my rump. "Ooo I could knock you into next week" whilst biting your clenched fist with the other raised across your head ready to knock me into next week. "I'll knock your block off". Big fists. Big angry fists with big angry six foot man. Small child. Frightened. Fearful. Petrified. Couldn't do anything. Lame. Weak.

Ensure I never feel like this. Work and fight so hard from thirteen years old to ensure I never find myself in that situation again. Run away from home to the furthest university I can find at eighteen. Put up with allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the crap that I don't phone home, don't visit every weekend (it was six hours away), don't come home for summer - WHAT DO YOU BLOODY EXPECT? I work for the church and dad reacts as if I'm working for the devil himself. WHAT? WHY?

Get married six hours away. Dad cannot handle it. Can't speak to me on my wedding day. Oh how that still upsets me to this day. You miserable sod. Our first child is born. They turn up on the doorstep within a couple of days. They walk in like royalty. They don't lift a finger to help. This is THEIR grandchild. The miserable sods. We ban them from visiting again. The rejection my dad has, for which he blames me in it's entirety. I've put up with it all my life.

And then mum. In the background. It's not his fault. Why are you rejecting me? Why don't you see us more often? We haven't been to your house. We never see the girls.

OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T. WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?

You humiliated me as a child. You put terror into my soul. I was petrified of doing anything other than what you wanted me to. And when I tried oh so hard to do it, you STILL blew up at me. I'd still got it wrong, for only you knew the way for my life. You bullied me, terrified me, intimated me, mashed me, taught me that the world was against me, taught me to judge others, taught me to bury my emotions and feelings - for they were not to be trusted. Taught me that our family was better than any other. That the show must go on. That we were not to be honest. Real. That truth really had no part in our lives - despite all our preaching.

Bottom line. You were crap parents. You still are my mum and dad. And despite it all I know that there are aspects of you that I love. But right now there is so much pain, and so much realisation that so much (almost all?!) of my life has been so blighted by the negative aspects of being brought up by you that I need to allow myself to unsupress those feelings and allow myself to know truth in the inward parts. Oh how that hurts. To allow myself to feel how I felt when I was a young boy is so so so so so so painful. I wish I could spew it out. Deliver it like a baby to put into the dustbin never to see again. But these feelings are me. They are how I feel now, as well as how I felt as a child. Feelings don't lie in that sense. If I feel angry, it means I am angry. I need to allow myself to express that anger (in a right way yes) in order to free myself from it.

The impact of lack of intervention

So how do I feel about that?

Crap. Utterly crap. Mum let me down. She didn't protect me when she could have done. Dad's missiles were so unerringly focused on smashing through what little defences I had, and exploding right in the very core of who I am.

Mum. Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you put yourself between me and him? Why didn't you protect me? Why did you make US/ME feel guilt for dad's awful anger? Why couldn't we talk about it? Why did we have to pretend we were the world's best family? When underneath the veneer we were struggling just like any other family - except we had a dad who couldn't relate and who's pain would explode with unerring frequency, and a mum who would not dare being real for fear of unmasking her own emotions.

It's all so crap, and I am utterly sick of it. The pretense. The veneer. The show. Sickly, putrid slime.

Our public persona was so more important than the real one. Still is. And that really really sucks. Why can't we be real? Why can't we allow ourselves to face reality. The truth? For without truth we are all deceived.

}WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY. It was all so crap. CRAP. CRAAP. And as I say that it hurts. The pain, the deep groaning. The shell shock. ARHGHGFHGHGHGHGHGHghghghghghadfjkb.

Mum you could have stopped it. You could. You really could. But you didn't. Which I guess means you didn't love me. Keeping up appearances was more important than me. Our family motto might as well have been "The show must go on". At all costs. No matter the kids are bleeding all over the floor from the last explosion, and feel utterly condemned by guilt because mum blamed them. Dad on the platform preaching, mum singing, me on the back row looking after my many sisters.

I HATE IT. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AFTER MY STUPID SISTERS. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. IT SUCKS, IT'S CRAP, IT'S BORING. IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU. Not to mention the missile exploding in the car on the way here. The tears, the shouts, the anger, the directed vile vindictive statements, the threats, but as we get out of the car it's all smiles and love and praise the lords. Whoever he is. Because clearly he is not your lord.

CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP. The whole lot was crap. Worse that straw and wood. This was vile evil from the pit of destruction. Worse than a terrorist bomb. Such a bomb is planted in the mistaken belief it will help them towards their faith (I.e. their ideals). What happenned at home was vile. It was truly awfully crap. It was directed at your own children. It was highly personal. It was shatteringly destructive. It left a trail of entrails. It was continuous. And it was stiltifyingly frighteningly real. And it was done by you, to us.

And it wasn't a one off. It was continuous. Trauma after trauma. No hiding place. Nowhere to run. No ability to speak up, to defend - for in so doing we would attract the immediate attention of the coming explosion.

There was no where to run. Nowhere to hide. No relief. No protection. From anyone. From any quarter. We were alone. And we were kids. And it was awful. Like being in a concentration camp with other children whilst the guards pretend to love them all the whilst abusing them in the most sadistic ways.

I don't like you. Neither of you. You both really hurt me. You both killed me on the inside. You were vile. Despicable as parents. You failed in your primary role as parents - that as nurturers and protectors. you failed. Just look at me, and the mess of goo on my insides. And the way my sisters are. And you go on pretending that it's my fault we don't have a relationship.

That's despicable.

There is not word I have for that. It is the absolute avoidance of truth. It is the shying away from reality. The very truth and reality you sing about - you run from. The narrow road. The narrow path. The difficult path. The one you refuse to walk down. Because it would bring you face to face with your own pain. Your own inadequacies.

So, rather than that you continue in your torrid rotting state. Keeping up appearances whilst on the inside you continue to rot. You pressurise and use tools of guilt, condemnation, domination and control to get your own way. To prove it's not you but others. It's their fault - whether that's your children or the supermarket manager.

And I hate it. HATE IT WITH CAPITAL LETTERS. gjkhasg hasgj hasjg hasjg hasjg hasgh asg hasg hghgh

Mum, love demanded intervention

Mum. Why did you stand idly by whilst dad launched Exocet after Exocet into the very centre of our beings? Surely love would have demanded that you would protect your little ones? That you would have placed yourself in harm's way in order to protect your offspring?

Mum. Why did you justify dad's explosions by telling us he was hurt? What was it that we did when we were three years old that justified a towering inferno of utter rage? Or even eight? Why didn't you protect us?

Mum. Why did you blame us for dad's anger? Telling us that we mustn't get him angry - as if it were somehow our fault? We tiptoed around, prisoners in our own home because you didn't have the guts to tell him he was wrong and not to treat us like that.

Mum. Why did you pretend it never happened? Kids - don't take it personally. He didn't mean it. He'll calm down. Let's pretend nothing happened. How crap is that?


So mum, where love demanded intervention, you stood by. Protecting yourself, rather than me. You are twenty/thirty something, me at barely walking stage. Dad's big fists threatening to knock me into next week, you pretending nothing was happening.

And then - when I tell my Sunday School teacher that I wanted God to help my dad with his anger, you pull me to one side and give me the lecture of my life. Tell me that I had dishonoured dad. That I had shamed the family. That I had hurt dad. That I had washed our dirty linen in public.

Lardydardydah. Absolute bollocks. The lot of it. And yet it did the trick. When I finally started to talk about my parents to others it was not until I'd left home. And doing so felt like I really was dishonouring them. And thus dishonouring God. How utter crap.

So mum. You didn't have the guts to stand up to dad. Instead you let him abuse us, dominate us, threaten and intimidate us throughout our entire lives. You then backed him up in his disgusting behaviour by telling us to keep quiet and pretend. And you can see the consequences if only you would open your eyes.

Impact of sending email

Exhaustion. Very tired. Last night, I wanted to go to bed at 8.30pm which for me is unheard of. I'm carrying round all the reactions within me of how I used to react, the fear I used to feel, the guilt we all felt when we had "hurt" dad. It's a huge mash of dark, horrible, painful, lurching emotions.

We were so conditioned not to "hurt dad". We were aware that if we said or did certain things it would result in "hurting dad" - meaning an outburst of anger. The anger was always focussed on one of us. The result of the anger was to feel withered. Totally intimidated, completely powerless, without recourse or grace, no mercy or understanding. Just maximum force, like deciding to take peek at an active volcano - but directly above the spew of lava.

Then the guilt would wash over us. Look what you've done to dad. Don't you realise how hurt he is by what you did/said/acted? His anger, his lack of control, his pain.. this devastation now let loose is all because I did something to upset him. It doesn't matter if it was because I hadn't got a newspaper for him, or his slippers, or said the wrong thing, or asked for prayer for my angry dad or what. Anything which hurt him. We couldn't point out he was fat, grey, unfit.. couldn't criticise him in any way. None at all. Doing so unleashed the beast. So his reaction was our, my, fault.

That was as much mum's fault. It was as if the only way she could deal with dad's anger was a) not to provoke it, and b) if it was provoked pacify it, and c) pretend it didn't happen. The way not to provoke it was to ensure we as children never did anything which could cause the anger. That meant being right, good on everything. The result was obvious therefore, if dad did explode, it was our fault. The anger would pour out and we would be beating ourselves up as well as being beaten by dad (rarely physically). Afterwards mum would say "don't say anything, he does love you you know, ignore it and he'll calm down". That was as much talking about it was we were allowed.

So here I am. Almost forty years old and I'm sat here with deep groaning and angst because I have sent what I still believe to a rounded email to my dad saying I want a relationship with him but only if he is willing to both admit and work on where he is. The little boy within me is pertified, and all the old emotions and feelings are coursing through my body.

OOOOooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww. It's painful. It hurts. It feels too much for me to contend with. I wish I were seeing my therapist today to help me with it, yet I know that if I were too I'd be scared stiff. It is just too big and hurts too much.

It's like I am taking on the beast of my childhood. The one whom I could not stand up to. The one whom I could not answer back to. The one whom I must not wake lest he eat me.

I guess that's the thing about explosions, for that is what we used to call them. An explosion is rarely controlled. It's usually when you least expect it, and it blows a part of you away. People lose possessions, limbs and lives when a bomb explodes. The resulting carnage requires years of grieving, support, loving and forgiveness. Many never recover. It's blasts through soft tissue like.. only a bomb can. Emotions are flung to one side. It's force is overwhelming - there's nothing to stand in it's way. It's arbitrary, it's full on, there's no reasoning, it's sickening in it's carnage. There is such a sense of loss. The senselessness of it all. Incomprehension. Why would someone want to do that? Guilt kicks in - "if only". If only I'd been somewhere else, taking a bit longer, been a bit faster. I blame myself. It was my fault. If only I'd done something different. It is impossible to make sense of it. Carnage. Loss. A black hole. A vacuum. A whirlpool of conflicting emotions. Thinking it over and over wondering what we could have done to change the outcome. Senseless. Unbelief. It can't be. It can't have. It didn't. It did. The pain. The vivid and torrid recollections. Oh it happened. But who can understand? I'm so alone. And I carry this pain deeper than the oceans, taller than the the sky, wider than the earth.

Myabe I got carried away there. But I can certainly relate to the sense of loss one experiences when a trauma hits. And living with my dad was a repeated trauma. Oh how I wish it were different. Wish it hadn't hapenned. Wish he's been nice and soft and caring - as I would be a different person today.

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The email to dad

Following on from my previous posts - and the email to my father. Here is the email..

Dad,

I wrote this email after Father's Day. But I didn't send it. Since you called yesterday with follow up email I feel I need to explain where I am at. This is the email I wrote..

--

I have thought long and hard over what to write to you. My fear is that for me to explain why a true father son relationship is not currently possible will only result in more pain and rejection for you - and I can see no positive outcome.

However, it's clear that you are wanting a relationship with me, and are trying very hard. I appreciate that. So, with that in mind I feel that now may be the time for me to write more about what I think and feel. I could not say this to your face, as I don't think I would be able to handle any corresponding reaction.

Bottom line is that whenever I try and relate to you (and especially about real heart issues), you are not able to relate back at the same level. It's as if I touch a volcano of pain, rejection and anger. Your pain is too big for me to deal with - and I believe that this is an effective barrier to the relationship we both desire.

I wish with all my heart it was different.

Over the years I've been married (it will be 18 years this year) I've become aware of my own behavioural tendencies which have at times been destructive towards my wife, my girls and myself. This awareness heightened over the last few months and as a result I have been working through stuff with a psychotherapist. It's a long and painful process. I liken it to the following;

A baby is born and things good and bad happen to them. As they grow up they are loved, rejected, accepted, crushed, made to feel significant or worthless. As the baby grows he does not have the tools (maturity) to handle the bad things that happen. Parents would typically help them process these things thus helping to nullify the impact. But where the parents themselves don't have some of the tools (because their parents never taught them) the child is unable to process the bad things, and impact is not nullified.

For some, the bad things really are bad, for example abuse, destitution, loneliness, domination etc. The child is unable to process the resulting rejection, pain, hurt etc - and the only thing he can do is build coping mechanisms - and put the pain into a black bin bag, It's out of sight. It's the only way of coping with the pain, ignoring and pretending it's not there.

As the child goes grows up things continue to happen in a way he can't cope with and yet it's not his fault. Each time, because he doesn't have the maturity or tools to process the resulting pain it gets thrown into a black bin bag. The problem being that at some point in his life, the black bin bags start to get in the way of living life. The doorbell rings, but there are so many bags that it's troublesome to get to the door. It's troublesome to build relationships because the house is untidy. Maybe other's can smell that all is not right, and in fact the bags start to not only affect their own life, but also those that are around them. If anyone ever threatens to get somewhere near a bag (consciously or unconsciously) woaa. He defends it with all his life because he knows (unconsciously) that it will open a great pain he wants to forget.

For many these bags are subconscious. They don't realise that they are there - but their effects are everywhere. Anyone who visits can see and smell them. Anyone who lives with them are only too aware that all is not well - even if they don't understand why.

Dad - this is the point I got to not too long ago. My bags had impeded my life to such an extent that I was not able to live how I wanted. My relationship with my wife was being severely affected. You will recall how utterly exhausted I was, how I couldn't eat normal foods. I couldn't exercise (and I love running).

For the last twelve months or so I have been focussing on dealing with the contents of some of these bags. And it's really painful. At times utterly exhausting. At times it feels as if there is no end. But. And it's a glorious but, once I've worked through some of the contents of those bags the resulting relief, release and freedom is worth every tear, every groan and every minute. It's very painful when I realise how destructive I've been with my wife and girls. It's very painful when I realise what effect my driveness has had on me and my wife/girls, and doubly so when I realise it is/was because I was trying to find significance.

It's heart breaking when I realise that I control and dominate, and then painful when I realise it's because I'm so afraid of being dominated and controlled. And so many of my negative tendencies are my coping mechanisms to past hurts. The wonderful thing is that as I work through these past hurts I am freed. My behaviour changes. I realise I'm driven, why I'm driven, work through the underlying pain (black bin bags), and the result is freedom from driveness. It's like becoming a Christian!

I've been thorough church. I've submitted, prayed, fasted, praised, worshipped, interceded - and yet it has taken therapy with a non christian to allow me to work through these bags. I wish more people would - primarily because then they too would be set free from many of the things which bind them. Namely past hurts.

Dad, here's the rub.

It doesn't have to remain the way it's always been. I can change. You can change. I long that you were in a place to be able to see a therapist yourself. Dad, I love you, and can only guess at your upbringing - and how the pain and rejection from that impacted you so very much. How could it not have done? You are carrying bags, and you don't need to. You try so hard, so very hard and yet it results in more pain for you. And you can't understand it. I believe a therapist would help - and crucially if you were able to work through some of the past pains I believe it would have a very positive impact on our relationship, as well as with others.

There - I've said what I want to say for the moment. I now am apprehensive. Will you be able to see what I am saying without being defensive - because dad, I am not wanting in any way to attack - or justify. I don't want a biblical treatise by response, nor do I want you to feel that you need to justify how you feel. The bottom line is that right now I can't handle your bags any more. They have had too great an effect on me, and whenever I meet with you I still feel that I have to climb over them.Yet I really want a relationship with you. But in order to do so, I need you to be aware of those bags, and crucially, that you would be actively working though them.

I expect that I will not hear from you for some time whilst you ponder, reread, ruminate, talk etc....

Mark

Email to dad = fear & trepidation.

There's no doubt about it. As you work through deep and dark stuff, painful and grungy, it tires you out. Things you would normally be able to do suddenly feel like climbing a mountain. I need more sleep, am less able to go running, and as now, 9pm and I want to go to bed!

I sent THE email to my dad two days ago. Telling him nicely that I can't have a relationship with him until he works through some of his stuff. No reply yet. As I walk around I can feel the deep fear of his reaction - knowing it as a child and growing into an adult only too well.. For the last three days I have been living with that feeling, and it's the same feeling as when I was at home.

It's as if I have deliberately connected myself to some electric wires and am about to turn on the power. I know it's going to hurt. In fact I know it's a really really stupid thing to do. That's what I have just done in sending the email to my dad. Just thinking about his reaction churns my insides. That's what we all lived in fear of. The fact that when he reacted, boy did he react, and we would do all we could to ensure it didn't happen.

Yet I have deliberately done it. Walked into the eye of the storm. Placed the revolver in my mouth. Pulled the pin on the grenade and thrown it above my head..

And it's not a pleasant feeling. I tell myself that it is not my fault if my dad can't relate like an adult. I am wanting to, indeed am wanting a relationship with him. I just need it to be on a level playing field. So I can rationalise it very well, but in the meantime my insides are mush, fear, trepidation.. No doubt my therapy session this week will focus on this deep and horrible feeling..

Dad - his anger, again

Bleargh.

What to think.

Am I bored? Do I want to spend lots of time with my wife? Can I really be bothered to do odd jobs around the house or would I rather earn more money to pay someone else to do it? Do I feel like my wife is like my sister when I was young? Namely my shadow? Am I scared of her frustrations because they remind me of my dad's emotions - which I can't handle even to this day? Do I feel down because I've been doing therapy for a year, and I've still got stuff to sort? Fed up of swinging emotions, in fact scared too. Will I get down? Will I gain some motivation to actually do anything outside of selfishness?

I'm not free. Not free to go fishing. Not free to read. Not free to do as I please. I have responsibilities, and a wife at home 100% of the time. She wants to move on and start some kind of farm/estate enterprise. Wants to sell the business to finance it. Selling the business won't give her the cash she would need, and so I'd have to work. Either at the farm, or something else. It would take more money than we'd have. I'd be stressed, working at something I probably wouldn't want to. All to please my wife so that she can try and find herself.

Why can't I sell the business and enjoy life? No debts. Work at what I want. Go where we want. Support what we want, holiday where we want, do what we like? Invest in other business, anything. Enjoy life and see what God has for us.

Why do we need to do a farm? I don't want to do a farm. Yet my wife can't seem to be able to do it on her own. I would support her, but does that mean being available 100% of the time? 75% of the time? 50% of the time? 25%? What? I don't know.

And that's the problem. And that's what is getting me down. I don't know. I don't have any answers. Just problems, questions, uncertainties with nothing solid to stand on. If I don't support my wife, my wife will be very hurt and feel stabbed in the back. If I try and support my wife, I run into my dad. My old templates. I'm still working those through - but it means I can't move forwards. I can't trust my emotions, my desires, my thoughts, my feelings. They sway back and forth, up and down like a yo-yo.

And it's maddening. Frustrating. Upsetting. Getting me down. I can't do anything. My wife gets upset, but I can do nothing. I'd rather play on the xbox for two hours, go out fishing with a friend. Doing anything takes real drive - drive that I just don't have.

This morning I spent an hour cutting the grass. We then sat down for lunch which my wife made and she tells me that I can't handle other people's emotions. What does that mean? Care to elaborate? Care to be soft to me and understand that I too am going through a testing patch? Nope. Silence. I can't handle it. I feel that I am always the one who breaks the deadlock. I get her to talk, then she batters me for half an hour. I have no defence. She is right in almost all she says, and the areas she's not are not worth raising. But how alike is this to when I was at home with my dad? Bollocks. I don't know. Is it right for me to speak up even if it's not important, or may be wrong? She always seems so right - yet how can it always be 100% my fault. Surely this is just my old template yet again.

CRAP. It's like standing on a rounded lump of lard. What shall I do? I try and stand up to decide only to land on my rump. The only safe choices for me (my little side?) is to do things on my own, or away from my wife. Doing them with my wife is far too difficult. It brings up difficult subjects, the moment she disagrees with anything I say or do (which is frequent) I cave in on the inside. Prepare myself for the inevitable beating.

And my insides are twisted. I can feel them thus pointing to the deep and dark emotions I am harbouring. So, as my therapist would say, allow myself to feel them. Where are they? What do they look like?

Where are they? They are in my groins as normal. Twisting, like a year ago, like when I am dealing with deep emotions that I haven't twigged yet.

Ok - focus on them. Let myself feel them.. They are really deep. Full on. My mind doesn't understand them.

What do they look like? Dark and big. Like big waves on the sea. Large, overwhelming. No escape. Brutal, forceful, dangerous, mean, angry, no way out, no way to escape, tortuous, mean, pushing me, pressing me into a corner, no way out, mean, nasty, vicious, no way to escape, forced backwards, unfathomably mean, wicked, evil, no mercy or grace or anything nice or warm, just pure black pain coming after me.

Ring any bells?

Yes. Of course. My dad again. I have a feeling that that is how I felt when I was at home as a little boy, and my dad came for me. I felt as trapped and scared as I would if I was at the behest of the adjectives described above. Pure unrestrained anger pouring out it's death right into my soul. I was so scared. Wanted to run away but couldn't. Wasn't allowed to. There was no escape. There was no defence, nothing to hide behind. Certainly not mum. Couldn't run because he was faster, and the act of running made the anger worse. Any sense of defiance was met with instant retribution. There was no escape. Nowhere to run or hide. This was my dad. My dad the fire breathing dragon who would slay me at his whim and fancy.

You poor little boy. No one should have to endure that. That was wrong, despicable, you poor little mite.

Ow the pain. That really hurts. So deep within me, which as I look at have vague memories or echoes of what it was like. Unbridled anger directed directly at me. Why? What had I done? Nothing. And yet there my dad is, raising his fist as if to knock me into next week. Threatening me with the same verbally. I'm small, a boy, five, six, eight, ten. He's a grown man, my hero, threatening to knock me into next week as his fists are pulled back ready to strike, and in the end he bites his fist and puts it through the door.

I am left in a state of shock, fear.. completely unable to process what just happened other than it happened before, and will happen again. My mum tells me he loves me really, and that he doesn't mean it, and to ignore it for it will all blow over.. Inside I'm .. what? crushed. how can this be? what i have done? like being taken to the executioners chair, for the switch to be pulled and no electric to come out and yet still be sat in the chair. What are you supposed to think? Am I saved? Will it happen again? Am I supposed to be relieved or in shock?

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL OR THINK NOW? My mum tells me to ignore it. My insides are melted by fear because my hero just blew a blow torch into my innards.

So how do I feel when I remember the feelings of how I felt in the moment of dad's greatest anger?

He was in my face, totally dominating me, and I felt terror. Fight or flight, and not able to do either. Either would make it worse, so so so much worse. Why what would he have done? Lost it completely, and literally knocked me into next week. With his fists. That's what I feared. That one day he really would knock me our with those big fists. They were huge compared to me, and strong and powerful and I had no defence. What could I do? I couldn't do anything.

Damn that hurts. And it's deep. And even as I remember what it was like, it's hits me in waves of pain. The freshness of the wound, the deepest cut, the terror and fear, the unbelief and shock that this was really happening, the confusion that this was my dad - MY DAD, my my my my my dad. The one who was supposed to protect me, look after me, be my hero - and yet here he was frightening me, hurting me, damaging me. The world was a safer place than being with my dad. And yet somehow I knew that being with my dad was supposed to be the safest place. If I was unsafe with my dad, where was I going to find safety?

It seems so unfair to have to go through this twice. The first time was bad enough. Then to have lived with it all my life thus far is also bad enough. But to have to revisit the emotions - ghakljklasjfasf kl;asf jaklsdf asf jasdf jasdfj f jaskf jasf j there are not words to describe that. Unfair. Anger. sdddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddkllllllllllllllllllllllll ddddddddddddddddcvcccccccccccccccccc

Soo... if I've been typing for at least thirty minutes then I've been feeling for at least thirty minutes. Is that enough? I still feel the deep movements, almost like I'm carrying a baby much in my groins rather than my tummy. I guess it will have to be for now - but I still feel the pain..

Another plate, knife and fork..

That was my intrinsic reaction when my mum told me she was expecting again. Inwardly I groaned. I know I groaned when I was twelve and she told me, and I'm pretty sure I groaned when she told me when I was nine too. That was sisters number three and four.

Looking at this yesterday with me therapist.. it has opened another deep well of pain and grudge. I remember dad saying that he'd never wanted children (maybe when I was around 12), et voila. Five children later he broadcasts the fact to the world by putting up a notice at the school he was teaching at saying "Happy is the man who has his quiver full". If only that had applied to my dad!

My therapist asked me how my oldest daughter felt when we told her she was going to become a big sister. Apart from the fact that she was only two and a half at the time she was excited I replied. He then asked me to compare with how I'd felt.

And suddenly I saw a whole host of hiding emotions. My wife nor I had ever put any sense of expectation or responsibility on my oldest reference her new sister. We had played with both, were delighted and overjoyed at them both throughout their early childhood.

Compare and contrast.

For me another sister meant not only another plate, knife and fork to wash up. But another sister to babysit. Another sister who would require their nappies to be changed. Another sister taking up more room in the house. Another sister requiring looking after. I mean - why would anyone else want to join our family? My parents would leave me in charge from a very early age. Even if it was just on the back row at church. Mum would be singing, dad would be preaching, and I would be looking after my sisters. From six years old? From ten years old? And I was petrified of any of them acting up - as that would mean I would get it in the neck from dad.

See nothing was allowed to interfere with dad, as if they did the consequences would be dire. If he was preparing a sermon, getting ready for church, going to work, wanting to rest, wanting to watch TV, anything really, and I got in his way. WHAM. An eruption the size of a volcano, and very often physical violence accompanied it. Anything relating to church took on yet another level of untouchability. It was like touching the Lord's Annointed.

Everything we did, said, acted and sang was all to the "glory of God" - except of course it wasn't. It was all to the glory of our family, my mum and dad especially. It was as if we were really well behaved in church, and others commented on us in a positive way, it was a positive validation of my parents. Where did that leave us, us mere kids? Or more specifically me? Road kill. And it wasn't pretty. All on my insides, whilst on the outside I shined like the rest of them.

Crap. How different could it be. Another sister meant another mouth to feed. It was if I had personal responsibility. I wasn't six feet tall and strong. But I could try and mitigate the negative affects of my dad. The railings, the shoutings, the fear, the terror, the violence, the threats, the imposing sense of dread and doom. Maybe that's why my sisters still look up to me so much, and why I really don't want anything to do with them. Because I'm still trapped in that little boy. And that little boy is terrified of my dad walking in. And I have to somehow protect my sisters whilst looking after them. Babysitting them. Getting tea. Laying the table, clearing the table, washing up, putting away.

It's not like I had to do everything, as mum was ok as a mum. But I still carried the responsibility without anyway of being able to talk it through with anyone. When I asked for prayer when I was around nine years old at Sunday School (prayer for my dad because he got so angry) my mum found me out and took me to task "don't ever wash our dirty laundry in public, don't you realise how much you've hurt dad?". Evern though I intrisincly knew she was wrong, it did mean I never spoke to anyone again.

So. A little boy, who's terrified of his dad, who has to look after his sisters, and can't talk to anyone and can't process his poor little emotions.

And now at almost forty, I feel the depth and width and groaning of that pain, and need to process it so that I am not stuck in childhood. So that I can let go of the need to be responsible, whilst hating it at the same time. I may be free for the first time to work out what I want to do. Where I want to go. Not to have to wait till 10.30 at night before I feel free - as my wife has gone to bed.

How crap is that? It's like all the things I do are alone or with friends. But never with family or my wife. Because that is far too reminiscent of my childhood - one where I had no choices and was stuck. Now when I feel stuck I want to get out. Take photos, upload photos, go fishing, play on the xbox. At 10;30 I want to watch films, play on the xbox and when I finally do go to bed I want to read for hours. That's MY time, escaped from everyone else, no responsibility. Free to do what I want. Except that I feel guilty. As I'm not in bed with my wife..

Groan. Lord help me to process this pain..

Looking at the pain

I'd rather do anything else. Be on the laptop, upload photos, take photos, go fishing, watch TV, busy myself. Anything rather than allowing myself to look at the pain that I feel but don't want to.

So here I am. I've just put the latest Hillsong album on the laptop, and am now adding to my journal blog. This CD more than any seems to allow me to see how I feel on the inside. It's as if I welcome God into the room, and we start to relate. And as we start to relate I become aware of the pain, and I want to fall into his arms and cry. To stop fighting. Stop holding back. Let it all go..

At the weekend I spent some time with an niece who was adopted by my sister in law. Her mum had been high on drugs throughout her pregnancy, and in fact gave birth to my niece whilst high on drugs. Six months later she went into a foster home before being adopted. As I spent time with her at a playground she was unable to let go. To rest. To trust. She needed to be running from one thing to another. Swings to roundabout to seesaw to climbing frame. Round and round she went. But at no time was she entering in with me. It was if it was a competition. She would not let me get close, yet I so wanted to.

Is that the same between God and I? I run from thing to thing trying to find solace, or trying to escape my pain. God follows patiently. With love in his heart for me, longing for me to stop and allow him to take me into his arms, and to hear him tell me he loves me, and to feel gloriously washed in his love, his embrace, his safety, my true home.

Lord - I find this difficult. I've been walking round like a sighing walrus. Feeling the pain, the dread on the inside. Knowing I need to stop and allow myself to feel it. Help me. Here I am.

Ten minutes later and all I've done is sighed a lot and made some groaning noises. No tears. Switched now to Adagio For Strings (Platoon) by Barber. What a fantastic piece. Moves me deep on the inside, and seems to touch areas I don't know are there, like going to a gym and the next day aching in places you didn't know existed..

Maybe now's not a time for crying. Yet I feel the deep grunge. It's ever present. Swirling. Like an emotion that won't go away. Dad about to walk in the room. Realising I've done something wrong. How will dad react? Is he going to come in and blatter me? Crush my insides. Leave me desolated.

That's what I want to get out. My dad isn't here. He doesn't live here. I rarely see him. Why do I feel like he's there? Constantly waiting for me to fall. To cock up. To get it wrong. I can't get it wrong, cos he'll blatter me. Right and wrong. Guilt. Perfectionism. My dad is not a perfectionist. Not all all, but I am because I didn't want to risk getting it wrong. Can't get it wrong. And if I do get it wrong. WHAM. Guilt surges through me. And yet now I feel just like when I was a kid. Lost. Hurting. In pain.

I want it to stop. I don't want to feel like this. It's not my fault. I've not done anything wrong. Dad, go away. You are hurting me. You've hurt me. I desperately wanted to please you, but you hurt me. I tried so hard, have tried so hard only to fall at your first hurdle. I can't do it. I can't please you. Yet I can't stop trying. AAarrgggggghhhhhhh!!! sdf askf jasf jal;sdf ;dj asf jasf jjsdf werf OQERIOEIoqricOQIRT,peit9pti924it90it90gr[aopggf.

So even as I sit here trying to focus on my feelings. Trying to coax them out I feel like I'm trying oh so hard and yet potentially getting it wrong. I guess I need to be patient. Give myself time. And in fact, as I feel this grudge deep in my insides/bowels that is still me feeling the grudge. I'm allowing myself to feel it as I am not putting it to one side - at least at the moment I'm not.

Grudge. Sighs. Flatness. I'm actually afraid of being down - as in my mind's eye that would make me like my dad. And I've worked so hard to not be like my dad, that as my therapist says, I become defined by him regardless of whether I am or not like him.

Yes I think I understand there is a difference between being down/flat and depressed. But if I'm flat, it means I'm not optimistic. And if I'm not optimistic it may mean I'm being pessimistic. Which would be like my dad. My optimism was in direct proportion to my dad's pessimism.

SG JhbngfmA jjjjjjjjjjhhhyumgjb sgsnkafg.zxncm,.asdgh;asg 'jjjjjjmghzdfgmk' jhghghgjzd. l'kzdbj zl/dkgzslgf hzdlfb zdf 'gj'zg ja

Guess I just have to go through today feeling it..

And then there is what I do today. What do I want to to do. I haven't got a &*&*&B clue. I know what I don't want to do. I don't want to go for a walk with my wife. I don't want to get some kitchen tiles. I don't want to feel like I have to do anything that my wife may ask me. Then I feel bad (guilty) that I'm not doing anything with my wife. My mate is off work today, I'd like to play on the xbox. Be selfish.

Permission - or lack of it

Ok. So I've agreed with my therapist that I want to concentrate on the area of my dad. The fact that I have such a strong sense of right and wrong, with lots and lots of guilt. And no tools to manage or process or handle the guilt.

I'm also reading "The Shack" which is great.

So where am I now? Processing it all I guess. But I feel really tired again. And also I feel as if I am struggling with the whole permission and corresponding emotions. These emotions are like dread, sense of impending doom.. not at all pleasant. And they all stem from my father. And as I allow myself to lean towards these emotions, the sense increases as I believe that I am walking towards my dad in his angriest, most aggressive state. And believe me. That's not something or somewhere I'd like to go!

So I really don't know what to do with myself. It's easier to just busy myself with anything and everything. Such as taking photos, going fishing, playing on the xbox, doing this blog, reading the latest news/sports, watch a film.

Yet I feel, right now, crap.

Therapy would say I feel crap for a reason. It's a natural response to some event, perceived or real. And therapy is a safe place to explore how you feel, and allow yourself to process it rather than bottling it away in case it gets too much. That's great, but it still feels crap.

Guess I'm going to have to spend more time focusing on how I feel, and going with the flow.

:/

I love you Lord

So how do I feel now? Flat. Not quite down, but not up either.

I'm reading "The Shack" at the moment, and it's undoing my heart. Making God so real. So more real than my template. So more real than my flotsam. The fact that he loves me. Really truly loves me. That he's real. Really real. Truly real. Human and yet God. God and yet human. And not tied into our man made systems, our templates, our version of ourselves. But the creator. The one who loves our souls.

The one who created the heavens - because he could - and they are beautiful. And he wants to enjoy them with us. Side by side. Entwined. Gloriously together. No striving. No death. No lies. No counterfeit. Nothing between. Just me and God. God and me. Father. Papa. Dad. Mother. Brother. Friend. Joy of all joys. We'd share jokes and we'd laugh until our sides split. We'd go fishing and catch the biggest fish and still pull each other's leg about the one that got away. We'd climb the highest mountains and drink tea watching the sun come up, and take photos. And my heart would be fit to bursting. Not able to contain the pulsing life within - I would throw my arms around my Lord. Total abandonment. Love. Love given because love was given.

It's so different from my expectation. My human experience. Where love was earned, forced, templated. This is a free love. No qualms. Nothing held back. The best of the best of the best. Nothing harmful. Nothing grievous. Nothing forced. No guilt.

No guilt. Oh how much of life has been forced by guilt. My relationship with God, with my wife, with myself. What I do with my time. Right. Wrong. Guilt.

But God isn't like that. He's not into guilt. He doesn't want us to feel guilty. In fact he's done everything possible to ensure we are not guilty, and to remove any sense of guilt from us. To make us holy as he is holy. That is too wondrous a thought. Holy as he is holy. Free as it he is free. Free to love. Free to wonder. Free to explore. Free to just be free.

It was for freedom that Christ set us free.

Freedom. Not religious piety which is another form of imprisonment. No - true freedom. FREEDOM. Free. Liberty. He who the son sets free is free indeed. The spirit is there is liberty. Freedom to explore. Freedom to think. Freedom to feel. Freedom to enjoy life. To enjoy sex with my wife. Relationships with my girls. A wondrous sunset, the wonder of macro photography, the sun on my skin. Not going to church. Not attending the latest bible study, church weekend, prayer meeting. But instead enjoying God in nature. In real life. In a multidimensional life where all is permitted, and his grace reigns over all.

God I love you. I think you are wonderful. Marvelous. I want you so. Forgive me where my pain has got in the way. My templates, my defenses. My attempts to please you. Your love is so constant, and eternal, and real, and true and personal.

How do I follow you? How do I stay close to you? I so want to ask how do I serve you when the door has closed on what I thought I needed to do to please you. And yet right now who cares? You just want to be with me. Walk beside me. Fill me. Wonderful wonder. Joy full joy. Grace abounding. Love. Life. Freedom. That's what you are about. Oh how wonderful. How staggering. A life of freedom.

Lord I want to shout it from the mountaintops. From my rooftop. From my heart. Freedom with you is better than anything else, or anywhere else. Your freedom allows me to enjoy you. What you've created, who you've created, your acts and works, your creation. You. You in all of those things. How something as simple as an autumn leaf points to your majesty. It's as if you put it there just for me to enjoy. And Lord do I enjoy it.

You see if God is human, then he sees the world through eyes as my eyes. And he must wonder at his creation both as God, and as a human. Sun rise, lambs in the fields, a stream meandering through a field, cows chewing on grass, the sun's rays streaming through a forest, a misty winter morning, frost on a leaf, a robin watching as I dig the garden waiting for an opportunity to grab a worm. Fishing on a blue sky day, getting a hug from my daughter just because she loves me, seeing that smile, that look that she reserves for those she cares about. The joy. The unbridled joy. A father's joy. The joy my heavenly dad feels for me as I look at him and tell him how much I love him. I so love you Lord. For everything. For every day. For my family. For me. For everything.

Worshipping you because you just are. Not because of religious creed. Not because a church organ grinds out some hymn no one can sing. But because you are, and you are alive, and you love me, oh you love me so so so so so so so so so much. There are no words to express your love me, so you sent your son to become the word. Human as me to save a human like me. That I may be able to be with you for ever. Me and you. You and me. Your son, your spirit, father God. Being everything to me, sharing your creation and wonder and all that is you with me for ever. Changed from glory to glory. Lord I'm writing a love song to you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can barely see the keyboard because of my tears. I love you. I'm sorry for all the crap I've thrown in the way. The way I thought I was supposed to serve you. And all the time you wanted to just love me. And me to know your love.

Lord I give myself to you. I want to be with you. I want those I love to know your love in it's fullest expression. Chris. My girls. Lord my girls. For them to be captivated by your love. For you to walk alongside them. Their friends. Their future partners, family, life.. but God for now - thank you. I love you.

Lord. Thank you pops. Spirit fill me anew. Fill me ablaze. To go where your breeze goes. Full of you. Full of your sunset. Brimming with crystal clear water. Help me, stay with me..

Flotsam

We went to a town we used to live in for six years last week. And it was the weirdest feeling. So comfortable, so natural. Parking, the swimming pool where the girls went for their swimming lessons, the town centre, the shops. It was as if we had never been away.. and I felt very emotional.

We walked around a little, and then went into Whittards as my wife wanted to buy a tea pot! I was overcome with emotion and could have cried my eyes out. Why was I so emotional? Because so much had happened there, I thought our lives were perfect when we first moved there. We'd been invited to join a church where the pastor was "going to give me a roadmap" to get me into full time ministry. I had two young girls (three and just born), a wonderful wife, a great family home to do up, a job earning money (saving to pay off mortgage in order to go into full time ministry on a low salary).. and a church we were could really get involved.

Alpha, nurture groups, youth events, prayer meetings and preaching. And that was just me.

Then fast forward four years and it all felt apart. The pastor hadn't told his elders about me, and in any case he had no power or ability to carry through on his promise. It all fell apart in a nasty way really - where he shouted and cursed me. I was devastated. I spent a long time checking my heart motives (just read A Tale of Three Kings by Edwards) to do that for you. Another church group came along and said they would support us in a plant. WE tried that but despite seeing over ten come to the Lord in the first year had to stop it as my wife wasn't well/didn't want to do it. We then knocked around whilst we worked out what to do and moved to the town we live in now six years ago.

The range of emotions were so strong though, so that when we arrived back home later that night I spent two hours plumbing the depths of my emotions. I cried. It was supposed to have been the perfect situation. We were living as a family in a great safe town near the beach. Church was full on for us. Everything matched my template I'd built from childhood - only for it to be crushed.

Crushed. And as I carried on thinking/feeling I realised that this was a repeat of my childhood. I'd be doing something, happy when my dad would come in and crush it. Was my dad still responsible? And as I pondered this I realised that what I really do is hold onto the things that come along in my life in order to allow them validate me in some way. Church. Work. Car. Fishing. Photos. I hold onto them in some almost obsessive way (all or nothing) - and use them to prove that I am something. I am worth something. It's as if the objects or doing acts in my life have been the definition of me.

My sister was in the Tsunami in Thialand and she explains how after being washed along by the tidal wave for hours, she was spent of all energy at every level. She was hanging onto a mattress as the water kept moving. Around her were destruction and death. A thai man was also holding onto the mattress when they heard a child crying/screaming. They looked at eachother, my sister knowing she could not move. The thai shrugged his shoulders and left the mattress. My sister was desolated once again, as just to have this stranger as a companion was something - but what could they do?

This image came back to my mind very powerfully. And I cried. Why? I'm not entirely sure. For my sister, sure, but also for me. It's as if that has been my life. I have been trying to hold onto things because I fear leaving them behind. Church. God. Work. Car. Pond. Anything. The flotsam of life.

Lord help me to let go of the flotsam, and to see that I am who I am because of the Great I AM WHO I AM. I have worth without the flotsam. Help me to let go, and to be truly free.