Living in the moment

Living in the moment.

Apparently I do one and ten very well. I'm just not good at 2-9. I can paint a vision, paint what can be, what will be. But I really struggle making it through the individual steps to get there. The destination, rather than the journey.

Why?

Well. Dad of course. Dad instilled such a fear within me as a kid that when he asked for something, it had to be immediate or face the consequences. I.e. I had to deliver a ten immediately. A two, or four etc. was not good enough and likely to result in a caning. The first time I preached, it had to be perfect. A 10. God's power, anointing, the lost saved, people healed, in depth knowledge of God's ways. No wonder I felt physically sick for the two weeks before my first preach, with my dad sat on the platform behind me with his "Amens".

I had no room for the journey. The journey was what was painful. I hated the journey. Hated out journeys as a family to anywhere. Dad moaning and bitching the whole way. When we got there it continued. I lived in fear, in fact I can feel it now. And it feels horrible. Painful. Lost. Scared. Shitless.

We could never enjoy the journey as a family. Mealtimes - no way. Going to church - crap. Holidays were, from memoy, stressful unless you could escape dad. In fact even the thought of enjoying the journey is laughable. It's just such a non possible event that even the thought is strange and makes me want to laugh.

My therapist would ask why am I laughing. Is it funny. No I would reply, it's not funny, and he would ask me to allow myself to feel the pain.

It was just horrible. Living in constant fear. Constant stress that dad was going to explode, and blame me. I'd get the cop. No, there was nothing nice, enjoyable or desirable about the journey. Get it over as quickly as possible. Get to the end, and make it perfect less it gives dad a reason to explode.

Me and my wife to London today. 134 miles door to door. Into central London. To visit the London Transport Museum (my wife loves old trains). I woke up with a befuddled brain. I drove all the way down in the same manner, befuddled. Not in the moment. Thinking about what I should do about my company. I wasn't able to really connect with her - despite the fact I was trying to coach myself to enjoy the journey, and the time with her.

Journey - not destination. It's what my blog is called! And yet how difficult I find it. I have to be perfect. I have such high expectations of myself. I therefore struggle with other people who are struggling because I want to get them from one to ten. I can't see the middle steps which make life so full and rich.

As I've said, the very thought of enjoying the jouney makes me want to laugh, for it's so absurd.

And it's not my fault. CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP. IT IS NOT MY FAULT.

The drive was not stressful. I did an average of 80mph on the motorway. Two years ago and earlier, when I was driving down to London and back regularly I would have done 95mph the whole way.. and it would have been very stressful. So I've moved on! Which is great.

But still.

The journey. Why is that so painful? Because I couldn't get it right. I feared getting it wrong. I feared my dad, and his reaction. From a very early age. Right up to the present day. My little child inside of me is still scared stiff of my dad. Just getting in the car was frightening. For so often he would already be in a bad mood. He would shout to get the door closed. Seat belt on. He would screech away, his anger eminating from his every pore, action, silence, brooding, radio volume, everything screaming at me that it was my fault. I had done something wrong. I would be locked in. His stare, facial expressions telling me he was not happy with me, I had done bad, I had done wrong, I was to blame. I would look away, out of the window, but still not able to escape his anger.

Arriving at someone's house was frightening. Would dad continue to be in his bad mood? We would not dare do anything which may be construed as being naughty. Dad would laugh with the person we went to see. We would still be suffering from the anger and mood in the car from the journey. We would be shy, hiding. Knowing that the return journey may be more of the same (though often it probably wasn't).

It was the same if we went to church (3-4 times a week). The anger, the moods, the shouting, the violence, and that was just to leave the house. Oh crap. It was horrible. It was horrible for me, for I felt trapped by it. I took it personally - what else could I do? He took it out on everyone. But I felt it very personally.

It was a feeling of entrapment. I was trapped by dad. I couldn't escape. Couldn't run away. Had no choice or options. His anger would feed my pain. aka I was responsible for his anger. No wonder I couldn't enjoy the journey, for it wasn't about the journey - it was about being perfect. A ten. In all things. So I couldn't just BE, or just have a laugh, or a hobby. I had to be about the things that would mean I was safe, approved by my dad, or at least increase my chances of being so. Thus my all out desire to serve God - for that was one of those areas...

I wonder if I think that I can get the journey wrong - thus the focus on the destination. If the destination is, for example, London. Then if I arrive in London (ir record quick time!) I got it right. But the journey - boy - I can get so many things wrong. I need to go the right way, the quickest, way, the shortest way, with no obstructions, no road works, no traffic jams... is it the same in life? Is that why I fear the journey, and focus on the destination?