I’ve written on here before about the horrors of my year out, and the long-term damage it did me. I remain very concerned about the whole concept of Christian gap years, with many of the operators of these schemes being well-known for extreme views, abuse and exploitation of participants.

I’ve been having some therapy recently to help me deal with the effects of it all, especially as it’s a particularly difficult time at the moment. I contributed towards the “independent review” into Pioneer’s conduct, and the behaviour of Gerald Coates, and eventually the report was published. I was horrified when I read it, though – virtually nothing I mentioned in my lengthy submission was included, so effectively my complaint was completely sidelined, and nothing has been done about it. As a result, I felt the only option available to me was to complain direct to Pioneer, and the church I spent my year in. In doing so, I’ve had to dredge up all my memories again, and go through the hell of having to wait and hope that something will be done. The therapy is helping on that front – I really need the moral support – and it’s also helping me address the things I’ve struggled with ever since I did my year, which I sincerely wish I’d never done.

In my most recent session, my therapist asked me if I could think of anything good that came out of my year, and at the time I really struggled to think of anything at all, as I’ve been convinced for some time that the whole experience has damaged me really badly, and thinking of anything positive coming out of something that now doesn’t represent what I think or believe at all has been very hard.

However, in a flash of inspiration, I did eventually think of something, and it made me feel a bit proud of myself for it being a significant positive step in my life.

My year out was very intense and very stressful, and as participants we got very little downtime. Church activities and social things ended up eating into what little time off we had. However, when I got the chance, I’d go for walks on my own, as I really enjoyed the exercise, the surroundings and chance to reflect on things. One day, I decided to walk along the beach from Bognor Regis, where I lived at the time, to Littlehampton.

I didn’t know how far it was, but hey, I had all day, and it wasn’t exactly easy to get lost or anything – head to the seafront, turn left, and keep walking. I discovered it took about three hours, at a pretty leisurely pace, and once I was out of Bognor itself, I had nothing but the sea on one side and open country on the other to keep me company. I loved it so much, that after that I did the walk as often as I could.

These were glorious moments of peace and calm, an escape from the constant pressure, constant demands and constant snooping I was wilting under. They were valuable opportunities to recharge and recover from being peopled-out all the time. I didn’t really know myself very well at the time, and little did I realise that as a pretty hardcore introvert, I need space like this in my life to function properly. It was something of a revelation to discover that – I’d think, pray, sometimes stop and read or stare out to sea, reflect, and just enjoy my own company. The walk was quite tiring and demanding, as walking along a sandy shoreline is a bit tricky in places, but by the time I arrived in Littlehampton each time, I’d be tired in a good way, having had a chance to process things, identify my worries and get them off my mind. It was special and wonderful and useful, and I treasure the memories of those walks.

In fact, I think it’s set the tone for much of my adult life. When I’m worried or anxious, and when I need to calm my mind, I go for a walk. Sometimes that’s just up to the end of the small town I live in, or sometimes it’s an ambitious multi-day trek across a remote area involving a bothy or two, but whatever it is, it’s a chance to unwind and reset my mind, which is very prone to rumination and over-thinking. After a good long trek somewhere, my head is usually in a much better state.

Once I’d arrived in Littlehampton, I’d get something to eat, and then catch a train back home again. A train ride is always a treat for me, of course, so it was a nice way to finish up the day.

Once thrown back into whatever fresh hell awaited me on my year out, I’d tell people what I’d been up to on my days off, and on several occasions, I got stared at like I had two heads. People thought that taking a solitary walk like that was genuinely weird, or maybe even a cause for alarm. This was yet another aspect of my character that was over-analysed and questioned by people who seemed determined to make out that everything I did was worrying or wrong somehow. Arrgh.

I think a major issue was that church leaders didn’t like excessive solitude. You can’t properly monitor or control people’s behaviour if they keep wandering off all the time. In yet another worrying parallel with Nineteen Eighty-Four (I swear George Orwell must have met some hardcore evangelicals), “ownlife” in fundamental churches is a big no-no. Sticking to your own community, and filling up your time with it, is seen as hugely important, because then it’s much harder to go getting dangerous ideas of your own.

I guess back then people, especially church people, weren’t so clued up on the concept of “self care” as well, and of course in the environment I was living in at the time, the recognised method of solving problems usually involved attempting to cast out demons. For years, I never properly understood that taking long walks was an appropriate part of a proper self-care regime.

I recognise it now, of course, so I’m claiming back those walks as a rare chink of light in what was an otherwise very dark time for me. In fact, for old time’s sake, I really want to do that walk again, and next time I manage to make it down to that part of the world (a long way from my current home in Scotland), I’m going to do it.

So yeah. It wasn’t all bad. I had the beach, and I had some glorious moments to myself, and I revelled in them. Shove that up your arse, Pioneer. It’s something you never took away from me.