'It's Feeling Full of Everything and Empty at the Same Time'

My family and I used to visit Scotland every year. I always looked forward to the isolation, the quaint house, and the beautiful scenery. However, our final visit turned into a disaster for which I can’t forgive myself.

In 2010, I was at the peak of my depression. I still wanted to go on this holiday because I was convinced the peace and isolation would be good for me, and maybe, just maybe, I’d stop feeling so numb. But before we even started the journey, things were different.

For the first time, I had recurring intrusive thoughts that my dad would crash the car on the motorway at full speed. I spent an 8-hour car journey panicking every time we went into the fast lane or overtook a truck. I’d recently given up driving because I heard voices telling me to crash. It would only take one errant driver to make a mistake, and we’d all be dead.

Nevertheless, we made it to Scotland in one piece. On arrival, my dad realized we’d have to “dog proof” the fences because we had two young dogs at the time, and one of them was adept at getting through the smallest of spaces. Once, he watched my dad build a small enclosure for him to play in at home. When it was finished, he jumped over it. His name was Scally, and it was always interesting to me why a dog with a perfect and pampered home life would go so far out of his way to try and escape.

We left the dogs inside while my dad made a small enclosure so they could come outside, and then he would work on the rest of the fences. But by now, my mind had moved on from car crashes and was torturing me in a new way.

Now I was getting recurring, intrusive thoughts of Scally escaping the garden late at night and wandering off into the hills. No one would find him; he would starve and succumb to the elements. I saw this all in graphic detail, bringing me close to tears.

At the same time, I was acutely psychotic. I believed the few walkers we saw pass by the cottage were secret government agents being sent to spy, kidnap, and ship me to a secret death camp.

On one walk, I smelt a decomposing sheep, and my PTSD took me back to gory crime scenes from my past as a police officer.

All my problems were spiraling out of control. Yet I knew my dad lived for these holidays. He spent all year doing manual labor as a cooker (stove) cleaner and repairer. Sometimes, he would pull the heaviest cookers up flights of stairs by himself. He loathed his job, but it gave him enough security that he could never bring himself to give it up. Privately, he was a writer of dozens of books, yet he was so afraid of rejection that he only ever tried once to get anything published. So, while my dad was languishing in hell, partly of his own making, he longed for the rest Scotland provided. I couldn’t stand to ruin it for him, but my pain was etched in my face. Photos at the time showed me trying to smile and go through the motions, but my eyes were dead.

Depression is an illness of contradictions. Full of everything bad — like fear, anxiety, and pain — it tortures you by highlighting your weaknesses and failings and tortures you into submission. But it never lets you submit. It brutalizes you long past what you thought you could tolerate. Every day, I would wake up into a nightmare. Sleep was my relief, but only when the demons left me alone.

Yet, I’ve never felt so empty as I did when depressed. I came from the best family, but I couldn’t feel love or happiness, even when doing the things I used to enjoy. The most beautiful natural scenery and wildlife did nothing for me. I had no purpose or reason to get out of bed now that I had lost my identity as a police officer. I’d been mutilated by my love for a job I could never do again.

One day, it got too much. My mum and dad said they’d been talking and wondered if I wanted to go home. I almost cried with relief. I put my hand on my dad’s back and half-hugged him. He reassured me it would be ok. I knew I’d still suffer at home, just like I did before the holiday, but I felt less vulnerable there. New surroundings always made things worse. So, five days early, we packed up and drove home while I panicked about the car crashing…

I wish I could say this story ended pleasantly. But it didn’t for any of us. A few weeks later, I ended up in a mental hospital, which was a hellish experience and represents the lowest point of my life. My dad developed heart disease and almost died before they found the proper medication. He then developed Ulcerative Colitis. He hated the indignity of being ill, and his pride took a hit due to having to rely on medication. We never went to Scotland again, partly because he could no longer do the walks we used to love, and he would find it too painful to remember his previous adventures. He survived well on medication until 2019, when the heart disease killed him.

As an aside, he fell and suffered a bleed to his brain. When he was delirious and the doctor asked if he knew where he was, he said, “Scotland.” That’s how much that place was imprinted on his mind.

This is the reality of mental illness. It’s brutal, nasty, selfish, and invades every aspect of your life. I still feel guilty for ruining my dad’s final holiday to the place he loved the most. I tried hard not to cut it short or admit the full extent of my suffering, but mental illness wouldn’t grant me that break.

I have many other memories of times I regret. If you believe you have a mental illness and don’t have these times, the chances are you’re fine. All the real mentally ill people have done shameful things.

I’ve recovered so well that I go on holiday every year with my girlfriend now. We are lucky enough to go to fantastic places like the Maldives. But if my dad were alive, I’d take him on one last holiday to Scotland.

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This post was previously published on Publishous.

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