“I needed some control at a time where little was had.”

Let me start by saying that I was very hesitant in sharing my personal experiences regarding mental health. Even as I write this, I feel a level of guilt as I don’t claim to have any issues myself, nor have I ever been diagnosed as such. However, mental illness is something that seems to have surrounded me my entire life. Roughly 80% of my family have various diagnosed (and undiagnosed) conditions and over the years I’ve taken it upon myself to learn more about them; something I believe everyone should be educated about because after all, it affects most people day to day.

For this post, I wanted to focus on the relationship with my dad and how mental illness has affected it whilst growing up. Starting with my upbringing, growing up I was generally happy, despite the fact there were definitely underlying problems with my dad at time. However, having grown up with it, it seemed like normal behaviour. My parents would often argue, usually about money problems which at the time, I had no idea stemmed from these aforementioned underlying issues. My dad would often splash money we didn’t have on stuff we didn’t need. DVDs, video games, consoles and PC parts were the usual.

From a child’s perspective, I often thought I was pretty lucky to have all these things, as would most kids. Looking back at it now and knowing about where it stems from provides me with a different perspective. These were obsessive and compulsive behaviours; every month we’d have multiple DVDs come through the post and there’d be another argument about spending money we didn’t have- we weren’t well off, though from the outside, people often thought we were because of all the nice things we had.

It wasn’t until my late teens, when my mother had decided enough was enough, my dad entered my room to tell me things were going to be a little different from now on; he couldn’t have been more right.

The divorce seemed to have acted as the catalyst for what I can only describe as being a pretty chaotic set of events that I’d encounter the following years. For my dad, it seemed to act as a trigger, something had been set loose and it was the first signs I’d recognised there was something very wrong. There were suicide attempts, visits from police and notes left in what I believe were desperate cries for help as his health dramatically declined.

I was extremely close to my dad. He is everything I am today; my music taste, the college and university course I attended all stemmed from interests we shared when I was younger, and to see him hurt the way he did was painful. I would implore anyone to be more compassionate for any person who looks like they’re under any kind of stress; there could be far more behind it.

Eventually, we saw my dad get sectioned. Over the years, we’d see this happen a number of times as the confusion of diagnosing, balancing medication and finding the care he needed fluctuated from bad, to worse, to sometimes better. Diagnosing mental illnesses is hard and to begin with, I remember him being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. With me being wanting to be involved in my dad’s life, I would often look up these illnesses to try and learn more about them and help understand what was happening – I needed some control at a time where little was had.

More often than not, I remember thinking to myself as I read about these illnesses; what if I had this in me? Similarly to my dad, what if I had these underlying illnesses without me knowing, just waiting for someone or something to pull the trigger? Me and my dad were very alike after all. It’s something that plagues me even to this day.

During the times we would see some improvement with my dad’s health, it was often short lived. He seemed to make a lot of effort in seeing me for short spouts of time, we’d do the things we used to do, play video games together or share new music we’d discovered. However, it would often result in him having to return to where he’d been sectioned. I believe the conclusion at this point (from my dad’s perspective) was that it was better for everyone if he stayed out of our lives. And so, he pretty much disappeared for years up until my mid-twenties. We’d hear the occasional rumour that he’d been seen walking up a familiar road or had been told that he was back in hospital due to another episode.

My periods of contact with him were few and far between; there would be the occasional odd-sounding email that gave the impression he was maybe unwell. Or a random appearance where I’d answer the door to him looking like a zombie, legs cut open and hair cut in odd places. This was the reality I was now living in, worlds apart from when I was younger. It resulted in some stressful times whilst I was at university. I would often lash out at things, drink too much, indulge in class-A drugs. I’d stopped caring about myself, and this resulted in me having a crisis team intervening.

Between all of this, I was trying to finish a university degree. I’d gone to the doctors to talk about the way I was feeling and was immediately given anti-depressants, namely Fluoxetine. It was easy, I didn’t have to say much, only that I was feeling depressed and as quickly as someone who needed antibiotics for an infection, I was given the anti-depressants as a quick fix. I’d like to add, I have nothing against medication used to treat depression, I believe it’s effective for a lot of people, however I don’t believe it should be a first port of call.

I realise I’ve just written a lot of stuff all about me growing up and sharing some of my experiences, but it feels a bit self-indulgent. So I’ll conclude with this. You never know what someone might be going through in the background, and although something might be considered crazy to one person, it shouldn’t be forgotten that it’s very real to the person suffering. Be compassionate, empathise and try not to be so quick to judge.

Nowadays, I regularly talk to my dad. He’s been diagnosed with schizo-affective disorder, something massively different to bipolar disorder. He has both good and bad days, but it seems like he’s finally in a place where he feels safe, is well looked after and has a good balance of medication. It took roughly 12 years to do so, so what I would say to anyone who may know someone suffering, is that patience is key, and as I said, be empathetic.