I was once a Missing Person: Random Reflections of when I Ranaway • 03.13.08
If you’re keeping up to date with the blog then you’ll be aware that I once ran away. There has been fleeting mentions of this particular period in my life in several of the posts. The most recent mention was in The Video Adventures of Addy in Scotland: Inverness where I describe this particular period as simply “(a long story)”.
Well, slip on your most comfortable undies and whisk up that hot chocolate as I’m about to tell that story.
On Train: Guildford>>London Waterloo.
11th September 1997 - 7:12pm.
This is insane.
Still - I am 2hrs 20mins away from alienating family, friends and close acquaintances.
For the last five years or so - possibly stretching onto six or seven - I have never felt like me in my entirety. Sure I have got on with things: I’ve loved but I haven’t, I’ve lived but I haven’t.
The ‘event’ which most people (I’m sure) will recall happening during September 1997 was the death of Princess Diana. This actually happened the first day I was there. Waking up in the morning I flicked on the TV, found my show wasn’t on because of some annoying news flash, so pilfered my bro’s VHS collection (those were the days) and ended up watching Balto. When this movie ended I flicked back onto the TV to find the shows I was expecting still not on and this infernal newsfla…oh…Princess Diana has been killed. Ok. Right. Fair enough.
It really changed the whole feel of the week, instead of a lightning fast rush around of Guildford with occasional trips to London to party on in the West End and Soho, it was a much more contemplative period. At the time, despite suffering from social anxiety, I was still able to go to plays and concerts and would always try to catch at least one show whenever I was in London. On this occasion I seem to recall watching Shopping and F*****gwhich was rather interesting but - oooooohhhh, naked breasts! Shock!
As the days rolled on I watched some movies, wandered the streets, wrote to my hearts content, and generally carried onwards with my break from home. Princess Diana’s funeral came and went, Candle in the Windplayed in all the shops and I meandered the ghost-city Guildford had become. Then, walking back from the supermarket one night, I just said to myself, “I’m going to Scotland,”
If I were to try and explain my reasons this the only answer I could give would be ummmmmmm? Because I have absolutely no idea. It came out of nowhere and I just did it. Massively out of character for me, really. There I was watching movies, checking out live-theatre-breasts and watching the public reaction to Diana’s death - then suddenly, I was writing dozens of letters to all sorts of people because I just had to write them right then and there before I went and then I packed, threw everything I had into a backpack, wandered to the train station, journeyed to London Euston and boarded the sleeper train to Inverness.
No phone calls.
Didn’t tell anyone.
Just left a letter in my brother’s flat.
Loch Ness Backpackers: Lewiston (nr Drumnadrochit):
“What I did stumble onto was a split in what I thought was the Ness, an island in the middle. Various people passed by in both directions so I guessed it went somewhere. I just kept going. After an extremely fast hour or so I began milling on thoughts in self-conversation. “This is the Caledonian canal. It must be…it must!” I worked out in a somewhat over excited fit of glee and still ongoing disbelief of the situation I had placed myself into. Only after I found that the island I was on didn’t go anywhere, causing me to turn back some ½ a mile to cross a lock and experience my first meeting with a Scot (a really cool woman in a grocer store near the Donagharry Lock) to venture out to my forethought route - the A82. Cars, lorries, coaches, bikes all deafening me as I continued on.”
[Oh, all the "italicised" bits are actual extracts from the journal I kept during that period.]
Anyway, I arrived in Inverness and just carried on with the plan I had formulated over those hectic two days before leaving Guildford. It was a simple plan that can be summed up in 9 words:
I was going to walk from Inverness to Drumnadrochit.
Now, anyone who has ever been to this particular part of Scotland will know of the A82. It is the main road (Highway if you like) which runs between Inverness, Fort William and Glasgow. It is a bitch of a road; there’s no sidewalks or space for walkers, so to find a bizarre guy with a 15kg backpack wandering down this stretch of road is not all that common. However for one particular bus driver it became common that day as we waved at each other every time he drove past.
Loch Ness Backpackers: Lewiston (nr Drumnadrochit):
“My mind. Even being blasted with joy and hate as it was, still forged on, despising the thought of the HUGE blisters and stiff to rigid muscles I would have when I finally decided to stop.
Drumnadrochit is nothing to what I imagined (as I couldn’t remember from my one visit as a child). For some obscure reason I pictured a quaint little fisher town on the very shores of the loch with bustling streets full of eccentric Scots and pleasing “O’Hara” beauties. It is in fact fairly small, a good ¾ of a mile from the loch’s shore, has only a few touristy shops and a post office. It is pretty quiet and comprises of mainly B&Bs. After buying an ice lolly (funky lemon calypso) and water I choose (for some unidentifiable reason) to push on further; to see the castle up close for surely it isn’t far. It can’t be. About a mile at a slowing pace: it is a splendid beauty, utterly gorgeous from the distance I viewed it at. A photo was taken, the water guzzled - I was asked by a tourist about B&Bs - why? Like I know! I decide to find somewhere at Drumnadrochit instead of killing my feet even further.”
Again, if I were to try and explain my reasons for doing all this the only answer I could give would be ummmmmmm?
Following my hike from Inverness to Drumnadrochit I journeyed to Fort William by bus, exploring for the first time a town which has become so intertwined with my life, and it was days before thoughts began creeping into my mind about what it was that I had actually done. Which was, to all intent and purpose, the fact I had vanished off the face of the planet.
I had written in the letter to my family (the one left in my brother’s flat) that I was going away and that I’d phone them. I didn’t mention that I was going to Scotland, nor of my plan to walk to Drum, despite the fact that I knew all this before writing the letter. Again, I have no idea why I didn’t write this.
It’s because of this lack of cohesion, or memory of the specific events, that I’ve connected this to bipolar. By the time I ran away I had been self-harming for several years, social anxiety was rife and my ability to communicate with people virtually non-existent. Depression was prevalent and controlling, and from the remaining journal entries of the time, suicide was being bandied about as an option. I wouldn’t say this was a true manic phase, but the immediacy of the decision, the utter conviction of my plans and feeling rather confident that it was without a shadow of a doubt the right thing to do, all in some way, throw positives on the bipolar connection.
I’ve never been proud of this period of my life. Not once. Ever.
Running away from home was a terrible thing to do, and the pain and worry I caused my family was completely unacceptable (and I paid for this upon my return). So writing now that I believe it to be connected with the then undiagnosed or even unthought of bipolar seems like making light of my actions, even excusing them, but this isn’t the case. I did the wrong thing - but for me, at the time, it was the only thing that felt right to do.
Despite the pain I was causing my family back home things were quietly simmering away for me in Scotland.
The Mission Backpacker Hostel: Fort William:
Take for example my return at F. Willy train station, I usually walk with my head facing downwards yes? Well today I didn’t, when I exited the train for the first time in memory I was walking with my head upright, it may not sound much but to me that was everything. I passed a pretty girl and in the past eye contact would not have been made, but as it was I automatically flashed a smile. Knowing myself, and my shy soul, this was a major advancement and something must be going right.
This was “huge” for me at the time. I never ever ever made eye contact with strangers - the mere thought of doing so was enough to cause a panic attack so to actually, without hesitation or thought make eye contact and smile at a complete (yet utterly beautiful) stranger was amazing!
Though, since the diagnosis of bipolar I’ve been looking back over my life at these moments of madness and confused reality and things have become skewed as to whether it was truly me or perhaps the manic-me.
At the time I ran away I hadn’t even heard of bipolar, didn’t know what manic depression was. I knew about depression and self harm, obviously, even though I never spoke of it. At this time I was just a crazy teen who’d runaway from home; despite no-one I was meeting actually being told this. I mean, c’mon, you don’t tell someone you’ve run away do you? Kinda defeats the purpose. That’s hard enough for a normal runaway, let alone someone who suffers from a mental illness.
What a lot of people don’t seem to realise is that some sufferers of mental illness have great difficulty talking about how they’re feeling. Sometimes because they don’t even know themselves. I was - am- one of these people. The social anxiety makes everything a hundred times worse but talking about my feelings has always been something I’ve been terrible at, which is something that has infuriated so many people in my life. I dread to think of the number of homeless, runaways and missing persons out there who are mentally ill, unable to comprehend what’s happening or even how they got to where they are. All those lost, aimlesss, confused souls filling all the gaps in the world which most people don’t even notice exist.
I guess I notice them ’cause I’ve been there. I’ve slept under trees, on benches and in minus temperatures. I’ve been homeless and penniless and on the brink of disaster.
Anyhow.
My travels continued.
I spent the weekend in Fort William, visited Glenfinnan - a place which has become so closely intertwined with my life and fate - and then travelled back up the A82 to Inverness where the social anxiety continued to decrease slightly.
Bazpackers Hostel - Inverness:
It’s the time we spent seemingly unaware of each others names that is surreally amusing. We were together for the most part from about 6 thru 11 last night, chatting for a couple of hours at the hostel before venturing to the streets of Inverness for a pint or two. After being drowned out of an Irish bar by the football on big screen TV w4e lost ourselves looking for a hostel-recommended place known as the ‘old market inn’ after half an hour traipsing, directions asked, we found it: down an alley, up a thin flight of stairs to a room no larger than my bedroom back home. It was quaint. Quiet. But somehow inviting: as a live singer milled up to the stage to perform some easy going well played tunes. He wasn’t bad. However, we were after something a little more lively so pushed on, popping into a bar where the pink haired hostel girl worked - then just wandering uneventfully round the town, across the river, simply chatting.
From there I travelled to Aberdeen, through Portlethen and then down to Stirling. Memories of my childhood firing back at me on all cylinders. I would think of home, of my parents and friends, all the letters I’d written, wondering why or how and what I was going to say. But as I couldn’t answer this I never picked up the phone. Stirling led to Edinburgh, Edinburgh led to…home.
And the inevitable showdown.
From my own experience the fear and dread of re-emerging after disappearing off the face of the Earth was enough to make me not want to return. Is this the same for all runaways? Is this why so many people just disappear? Because the fear surrounding the reality of what they’ve done is too consuming for them to deal with? It was incredibly hard to do, to see the relief on their faces, hear of being reported missing (for the first, but not last time of my life) and the pain and confusion I had put them through. As I said before, I have always felt ashamed of running away, but in another way exhilarated also.
That may sound callous, but it’s true. That week opened up my life. Until then it had been social anxiety, self harm, depression and confused blackness. Now - there was a whole world out there. There were places called backpacker hostels out there! This alone would have huge repercussions later in my life!
The final journal passage of this trip read as follows:
Carlisle Train Station -
So we reach Carlisle and I am now, once again, officially out of the country I will always call ‘home’. To be totally honest I feel such a great connection with the country that I honestly believe I spent a former life amongst it’s gorgeous glens. Either that or I’ve taken way too much solace in it over the years! Still, it has been a grand week. From the rolling fields and sloping hills of the lowlands to the treacherous mountains and mysterious lochs of the highlands. I have had a wondrous time. Maybe it’s down to the people I’ve met; the Islamic Enigma, Danny, Paul, The pink haired girl, the kind drunken couple, and lest not forget the funky Canadian. Or maybe it was the sights I have seen; the view over Loch Shiel from the viaduct, seeing the dark mountains and mist covered water of Loch Ness, passing through old haunts or the darkened built up beauty of the capitol. It’s all been a wonder.
Then again.
Maybe it’s down to the fact I lived a dream. Or for the first time in years know me. At some point I would have feared what may be awaiting back home, now, after the last week, I don’t care. Things have to happen and payments made for the decisions we make.
I feel good, about me. For the first time in years I feel truthfully happy.
Happy.
From this, you could say that I’m praising running away as a valid decent choice. It’s not!The pain I caused was far worse than any of the positives which came out of that event. In the long term also, the positives faded and I descended into a far worse period of depression than I had been in before I ran. This is the problem with running away. Everyone has problems and everyone wants them to go away, but running is never the answer.
With so many lost souls out there unsure of what was, is and will happen in their lives I wonder how many are suffering from mental illness and not getting the treatment they need, I wonder why they ran away in the first place, and what made them feel so alone in the world to make them want to. Having been there, I understand the confusion and torment which can go on in someone’s mind when they decide to vanish, and the hardship in making contact to let people know where they are.
Talking, opening up and sharing your problems is hard; but no-one in life needs - or should ever be - alone.
