Rescue Me

Minute’s silence done. Pantomime prep on hold (it’s written, it’s cast and we’re rehearsing!) This morning’s cake delivered and nothing more until next week, (though a couple of enquiries to follow up). Period pains muted by ibuprofen, and the ludicrous and inconvenient haemorrhaging every time I stand up seems to have stemmed itself. (Sharing. You’re welcome.) It’s time to write the blog entry that could possibly save me from my latest predicament, but will definitely make me feel better for writing it.

(I know, I know – my intention was to dish the merde on Le Français, but this new issue has splatted onto the top of the pile and sits there, steaming away until I deal with it.)

Yes, of course I’m aware that the world has bigger fish to fry this week (or at least one bigoted old turbot…), and yes, I am incredibly lucky. Don’t you think I don’t know that? I practise gratitude on a daily basis. Religions aim it at their gods, often in the form of praise. I aim it at… I don’t know. The universe? Nature? Whatever it is that has brought me into this world and keeps me going, I’m grateful for. I’m grateful for beautiful sunrises and birdsong; the sky above my head; for fresh air, autumn colours, decaff Earl Grey and Lindt chocolate; for the ability to walk and think; see and hear; sing and feel. And live. I know that any of these things could disappear as suddenly as they arrived, so while they are here I bathe in their beauty, scrubbing my back with the loofah of wonder and drying myself with the towel of thankfulness.

I know that there are many, many people worse off than me. Unfortunately, thinking about them at times like this doesn’t help. It adds to my guilt and makes me speculate that maybe I’m looking at this molehill like it’s Everest. This is my problem and whatever happens, I will cope. It is not the end of the world by a long chalk, only the demolition of my little world, whose green shoots haven’t had a chance to establish roots on the rubble of the last razing.

So taking all that as read, this is the problem: My landlady is selling the house I rent.

HOW I GOT HERE

Backstory time. Be warned, I’m indulging myself in a spot of writing here, so if you don’t fancy another episode of Jacka-snory, move on to the next sub-heading. (Move on. Always with the moving…)

In my forty-one and a quarter years, I have lived at twenty-two different addresses. Twenty-two. Two before adulthood; thirteen as a student (1993 – 1998). This is my seventh address in the last fifteen years, and I only moved here in April 2014. In all that time I don’t believe I have ever felt as settled as I am now.

Being the avid reader of my blog that you are, and not just a casual glancer (e.g. someone who I served in the Mind shop last week and we got chatting and I directed you to this website,) you’ll know of my turbulent times recently i.e. Hodgkin Lymphoma (diagnosed and dispatched), splitting up with long-term partner (X), moving into home alone, depression, la la la, all since Jan 2012. X and I had a mutual parting of the ways, but were able to remain housemates for a whole fifteen months after splitting. Sadly, we realised that neither of us could grow in this situation, so it was decided (again, mutually) that I was to find my own place. I’d been dreading that moment from the minute we became single. It was every bit as unpleasant as I had expected – trawling websites to see house after unsuitable house. The first one I saw that I tolerated enough to view… was here.

It had only been on the site for a few hours. I booked an appointment immediately, and was third in line. X accompanied me. I managed to hold it together quite well. I knew I had to live somewhere else, and this place was OK. Not as nice as the place I was leaving by a long chalk. Also, it represented something scary – a life on my own, with no-one to support me but me. I’d only done that once before, sixteen years ago – my bedsit in the town next to the school where I taught briefly. That ended in a massive breakdown from which it took a while to recover. With X chatting with the agent behind me, I stood on the garden decking and cried. I did not want this, but I had it.

Despite all that, I managed to talk myself round. There was something about this house. When I closed my eyes, I could see me standing in the kitchen, working away. It felt right. Yes please, I said, telling the bemused agent to ignore my tears. Ah, but I wasn’t first in the queue was I? And both previous viewers had said the same. The Number Ones had been rejected instantly due to their pet ownership. (Ha! I thought. Silly cat-loving fools. I reap the benefit while you have to keep looking, while vacuuming animal hair from everything you have.) However, the “Number Twos” (totally appropriate name) had a life devoid of clogged Dyson filters... and became the new tenants of the only place I could see myself living.

I was devastated. Not just upset - M&S upset, which is what you get when you are depressed. The littlest, tiniest thing is magnified beyond all reason, and that’s just the littlest, tiniest thing. Something like this set me back weeks. It was too much to even look at a property website again. Black clouds were all around me. I retreated to my fur-lined rut and pulled the covers over my head. However, I could still see me standing in the kitchen, baking away and being happy. Was this a cruel torture? Or was it a future prediction? Maybe so, because the estate agent called me a few days later, saying that the NTs had failed their credit check and did I still want to rent the house.

What? Lizzie wins? Not quite, as they also needed me to prove I could afford it, which meant proving I was earning 2.5 times more than the rent. “I’ll save you the bother of an investigation,” I said. “I’m not.” I wasn’t far off it at that time, and a generous intervention from X (he is a kind man, who probably wanted a kitchen of his own too – one that wasn’t permanently coated in a thin veil of icing sugar…) meant that I was in.

I moved the day before Good Friday 2014. I called it Bad Thursday. To begin with, my new neighbour wasted no time in reducing me to tears. X had called to see how I was doing, and parked his car across my driveway. Mr Cross-Pants-next-door’s first words to me were swearing and ranting and going on about “you people” (meaning the inferior life form that tenants are, as opposed to house owners, thus reinforcing what I thought of myself at that moment). Apparently, he couldn’t get out of his driveway because X’s car was near it. Not in front of it, not obscuring it – near it. What a welcome.

Over the next few months I did my best to settle in. A handful of pals (including one who passed away the following year – not my fault, honest!) turned up a week later to help me load and unload a big van packed with my possessions, of which I have a LOT. They left me despairing among the boxes, alone and suddenly scratching away at various bits of my bod. For a short while I was scared as this had been one of my cancer symptoms, but the tiny red bumps that clustered below my knees reassured me. Not cancer, just fleas. Houses absorb a lot of effort to make them homes. I knew because I’d done it twenty-ish times before, mostly on my own. New sounds, new places to put things, new furniture needed. Battling with bugs was not on my list, and it compounded the pain. But I vowed it was going to be different. I beat cancer! I can beat this! This time I’m going to be staying; I’m darn well going to settle. A few visits from a pest control expert, and a few thousand mg of antidepressant, and I succeeded. Gradually, I went past settling and through to loving. I love living here. I accepted that maybe one day I might have to leave, but that that day would be miles away in the future. Not early next year. I am not ready to go.

WHY I LOVE IT

I know exactly where to start: The kitchen. It was the room that made me gasp, the one I pictured myself in. It’s where I’m sitting right now. I have different housing needs because I work from home, and I don’t just mean gawping at my laptop. The kitchen/dining room is perfect for me to do my baking in. The space, the gas burners, the two ovens and the centre island. The skylights – it’s a very light, airy house which works wonderfully against my depression. I look out of the window and there is green and evidence of other people. I’ve made a point of introducing myself to the neighbours and being friendly and helpful where possible, even to the chap that shouted at me on day one. (He’s had a couple of other rants too, and yet I’m still polite and civil when I see him – life is too short not to be. I wish he could see past the end of His Driveway to realise that.)

It’s not a massive house, but it’s a generous size for one person. I have filled it with my personality, which I never realised that I had been suppressing while cohabiting. It’s familiar like an old friend. The squeak of the top step, the stains on the carpet that I swear I will shampoo out when I get around to it. When I close the bedroom door at night, I am safe and peaceful. It’s just me and my home. That gratitude thing – I have done it thousands of times standing in the hallway, or resting my head against a door jamb. Feeling the solid walls almost embracing me. I am grateful beyond belief to be living here. After that less-than-auspicious start, it has taken an extraordinary amount of strength and self-improvement (and drugs) to get me to feel this way about this building.

I’m also deeply in love with the area. I’ll be heartbroken to leave the house, but desolate to leave Dursley and Cam. It’s everything I love – open countryside, rolling hills, trees, but also shops and people and things to do, community to be part of, customers to be had - all at a convenient walking distance. I have never, ever been so happily situated before. The area is something I might be able to remain in of course, so that’s less of a concern, but still a concern.

REASONS TO STAY

When I write it all out it seems so trivial. I expect most of you will be saying “So what? Why should Princess Lizzie get to stay in her palace?” Sometimes I think that too, but most of the other times I’m falling apart, or trying hard not to.

Since the spring, I have done exceptionally well. The cake-baking business is soaring. I’ve made forty-two cakes here, twenty-eight this year and all for paying customers. I am following up two enquiries, I have another five cakes booked in. And I haven’t even been advertising! I’ve been feeling so amazingly well this summer that I’m finding the courage to charge better prices. Plus courage to offer myself as a singer to places if they will pay me. I am poised to do that… but it’s all on hold while I wipe this excrement from the ventilation device.

On Monday I was beside myself with grief, and all the behaviours and feelings that I have controlled since the spring came back in one dollop that had me pinned to the shower, unable to move. Literally unable to move. Panic attacks can take different forms, and some are of-the- everything – is -  s – l – o – w –ing  down variety. I got stuck, hugging myself and leaning my head on the tiles as the water cascaded. I knew I had to be somewhere and I was late, but getting on with it was not an option at that moment. The somewhere I had to be was the charity shop where I have been a volunteer for just over twelve months. It’s helping me more than I help it, and this was a case in point. Knowing I was due there helped me overcome the panic. “I won’t let anyone down,” I repeated through the mixture of tears and shower, and gradually I was able to bring myself together. The rest of the week has been the same.

I could do without this overwhelming tiredness. It’s sucking hours out of my days. I get up (a struggle, as I’m often groggy when the alarm goes), I get a bit of work done, then I start to nod off like an old person. No, bod, I do NOT want to fall asleep after lunch and wake up a few hundred minutes later wondering what the hell the time is. It’s difficult because bed is somewhere warm and secure where worries can drift away. My winter duvet is heavy and soft, like someone’s arms around me. If I need a hug (and I do, repeatedly), that’s where I’ll go. The big D makes sleep even more enticing. The dream world is not the real world therefore it can’t hurt me. Come to bed, Lizzie…

 I don’t have much time on this planet. I really don’t want to waste it sleeping day and night.

One of my tactics for fighting this awful condition has been to fill my time and do as much for other people as I can. My goodness me, it works. It’s another thing that has taken a lot of courage and mental effort to do. I don’t want to have to set it all up again. My new (and as yet unrevealed on this blog) hobby is also based locally. Yeah I know I could do it anywhere, but not with the people I do it with here. It’s close. I cycle. I walk, absorbing the delicious country all about me. I LOVE IT HERE. I know I won’t necessarily have to leave this town. It’s just another reason why I want to stay.

I don’t want to live with other people. In that multitude of addresses is included a plethora of housemates, some were born housemates, some achieved housemateness; others had housemate status thrust upon ‘em. As I’m not good with work colleagues, so I’m even less able with home colleagues. Living alone works for me. It’s a two-way thing – no-one to irritate me, likewise no-one I can irritate by working odd hours or leaving the kitchen after a marathon caking session to sleep (or even live a few days) before I’ve cleared it up. I’m not good with through-the-wall noises, especially bass beats or kids screaming. Conversely, I sing. Very loudly, a lot of the time, whenever I feel like it. I’ve taken to practising piano just before bed. I am not a quiet girl. My current through-the-wall neighbour is so deaf that (if I had one) I could turn the volume down on my TV and listen to his instead. This actually doesn’t bother me! At least I know he’s alive…

The space works for me. The lounge is predominantly a music room (see previous blog entry) housing my piano, now furnished with the Grade 2 pieces I am fast-tracking my way through. I’m making that dream a reality, and that is definitely thanks to the house.

It is not to say that I won’t find somewhere I love just as well, maybe better. The point I am making is that I don’t want to have to. If it ain’t broke etc.

Moving takes a lot of effort – physically and mentally. Finding somewhere, viewing it, liking it, having your application accepted. Then all the packing and worrying while you continue with your daily life. The day itself. The aftermath – all that settling in malarkey, changing postal addresses for everything you are signed up to. Getting broadband and phone suppliers sorted out. I know I’m an expert now, but it doesn’t get any easier.

Each time I’ve moved, the transport and assistance I’ve needed to do so has increased in size. I can’t imagine what vast vehicle I’ll have to hire this time, nor the swathes of mates I will have to beg to help. At least I know that there are mates. And, like the items I have accumulated in my time here, there are many more than there were when I moved in. Unlike those items, I won’t be having to flog them to make space and reduce my embarrassment at having them all paraded out in front of me and bunged in a van. 

REASONS TO GO

Because I have to.

THE PROBLEM

Why can’t I remain? The Landlady has been very kind throughout my stay in her house. She continues to extend that kindness by offering me first dibs on the house. Me? Buy a house? I never saw myself as a homeowner, for reasons that take us to the crux of the matter – cold, hard cash and my lack thereof.

If you want some figures, I can let you know privately. It might be foolhardy of me to discuss finances in detail on this worldwide stage. Suffice it to say that I have Y% deposit scraped together, meaning I would need to borrow £Zk to make the balance. Easy peasy? For an employed person maybe. For a couple. For an employed couple, lovely. Not for “businesswoman” Lizzie Lindsell, spinster of this parish.

Everyone has to jump through hoops to achieve a mortgage, right. If you are self-employed, they add a few more hoops and stick them up high. Then set fire to them. Then hand you a blindfold. I’d have less chance of getting through than a hell-bound snowball. I have to provide evidence of my income for the past five years. As mentioned earlier, they haven’t been the greatest five years of my life, so my income isn’t half of what it would need to be. I’m trying to get some solid financial advice on this, but not getting far as the advisers take a look at my figures and, knowing that commission on £0 is £0, don’t get back to me. Not even to laugh in my stupid hopeful face.

SUMMARY

(For the word-shy and time-pressed)

1)      Landlord selling house I rent.

2)      I cannot buy it.

3)      I don’t want to move.

4)      Please help.

WHAT TO DO

As a true Lizzie, I am not giving up without a fight. (I will fight first - then I’ll give up.) However the first battle is getting myself battle-ready, through the renewed depression and everything else. I don’t need this now. The pantomime, Mind and [new hobby] are where I’m diverting my waning energy because they keep me sane and stop me thinking of myself. Most importantly, I have to keep working, and working harder as my income MUST increase. Christmas is usually a good time for sales, though I don’t have the Food Fairs any more, making it less easy to find custom. Maybe five years down the line I will be in a position to buy, but I don’t have five years. I haven’t even got five weeks. The house will go on the market at the end of November.

You will argue to me that I can make anywhere my home. I’ve done it before, you will say: I can do it again. Let me stop you right there. I KNOW. And I will if I must because I will have no choice. Oh Lizzie, you’ll cry, you are such a strong person. I AM. But maybe I’m fed up of being strong, huh? Maybe I’m exhausted and could do with some respite for a change.

I’m still trying to get advice. I’ve heard that there is government assistance, though how helpful that will be, and my eligibility are still unknowns.

I could try crowdfunding, but I haven’t the first idea of how to go about it. And besides, who’d give me money just so I can live in a house I like? There are many more, worthier causes. I’d feel a fraud even asking.

Reading this over, I see that my thinking has slipped back to the old “poor me wah wah wah” style which I do not want to resurrect. I need to find the positivity. Here’s a little tip for picking yourself out of a depressive slump:

Focus on something else.

This is so effective, but requires concentration if you’re doing it by yourself. It’s quite easy too. E.g. walking back home this morning I started to cry. Knowing this wasn’t what I wanted, I made myself look at my surroundings. It’s like waving a rattle at a crying baby. A distraction technique. The beautiful autumn morning helped a great deal. Don’t just look though - see. I saw autumn leaves on the ground, some still clinging on, some falling as I passed and such beautiful colours. I saw starlings taking a bath in a gutter. A blackbird hopping about on a lawn. The sky over my head – that’s a very good one. The sky is always there. Look up and feel its greatness. It’s vast and it’s right above you. Listening is good too – such beautiful birdsong on a really peaceful morning. I didn’t even notice that I’d stopped crying, and I was no longer hunched over as I walked. A couple of caveats though: firstly, it won’t work if you don’t want it to. You must allow it. Secondly, ignore the crap stuff you might also see. I noticed litter and it made me angry, but that was not helpful. Getting cross about it and even picking it up and taking it to a bin was for another day.

The reason I wrote this is to ask for help. Help can come in many forms. If there’s none to be had, that’s fine. No-one and nothing, except maybe your eyeballs, will have been harmed by my asking.

CAN YOU HELP?

I don’t want something for nothing. I don’t know what I want really, other than to stay here. I’m an excellent tenant (no pets, no kids, respect for the property, rent paid on time) and I always say that sarcastically, but it’s true! If I could part-own the house, that would be even better. Giving me a chance to build my income and investing my piddly deposit into something that might make it grow. If staying is not an option, I will accept it, but it will take everything I have and more besides to keep my head on the air side of the River of Despond.

Email me at thewizzylizzie@gmail.com with your thoughts or kind words; share this blog as far and wide as you can. There must be someone, somewhere who can throw me a lifeline.

In the meantime I am bracing myself for the ultimate cruelty of my situation – assisting in a house sale that I don’t want to happen and won’t benefit from. All the stuff one does to prep for selling - I’ll do it. And with good grace, because it’s right and that is much more important than winning.

This lightning storm

This tidal wave

This avalanche, I'm not afraid

C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry