#2017things

Three years ago me and Darren were going to be basically made homeless by the housing association we’re with. The flat we lived in wasn’t owned by them but an elderly man who owned the shop below us. He had a 25year contract with them and it was stipulated that if he died before the 25years was up, the flats would be still given to the housing association to rent out to help people. But then the 25years were up and his sons wanted to sell it and the housing association couldn’t afford to buy. We were given priority on bidding for a new property and took the first place we could get, where we live now. 

Until this point my agoraphobia was manageable. I could go outside as long as I was with someone I trusted. And I was okay here until a few months in and then a series of very serious incidents happened with other residents in surrounding flats which made me feel unsafe living here, which obviously meant a huge decline in my mental and physical health. When I went to see T2 in January, that was my first time in two years outside of our housing complex. My illness no longer felt like a prison that I could leave whenever I had the strength, but something that had taken over me and I had no control of being of because of how oppressive this place feels. Darren is a happy-go-lucky sort and he even hates living here and how it’s changed our lives for the worse. And there’s barely any room. There’s a post on this site about living in a tiny flat and the world outside could be horrible but at least you have each other. Nah. You need your space. We did all of that when we were 20 and 23, and living like that made me ill in the first place. I’ve been with Darren for 16 years and we’ve gotta have our space from each other. There is none here. 

It took me a while to decide to reapply for new housing because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. We have a roof over our heads so I thought we should see ourselves as lucky. But with every serious incident that happened and my health declining, we finally decided that something needed to be done. Our housing officer agreed for my health that we could go back onto the list to reapply given how living here has almost destroyed me. 

So after nine months of there being nothing on the list, last October we bid on a house. Usually you’re not allowed if you don’t have kids but a new housing association were offering a house for couples without kids. We applied and we got a viewing. We didn’t get it in the end but were told we were top five, and in being so we would be put on their list for a house. We were ecstatic. But then we heard nothing. Darren would call them every week about having our meeting with them and they said they were organising the other couples first. Then in January we were told we should never have been told we could have a house in the first place. I was devastated. 

Since January, every time we’ve bid on somewhere and lost, a part of me feels as if it’s been chipped away. This is the lowest I’ve felt since I had nervous breakdown at the age of 20, and my first real suicidal thoughts since I was 15. It has been increasingly difficult to believe I could have some sort of future. I’m 33 now, Darren is almost 37. It’s difficult to see that there was any way out, and we can’t privately rent because we only have Darren’s wage. Then my indefinite DLA was taken from me due to the swap over to PIP (which I can’t get, another horrible story I won’t get into), and I’ve been on the brink of very bad things. My sister owns her own place, has her kids. My cousins all own their own houses. They’re all younger than me and it’s hard to think that you have any future prospects. A couple of weeks ago we bid on a perfect place and it was another no. Even my lovely dad, who is 60 and works nights in a car production factory, found himself apologising to me because my parents don’t have enough money to help me out and can’t even afford to retire yet. One of the worst things in the world has been hearing my dad beg me not to do something silly and to keep the faith (he’s not religious, just a massive northern soul fan). I don’t know how I’ve continued to get through it. 

Then yesterday, Darren received a phone call. There were two flats to bid on and not just one. The people above us on the list had refused to view it because they’d bid without realising where the flat was situated, so the second flat is ours if we want it. It’s everything that I hoped it would be. Two bedrooms, ground floor, and on a housing scheme for people over 40 (we have special dispensation to bid because of my illnesses). The scheme is across the road from my town’s museum, which is one of my favourite places. When Darren returned from work he did a big Sam Pinkett, ‘I haaaaaave it.’ We were both stunned. We both still are. Darren had to call them again this morning just to check that it was real. It’s very real.

Tomorrow Darren is going to view it and it looks like we’ll be moving in within the next week or so. I thought I would feel daunted or that I would feel as if I don’t deserve to move, but I can’t wait. We packed up most of our bedroom stuff last night. When we moved here we had to give away a lot of stuff as our place is so small compared to the one we had to leave, so it isn’t going to take long to get out of here, but the fact that we’ll need so much new stuff is incredibly daunting. I’ll finally have a space to write. Cecil will have lots more room. My nieces will be able to sleepover. I haven’t seen my BFF for two years (she lives in Scotland) so she can finally visit us. I feel like my life is finally being allowed to start again.