The Day After

I woke up the day after Notice Day, after not-really enough sleep, with the now wonderfully-familiar sounds of the randy wood-pigeons cooing to each other being almost immediately marred by a flooding of sadness. Realising that, in itself, made me further upset as I faced the unfairness of it all: what right did anyone have to steam into my life, our lives, our plans, our long-awaited moments of joy and plant their own timetable of What We Must Do Now? How could it be that after so long, so many struggles, so much hardship in our lives, and even the myriad of stresses we’d had in the short time we’d been here let alone all that went before, that now, just as we finally felt able to relax and surrender ourselves – guilt-free – to the beauty, the tranquillity, the enrichment that this place held for us, to the safety of making plans for the summer and further ahead… how could it be that some stranger could say, “Stop! You have to scrap all that now. You need to focus all your mental and emotional time and energy on finding somewhere else to live”! It was like that moment when someone snatches the needle off a rotating record and scratches it to an audible halt, brutally snapping you back from wherever it had taken you, except there was no actual sound, not even a conversation. There’d just been a devastating, silent, email and a slyly hand-delivered envelope. No warning, no explanation, no knowing whether this was a tactic, a potential bargaining position, or just the end. Like witnessing a life cut short, I realised I was experiencing grief, all the stages fighting for dominance. I sobbed, silently, again. 

I’d finally gone to bed the night before knowing that there was much I needed to do, but the not-knowing why – and the inevitable second-guessing with all its ruminatory rabbit-holes  – was nearly as big a part of the emotional distress as the Notice itself. I knew instinctively that I needed to regain some control.

So, that morning after the night before, acknowledging that wave of sadness but before doing anything else – apart from making coffee, though it’s decaf so doesn’t sound quite so motivating – I got my laptop, sat up in bed with it and looked up the housing register info on my local authority website. Once found, the process starts off by first checking eligibility for social housing and/or support, and then, the application itself. I knew from working in social housing for many years and from my Social Policy studies before that, that social housing stock in the UK was woefully outstripped by the ever-increasing demand, so getting an actual ‘council house’ these days was almost unheard of, but I also knew that there were hoops I needed to jump through in order to qualify for other sorts of support, and ultimately, I needed a safety net. Despite outwardly living the life of privilege and luxury in what passers-by probably think is a holiday or second home, I am still a single-parent to two disabled* children, (technically able to call myself disabled as well), and completely dependent on the benefits system – something incidentally, I have never taken for granted and thank my lucky stars to have been born in a part of the world where we have one, no matter what its faults. I have no savings now – I do put money aside when I can but inevitably it gets used for something before getting very far – and crucially, no independent income. As I said in my last post, on paper, I am literally worthless. Simply finding another private rental property, without the security of a financially-worthy joint tenant and especially now that we were under time pressure, was not going to be simple at all, or easy, and I hated the letting agent and the owner for what they were about to make me go through, and how vulnerable they’d left me feeling.

On top of that, my expenses since moving here had gone through the roof, pun partially intended. The owner of our property – completely absent from the entire rental process – has a neighbour who acts on her behalf in dealing with the letting agents. (The expression ‘too many cooks’ has come to mind many times since living here.) We invited her round in an act of new neighbourliness when we first moved in and she described this prefab style property in no uncertain terms as an “asbestos shed”, never having been designed for full-time occupancy, but rather as the second home it looks like. The actual house part – it has many parts, which I really like – we now know has no solid walls at all, being just timber-framed, with asbestos panels (as was common at the time of building) and exterior plastic cladding. There’s no gas. There are reasonably new, but pitifully inadequate electric heaters – having replaced the old night-storage heaters which I suspect may actually have been more efficient – but the trickle of heat these produce goes straight out of the walls, the windows, the ceilings, and  – most crucially from what I’ve read – the completely un-insulated timber floor. Our first night here was spent ‘camping’ for fun, before moving in proper, and my beloved and I spent the night miserably shivering in our sleeping bag as our airbed slowly deflated and we lay on almost the bare floorboards with the wind already blowing a hoolie through every nook and cranny, including a strange little trap in the bedroom floor. It was still only September, and yes, we did question what the hell we’d done, but decided to make the best of it. “We’ll get carpet!” we exclaimed, “and decent insulation under it!” which we did, our first large expense to make the property more liveable, knowing that we would be here for a long time. (The girls’ rooms, I hasten to add, were already carpeted and smaller, retaining heat better than our more exposed, bare-floorboarded corner bedroom, with damaged outer cladding. They thought the camping thing was such good fun that they actually didn’t want their beds moved in for ages, and their love for the place had a major impact on our decision-making.)

I wasn’t on benefits at the time we finally, properly moved in as this was to be our new, shared home, and my partner’s income and savings propelled us, excitingly, out of that need. It really was an exciting time, and we were both high on the potential of our new relationship and new togetherness in our new, hopefully very wonderful, creatively-inspiring home. Money wasn’t an issue, we foolishly thought. But, the pressures on us all soon tainted everything, every interaction, as I felt resentment sneaking in: I’d lost my independence and felt obliged to play the role of dutiful housewife, asking for shopping money as well as supporting my man in his work, and somehow finding the time and energy to start generating my own income whilst doing all the other things I already did. My mental load quickly became overload and my mood changed dramatically. He realised the burden he’d taken on and was increasingly stressed about all-things financial. My youngest girl struggled immensely with sharing her life, her unfamiliar home, and most of all, me, with someone else on a day-and-night basis, despite our gradual lead-in to living together and her having an extra person who did his utmost to bond with her, plus she undoubtedly picked up on our growing tension. Some days were good, really good, but others were truly awful and the anger and angst that my littlest one carries inside her as a reaction to a world that overwhelms and frustrates her, came out in full-force. Instead of making things better for her, we’d made things worse. In addition, my partner had his own family horrors unfolding, and it soon became clear that we had to take a step back, or at least sideways a bit, in order to salvage any kind of future relationship. And so, by February, just 4 months after moving in, my partner moved out, riddled with guilt but knowing it was the right thing to do, and with my blessing. It was probably the most grown-up, relationship-protecting decision I’d ever made and it was one I’m proud to say we made together. I also learned a valuable lesson about myself, and realised that as a neurodivergent adult with full responsibility for two neurodivergent kidlings, it was unlikely I’d ever be able to share our home with anyone else. And, that was ok.

So there I was, back on benefits but now in a much more expensive property in just about every way, not just the extortionate fuel costs. Welcome to rural Britain! Mobile coverage? Nope. Careful, if you do get coverage it’s probably because you’ve connected to a French network and you’ll be charged roaming rates. Internet? Oh yes! Oh but not anything actually worthwhile, sorry. The only way you can really get decent internet is with a satellite service, at lots of money per month please, ka-ching! (Thank you to my partner for continuing to pay for this.) You need small or emergency grocery deliveries, or, dare I say…a takeaway? Haha don’t be silly, we don’t deliver to you out there in the sticks (even though it takes the same amount of time to get here as it does across town). You’ll have to drag your children out or, you know, just go without. Ah yes, and yet still, we adapted, and I love it, mostly. (Plus some supermarkets do deliver here, yay, and the post is actually the best service I’ve seen in a long time.)

My benefits, whilst being the max they can be for our circumstances and giving me much-needed independence, are of course only set to cover the basics and don’t allow for these extra, non-typical expenses. As for the rent, the Local Housing Allowance (LHA) (previously Housing Benefit) is now included within my new-fangled Universal Credit payments, but this property costs almost twice as much as my allowance. The thing is, I don’t mind that; I would never expect a social subsistence system to pay for the add-ons this property has. This place is so much more than just ‘accommodation’ for us, it’s a place for us to live a life that we need. It’s a place where my children feel able to come and play outside, in privacy, without the demand to go somewhere and interact with people. It’s the place where they’re learning to do things again that other children (and moreover, their parents) may take for granted. It’s the place I’m able to go and sit outside, or lean out of a window at one o’clock in the morning if needed to clear my head or just feel the air and look at the moon without anyone seeing me, or facing the drunks shouting and wobbling home. It’s our gym, our playground, and even our pool now! It’s a place where we can have friends and family and other necessary visitors round without pressure, because we can all always access a safe place of retreat. It’s a place I’m able to literally ground myself as I’ve rekindled my lifelong love and need for gardening, and been able to plan things that I never could before. It’s a kind of freedom. And so, with careful budgeting, I’ve used our combined benefits to just about fund the place that allows my girls – and me – to just be, to be nurtured when ready, and grow in a plethora of ways. The money we pay for this isn’t just rental on a property, it’s rental on a life we desperately needed but had no way to access before. And for that opportunity I will be forever thankful to the man in my life.

Back to the morning. So there I was, knowing and accepting our vulnerability whilst appreciating the unique position we were in, and slowly making my way through what, in hindsight, was a relatively simple social housing register application. It seemed to take much longer than it should, and I suspect that’s in part because although I was focused on it, I found myself very much still processing what was happening. I intermittently offloaded my cycling emotions through WhatsApp messages with my partner, explaining that I was, ”trying to see this as a holiday home,” but that I “just have constant tears in my eyes and it’s hard to see to type,”. Feelings were swinging wildly like a rogue pendulum as I thumbed despairingly that I’d been “thinking about the furniture I’ve given away and bought and all the stuff that was just for here” and the conflicting “I want to plea with the agency and the owner … but refuse to beg to these people.”

He, the voice (or text) of reason, replied, “I don’t think it’s begging. I see it as making people aware of the consequences of a decision, and to make sure that it’s not a knee-jerk. Because without knowing [why] we don’t know if there’s something we could do to reverse it.” And there it was again, in a nutshell, the fact that we didn’t actually know why we’d been served notice, why this catastrophic change of plan was being thrust upon us. I replied, “I agree. I’m half hoping we’ll get an email response today, arrange a meeting… But I’m so filled with sadness because we know what these people are like. And anyone who can serve notice without any prior warning or explanation, just because the law says they can, doesn’t give a shit.” And right there, was the other side of the not-knowing torture: that we may never know, that ‘they’ didn’t care, because as ‘just the tenants’ we had no legal right to know why they’d served a Section 21 Notice. Our lives could be turned upside down and we may never know why. 

My partner tried to reassure me as I continued to randomly fluctuate between positivity and negativity, and at one point I had to shut him out of it all for a bit. I needed to feel what I was feeling and allow the tears when they came. I knew, too, that whilst he wasn’t the one facing potential homelessness, this was hard for him to watch unfold. I knew he felt immense guilt, as well as the equal loss of the What Might Have Been. I rantingly explained, “I have been thrown into a spotlight that shows how incredibly vulnerable we are… The last thing I want is you feeling responsible for us; I made the decision to move us based on the information at the time that this was a long-term let. That’s not your fault.” I’m not sure he fully believed me.

A short time later, having completed the online application but having moved onto ‘normal’ things for the sake of my sanity, aware that I still had evidence to find and upload, property searches to start, etc etc, I tuned into a different feeling rising within me. I messaged again: “Just realised… I’m done with being upset now. I’m angry. Not internally angry, and not in a lashing out kind of way. I’m angry at the injustice of this system and the lack of integrity and moral standing that private landlords and agencies can have.” That, I think, is when I decided that I was definitely going to write something and get it out there. 

And so I went public. I shared my thoughts on my hardly-used blog page and shared it on my socials (Instagram and facebook). And my gosh, that afternoon, evening, and continuing, I’ve had comments of sympathy, offers of help, messages with advice and even a unexpected phone call from a running friend who works in the trade. I’m often reminded – and remind others – of that much-banded quote, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” In this case, the help is in the knowing that there are people out there who care, and who are outraged, and even upset alongside me. I hope, too, that some people will see how truly wrong our current attitude to private renting is in this country, and how ordinary and extraordinary folk are treated so very inhumanely at times. We should all be outraged, every single time this happens to anyone. Thank goodness that it looks like it will soon become a thing of the past with the imminent Renters’ Rights Bill, hopefully.

I also feel guilty, and have wrestled with my conscience as to whether I should share any more about our situation. We have just over 2 months here and no idea at this stage where we’ll be going next, or how that’s going to come about, which is scary. But we also have those 2 months in, what is at this time of year and on a good day, a spectacular property. The house – actually a detached bungalow, albeit an asbestos shed of a bungalow with dodgy windows and everything else – looks out over the sea and we have a panoramic view of our beautiful, popular local environment. We have a larger garden than I’ve ever had and although it is basic, we have the daily joy of seeing different things every day whether its the sudden appearance of odd little plants looking out of place – something we deeply relate to – or butterflies or grasshoppers or a million sudden spiderwebs, rabbits, or even a stoat, or a toad, and a newt (brought in by the cat but successfully rescued) and birds landing on our roofs and hedges, and skylarks singing high above us somewhere unseen… We have an outbuilding which we’ve made into a little home gym so I can workout whilst watching one or both girls in the garden and no longer needing childcare, and, of course, we now have the little pool, which was here of course but basically decommissioned when we moved in and is now back up and running. I mean, who am I to moan? I know, every day, how very lucky I am, we are. The Impostor Syndrome has been strong in me at times here, and I’ve joked with every contractor that’s come round that I shouldn’t be here, I’m a townie, and not a posh one at that. And yet I’ve never felt more at home anywhere in my life. 

As Wednesday came to an end, we’d finally had a response from the letting agent as to the why. It wasn’t particularly helpful, but it told us what we needed to know: that this was non-negotiable, it was the end. My partner was with us for the evening and after another late dinner, we took ourselves off in the dusk to the bench at the top of the garden, each with a glass of wine in hand, something bizarrely, we’d not done before then. It was a near-full moon rising – apparently a ‘buck moon’ I’ve since learnt – and the noise of the crickets, the familiar distant shouts of evening visitors to the nearby beach and the occasional car on the winding road seemed to really emphasise what a holiday feel this place has to it right now. It felt, to me, anyway, like amidst the sadness of the loss, there was a kind of acceptance. It would be ok. We would make the most of what we had here, without forcing it, and move on, somehow, somewhere. We’d be ok.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, the five stages of grief, and I think I’d had them all to some degree in one day.

*A note on disability: although my children are classified as ‘disabled’, I like many neuro-spicy folk don’t see or want to see them in those terms, preferring to see us all as differently-abled, or even better, just as bloody individuals who don’t need any more labels but do need the rest of society to catch-up. However, we acknowledge that they do struggle – understatement – with some of the ‘typical’ stuff of life and as such subscribe to the Social Model of Disability. There’s lots of info out there on this so do have a google and find what works best for your own understanding if you’re unfamiliar with it, or come back and comment here if you’re not sure.