The letter that informs me I will lose my flat comes as a surprise. I knew it was coming at some point of course, I was aware of the implications of the single room rate of Housing Benefit (now Local Housing Allowance) for a single 25 year old whose current mental health precludes gainful employment. It was still a shock, largely because when I’d discussed my concerns with doctors and psychologists I’d been told that I wasn’t to worry, that I should ‘relax’ if I were to have any hope of my condition improving. I tried, with very limited success, to do just that, but my condition did not improve.
I will have until February to find a room in a shared house, unless of course my condition suddenly abates and I can return to full time work. Doctors are keen to remind me that this is always a possibility, but given that nothing has markedly changed for the past five years it seems unlikely.
After the initial torrent of tears I come to a decision. I don’t want to do this. I’ve lived in a shared house whilst at university and in some respects I was lucky; I shared with good friends, interesting, considerate, and thoughtful people and was completely spared the nightmare housemates of student legend, there was no need to dye our milk or nail furniture to the floor, there were no ‘gifted amateur’ DJs to keep us awake for days on end. On paper this was great. Except, for me, it wasn’t. A voice told me it wasn’t. That I would not be safe sleeping in the same house as other people. No particular reason, you might argue I should’ve pushed for one, but being told you shouldn’t spend the night in the house on pain of death is a difficult instruction to ignore. So more and more nights were spent in bus stations and on park benches. More and more nights of intermittent sleep, being prodded awake by concerned passers by to find my extremities numb and a new collection of bruises from sleeping on hard surfaces. This gives you some measure of how strongly I felt that I should not stay in a shared house - comfortable and warm, but, I believed, potentially deadly.
So, as I say, I decided not to go back there. If it was a choice between living that way or no way, then I chose no way. I didn’t want to lose the modicum of dignity that my modest studio flat had allowed me to claw back, the slow but sure improvements in my mental health, the sanctuary that keeps me off the streets and in a warm bed. Of course my loved ones were a concern, but I decided that they would not want to see me descend into that madness either. Mental illness is a frightening spectacle. My mind was made up. I couldn’t go on.
Fast forward two weeks. Suffice to say all has not gone to plan. I am shivering in the lounge of a psychiatric ward having my hand patted by a softly-spoken nurse. I try and explain myself but I keep hearing the same advice I heard before I got the letter; that I mustn’t worry so much about it, that I must relax. There is a hideous hypocrisy about this advice. If any sane person receives the news that they will lose everything dear to them, how would they respond to being told that they ought to ‘relax’ or ‘not worry so much’? Someone with admirable levels of self-restraint might hold their tongue and ignore it, a less restrained person might punch the advice giver full in the face. But I’m certifiably crazy, so I’m supposed to take the paradoxical action of finding out something dreadful is about to happen and simply ignoring it. I don’t say this to any of the staff who proffer such advice. Partly for fear of being labelled non-compliant, partly because the advice is well-intentioned.
The point is that I don’t feel differently because I’m ill, the fact I’ve been through years of tedious relaxation workshops and CBT does not mean I’m not human. It’s nice that people want to try and help, but if you’d like to help then try to understand how terrible this situation is for me and thousands like me. Try to reject the moronic tabloid generalizations about those who cannot work because they battle mental illness every day. Demand more from absurdly simplistic documentaries about welfare. If you manage that then you might even consider whacking it all in a letter to your MP! But above all, in the face of these savage reforms please, please, don’t tell me to relax!
