Beginnings and Boundaries

On the eve of a new year, we all share a feeling of mutual glee – the childish innocence left in all of us which we call hope. That it’ll be full of good things like money and cute puppies and love. The truth is, though, a year is a long time and it will inevitably be a mixed bag. Here are some of the cards I was dealt this year:

-         I bought a beautiful house which is so perfect I cannot describe… I have spent a lot of years treading on eggshells, living on other people’s watch, with no choice but to live how they live. Not anymore. This time last year, I didn’t even know I’d be sitting in my living room right now, so the experience has taught me to hang in there.

-          A promotion, meaning the money I budgeted to live here alone (aka all of my money) has just gone up hundreds. I will be able to do more lovely things now and work less which is such a relief. I also now teach at the sixth form two days a week, talking about books and poetry and beautiful magical language.

-          My brother and my gorgeous Britt got married! It was flawless and we all smiled from our souls for days.

…and so much more. Reuben was born, I spent endless hours walking and cuddling with Willow and did I mention I bought a house…!?

The Struggle of this year was to be grandad’s fall. I have written on this before so won’t go into much detail about that event itself, but the aftermath was and still is quite devastating. When grandad broke his hip, as we waited for the ambulance, I lay on his stomach and cried. I knew his dementia was on a knife edge. I knew he couldn’t withstand a stay in hospital. My heart was breaking for what we were about to lose.

I remember so clearly how he stroked my hair and said, “it’ll be alright pet.” Imagine! He was lying there with a broken hip and he was reassuring ME. He is not a brave man, quite the contrary. He’s actually scared of things like splinters and the wind. But if ever there has been a selfless love in this world, it is ours.

On the topic of new year’s resolutions, it has been the intention of many to keep me out of the hospital and many care homes since this day. I have been defiant to the point of screaming at times. Towards everyone. Carers, the council, even my nearest loved ones who told me to stop. NO. I sat there night after night, new year after new year, promising him that NOTHING would keep me from him when the time came. I will defy all of them before I break that promise. Nobody but grandad has shown me the meaning of ‘unconditional’.

As others who stopped me from getting to him have faded away, no longer bothering with grandad as his dementia takes him, my commitment to him is unwavering. He has spent my whole life stroking my hair and telling me everything is going to be ok. Now it is my turn to take his hand and create beauty from his fear.

Losing someone to dementia feels like grief sometimes, especially when they fail to remember the things they always used to say, the big details. Sometimes it will hit me so hard I almost feel winded. I never stopped to think about it as I fought to stay by his side, but I see it now. This year has robbed me of the soulmate bond, bit by bit. Some days I am glad he is still here but others I feel like I’m bleeding out all over the floor just like his memories.

My new year’s resolution for this year stems from this. It’s about boundaries. I will live in my truth unapologetically in 2022 and beyond. Those who kept me from grandad stood tall in theirs and yet they were wrong. I will say yes when I mean yes and NO when I mean NO. I will say these words with conviction, and I will say them with pride.

Happy new year to everyone who has walked beside me this year. I want to express my gratitude for how you have validated me, given me confidence and made me feel at home.

Here’s to shuffling the deck and picking a new hand.

My love and luck for 2022,

Char
xxx

Home Sweet House

Unbelievably, I am writing this sitting in my very own living room. If I dangle my fingers over the edge of the sofa, I can stroke little pupper. We’re just sitting, breathing in the quiet; it’s an October evening and so the dull orange glow coming from the candles is our only light. My bank account is well and truly empty, but my heart is full of a peace I have not felt before and cannot describe. The feeling of freedom and safety and sanctity.

It was a rough road to get here, but I’d ride it again a million times. I wanted to share some things I’ve learned as I completed the purchase of my first home.

1.       Solicitors are rude and useless

I hope your estate agent is as lovely as mine, that’s all I can say! The sellers were using Mayfair and the lady who works there who dealt with the sale of No. 17 was proactive and kind. She gave me so much emotional support as well as chasing our solicitors daily. I remember once, after another hurdle cropped up with my mortgage, I called her crying and saying I couldn’t live at home anymore and I wanted the house so badly and she was so understanding and supportive. I’ll always remember that.

2.       Getting a mortgage alone is nigh on impossible – but not actually impossible

Without my brother being a big time baller, I would’ve had a very steep monthly payment to meet with one of my parents as a guarantor. There are ways around the 4.5x income cap, even on your own. During the process, you’ll learn about guarantor mortgages, joint borrower sole proprietor mortgages, and Generation Home. Try them – it’s all online and it’s one way to go about getting your own home by yourself. Or, put a parent or family member you can trust on the deeds and get them to sign a bare trust to avoid second home stamp duty. This is another way. Do your research. I swear to you as I sit here in my cocoon of peace – IT IS FUCKING POSSIBLE.

3.       Being alone isn’t scary, it’s glorious (when you find the right place)

Me and my mum looked at lots and lots of houses before we settled on No. 17. I knew the moment I saw it from the outside that it was my house. I saw the stylish grey door, the quirky brickwork, the fields and fields of dog walking out back and I was already saying to mum that we should cancel our other viewings. The house is only a two bed, but uses space so well. Seeing the spacious kitchen diner and big garden for our Willow and the cats … it nearly made me jump up and down there and then!

I also looked at some shit holes. I was so lucky to get my house as cheap as it was – I think if I had taken one of the properties that were just ‘ok’, I would’ve felt less settled than I do right now. In the night, I pad around on these spongey new carets for a drink or a wee and I feel like it’s my home. Plus, I am a busy person! I’ve got two jobs and a vibrant life and so I never feel lonely, in fact, it’s nice to retreat to my little house with Willow in my free time. I can cook whatever food I want, get up and go to bed whenever I want, watch WHATEVER I want on Netflix (a personal highlight). I don’t think I could go back to living with another adult again, which is mildly concerning. Only mildly. I largely don’t care!

4.       Don’t wait around for no fucking man – all you need is a dog and a good family

This one speaks for itself. Although I saved and saved and saved for the deposit for my house, in other ways, my family have enabled this for me and I am acutely aware of their blessing. If you think your family might be willing to help, have the conversation with them. You don't know what could be possible. They love you and I'm sure they'll help where they can. Also, as a side note, get the dog. They make everything even more glowy around the edges.

A caveat of course is that not everyone will be from a background which facilitates buying their own home at 25, and for that I am truly sorry. As you know from my previous posts, I believe that this world is in a sorry state – it should be guaranteed that a working young person can procure a place to feel safe and call their own. But it isn’t. I know my stress and 50 hour weeks and tears to get here are a blessing too, and I thank god for my champagne problems every day.

As a final note, I have been helped by so many of you, so thank you. For your signatures, your extra shifts, your presents. I am lost for words at your generosity during this monumental event in my life. Thank you for your love. I feel it in my soul. Thank you, thank you.

Char and Willow @ No. 17 (finally)

x

'Home sweet house' is a quote from the King and I, and all Granda has been saying since I told him I was getting one!

"Let me off, I'm gonna be sick"

 At some point, we’ve all felt like life is just too much. Too ruthless. Too busy. Like a carousel which started out full of laughter and light but is now a roundabout that’s going oh-too-fast. I can hear myself as a child, starting to cry, “Dan this is not really funny anymore please let me off Dan I’m gonna be sick…”

As adults, we have to learn to ride it out. When we realise that the roundabout is going too fast, we console ourselves with the knowledge that it has to slow down again. That it will eventually stop. We grit our teeth and we ride it out. At least, most of us do. Some of us vomit, making a mess of things again and again. Some of us just can’t wait, so we jump.

It’s hard to talk about mental health without examining the society which has decayed it. We live in a social-media addicted, capitalist nightmare fuelled by sugary drinks and casual sex. A society that was once spiritual and (perhaps as a result?) community-centred has become strictly ‘smash and grab’.

I would say that ever since we had widespread access to the internet, we have been presented with overwhelming choice – of information, of products, even over our physical bodies. We get filler and dye our hair to look like people who are digitally enhanced. People have come to believe that, just like our old iPhones, people are disposable; that there will always be something bigger and better on the horizon.

Moreover, jobs have disappeared and the housing market crashed due to mistakes made by powerful people who have never even spoken to a homeless person… and very subtly, over the course of a lifetime (maybe our parents’ lifetime?), we stopped caring. As long as we are lucky enough to have what we want, those in poverty are not our problem. Worse – they are the problem. We began constructing a narrative in which people who are poor or different are to blame for their own misfortune. We brand them ‘non-contributors’; druggies and drains on a system which, let’s be honest, is fucking you over as well.

My brother earns a fair bit, over 4x my teaching salary, and he’s worked damn hard to build a business from nothing. Still, the tax man takes half of it. He is not truly benefitting from the system despite having a 6-figure income. He grafts for his money. He is still sad a lot of the time.

You might think you have it good because you have a nice house and a nice car and daytrips at weekends, but are you happy? Is it enough? I am not sure. I have no time. I run around like an idiot, late to everything, working 2 jobs to try to buy my own home and feed myself. "Champagne problems," you might say, but when did a safe place to call your own and healthy food become a luxury?

Is it any wonder society is sick? Sick of not being good enough compared with the Instagram famous, sick of struggling every day just to keep their head above water.

The other day, after a few bad things I don’t want to talk about, while I was driving 40 minutes to Nailsea after a day’s work to see my grandad who’s in a care home (a whole trauma in itself), I asked God to just let me die. I don’t have the bollocks, I said, so please can you do it? Just roll the car. 

Moments later, I drove past a bad accident and someone was being carried away from their (totalled) Vectra on a stretcher, covered in blood. Are you sure? He said, and I wasn’t, so here I still am.

Anyway, I am feeling better today. I realise that all I can do is embody positivity and love in all that I do and believe that the universe will reciprocate. I can only imagine what it must be like to feel as low as that constantly. If you feel shit all time time or even just today, please message. I might not be able to fix it, but I care and we can try.

Love, Char. x

 

Sawdust Confetti

 I still don’t really know what to say, but I wanted to express my gratitude.

Many weeks ago, I pulled up at grandad’s like I do every day, dressed for the gym, his dinner in my hand. I opened the front door and I could hear him moaning away but this is not unusual so I shouted, “What you doing man!?”. By the time he replied I was inside the second door, so I could hear the shrill terror in his voice.

“Charlie? Don’t let the dog in chuck! Charlie I’ve fell.” My stomach constricted all the way up to my throat. He was in his bedroom and the door was shut.

“Ok granda, don’t worry, I’m going to open the door is that ok?” I forced my voice to be as level as possible but it was definitely a few decibels higher than usual.

“Yes, yes pet,” he cried, and I held my breath and opened the door.

His head was bleeding, but not badly. I scanned his body in half a second and knelt beside him where he lay. “It’s ok sweetheart, you’re ok.”

“I’ve broke my leg, I’ve been crying Charlie, I’ve been here for hours," he panted.

“Ok, I’m here now, you’re ok.” I looked up at my mum who had just now followed me into the house. My body was shrouding him, comforting him but my eyes were screaming the emotion I couldn’t let out.

As grandad was taken into the back of an ambulance and away from our Ashbury Drive, I was told not to worry. Lots of people recover from a broken hip. You’ll see him in the next few days. I didn’t believe them. I don’t really know why; I just had a bad feeling about it all. Whirring around in my mind was Grandad’s dementia can’t take another stay in hospital.

They operated on his hip and it went well, but after his operation, something even worse happened and his vitals dropped dangerously low. I had phoned the hospital just to speak to him, to see how he was doing after his op, and they told me he was extremely poorly. I hung the phone up. I found myself driving to Weston General as if in the throes of a nightmare, then the next thing I knew I was running through the halls, flooding the corridors with my pain and panic, bursting through the doors of the ward as if his life depended on it. “Where is my grandad?” I managed. The nurse read my aura in an instant.

“You’re Charlie”. A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

I will cut that night out of the story because it was the worst of my life. That night, the doctor told me my grandad might not make it. I vomited the three mouthfuls of tea I managed. I lay awake til the morning. My heart didn’t stop choking me until they told me at 10am that he was alive.

It’s been a month since that day. I haven’t seen his gorgeous face or heard his naughty laugh for weeks. My heart isn’t panicking anymore but it aches from missing him. Yesterday we found out that he will be moved to respite care in the next few days, about half an hour’s drive away. I couldn’t care. I’d drive to Europe right now to hold his hand.

This sad affair is the reason why I have leaned on some of my loved ones and hid away from others... But I just want to thank every single one of you.

Those of you who’ve messaged with nothing but love and got nothing but silence from me. Those of you who have had me turn up at your door hyperventilating (Dan and Britt, I love you both more than you know). The members of this family I never thought I’d speak to again who have supported me. I’m touched to the point of tears most days. My best friend has been missing for a little while, but you know, in many ways I’ve never felt so loved. Thank you for seeing me, and, fuck, thank you for loving him with me.

The Bonny One

 As I tipped the dregs of tea around in my cup, looking down, I realised it was time to go. The atmosphere in the room had changed as my eldest cousin and his family began to clear the plates. I stood, clearing his teacup out of habit, though this was not my house. We were in Tunstall in Sunderland, a place both strange and familiar to me. Though everything had changed since I left this city, their accents gave me a distant sense of belonging. Gary stood, moving to take grandad’s coat from his wife’s outstretched hand. His three girls looked up from their colouring. A rainbow. That picture they drew was an eerie premonition, now that I think about it; a foreshadowing of rainbows in windows and clapping for heroes.

“We’re off to see Vince now, grandad, or we’ll miss our aeroplane!” I cut through the silence. As it always does when I speak to him, my voice became awkwardly loud as I stressed the consonants and exaggerated my lip movements so he could hear me. My accent suddenly flipped to match the others’ in the room. He appeared to get the gist.

“Ok pet, do I need my coat?” Before he’d even finished talking, Gary was already helping him put it on.

“It’s bloody freezing grandad, it’s January man!” he exclaimed, patting grandad’s back as he continued to fumble with the zip.

Meanwhile, I was thanking Paula again. I told her how lovely it had been to see them. To tell you the truth, I was grateful to everyone who was able to see us during our time in Sunderland last year. It meant a lot to me because it made him happy. More than that, though. It made me happy. For a long time, I haven’t felt like I have much of a family. It rarely bothered me over the years but being around grandad a lot means I’ve always felt tethered to them by an invisible string. Mum has four brothers, and each of them have children and grandchildren of their own. Though (as in many families) there are countless tensions among the Hillsys, we’re family. I’ve been thinking on this a lot lately.

We all walked together to Gary and Paula’s front door. Though I was merely an observer of this particular goodbye, I could feel the weight of their hearts on the room. It was the same heaviness I’d felt the day before when we’d said goodbye to young David. Even at the time, as tears streaked the flushed cheeks of grown men in the cold North winter, I recognised their pain. I’ve felt it before.

I felt it on Christmas Eve in 2011 when he’d rang our phone complaining of chest pain. When I watched my mum’s face turn white, saw her run from the house and swing the car out of Ash Close. When I forced a number I’d rang a million times in to the phone with numb hands, selfish, young, desperate – “Grandad, please don’t die.” Those tears… They’re tears from deep in the chest, awash with the poison of pain. Tears caused only by the spectre of death, who whispers the question like a January wind down your neck: What if this is the last time you say goodbye?

In a way, the spectre of death casts a shadow over us all. When we are young (as I still am in many ways), he walks a hundred paces behind and so you barely notice him. You are fast and able and you feel like he’ll never catch you. But, when you get old, your legs become weary and your footsteps slow… so he catches up. He stands behind you when you’re old, his black cloak licking at your heels. That’s why old people are cold all the time.

It is this spectre, reader, breathing down the necks of the old that keeps me awake sometimes. Because, yes, he follows us all, but he is standing on my grandad’s feet. Like his other kids, like Gary and David last January, I am conscious that it’s only a matter of time before the spectre of death lays a hand on his shoulder.

That is my darkest thought – I have many light ones, too, so don’t worry. I believe the reality we construct for ourselves in our heads is our responsibility. We can choose to build a palace or a prison; a pair of white wings or a spectre of death. But, alas, I am human. This body shackles me to a reality that is not always beautiful and poetic.

Which brings me back to my story. Our final stop on a tight two-day schedule in the North East was Seaham. Uncle Vince is not my uncle at all, he is grandad’s brother, but as I’ve grown up hearing him called that it has stuck in my head. I’d never been to his house before and I’d only met him once before that I can remember. He answered the door almost at the same time grandad knocked, and both brothers’ eyes, blue as the North Sea, were glazed with tears as they embraced.

The visit was short and sad in many ways. Vince asked after Hilda, my Nana, and Mary, his wife. We couldn’t bring ourselves to tell him they were long dead. The spectre of death and I listened in silence as the brothers reminisced. “I was always the bonny one, Bill,” Vince said, laughing freely, full of innocent joy. “You were the daft one.”

As we sat in the airport that night, both exhausted, I could see in his eyes that he was content. No price can be put on that. Though this 90^th birthday weekend had cost me hundreds, been hard work logistically and involved reuniting with family I’d had no idea if I would ever see again, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Today, on January 4^th, the 13^th anniversary of Nana’s death, Vince joined Mary in heaven. I told grandad a story not about the spectre of death, but about a pair of white wings.

Grandad told me to tell you only that his beautiful wife and his little brother will always be loved.