Friday,
6th July. I roll out of work and go straight into
Manchester to meet Manchester Depression Anxiety and Bipolar group. It'll be my
first meetup with the group and have no idea what to expect, but
we're meeting at Albert's Chop House Albert at Albert Square. I meet the
group and we start chatting. Everyone seems civilised and there's a
reassurance that everyone's afflicted with the same issues.
A
girl turns up late- we'll call her MMM. We get talking, and as the
night draws on the group disbands gradually until there's only MMM
and me left. We drop into
Neighbourhood in
Spinningfields to continue
drinking. The doorman frisks me and spots the tiny Swiss Army knife
attached to my keys. I drunkenly hand over all my keys, intending to
get them back on my way out.
One
thing anyone who drinks with me should know: I sustained a head
injury at birth. This is why I have short term memory difficulties
and probably why my tolerance to alcohol is terrible. I get pissed
quickly. And that's what's happening this night, trying to impress
MMM. It isn't long before I'm spilling my heart to her, only to find
she had a boyfriend anyway.
She
gets a taxi home, and I walked out of the bar, crucially forgetting
my keys.
With
the last 5% battery on my phone I call a taxi from Piccadilly
Gardens, so hideously drunk that the driver has to stop at Newton
Heath so I can vomit up whatever little I ate with the rest of the
mixed spirits. I get home and pay him.
I
get to my flat, tearing apart my belongings looking for my keys
before it dawns on me the last time I saw them. It's at this point
that a neighbour, a dodgy, skinny-looking bloke approaches me with
his girlfriend. He starts to ask me questions. She offers me a bottle
of water. Something isn't right, but I can't put 2 and 2 together at
the moment.
He
asks me, are you locked out? I admit I am. Why else would I be sat on
my arse outside my flat? No point in bullshitting. He asks, is yours
the one with all those bottles in the window?
Fuck,
I think. I knew it was a bad idea keeping my whisky collection in my
kitchen pantry- from the path at the back, where this guy probably
walks his dog, he can see straight into my kitchen, and if my
cupboard is open, he can see loads of single malts, blends, Americans
and a few rums.
Yeah,
I say, trying to keep a casual conversation. My gut feelings are
going ballistic, not just because I'd thrown up again moments before
but because there is something about this skinny little scruff- and
his missus- that I don't like.
What
are you gonna do now? he asks.
Well,
I admit, I'm going to have to go to my mum's.
Where's
that?
I
tell him the village a mile or so away. I couldn't think of a lie. I
wondered off.
It
must have taken hours to walk, meandering through Oldham's leafy
suburbs in the middle of the night. My Saturday plans are
well-and-truly wiped out, but not for the reasons I realise.
I
eventually wake up my mum and she lets me sleep in a spare room. By
this time, thankfully, there's nothing left in my stomach to throw
up.
I
wake up and my head is in agony. It's one of the worst hangovers I've
ever endured. I call Neighbourhood and ask about my keys. A doorman
handed them in. My dad, always there for me, agrees to go to
Manchester and pick them up. My mum has a spare key for my flat, so
we head over there.
The
moment I get onto my street, I see the car is missing.
When
I get into my block, the flat door is unlocked. In my bedroom, my
wash basket is missing and my clothes are dumped in the corner. A
cupboard has been opened. In the lounge, a box has been moved from
the bedroom.
My
mum calls me into the kitchen. About 90% of my alcohol bottles are
gone. Immediately I realise who's done this. There's no way it's
anyone else. I phone 999.
*
Over
the weeks that follow, I keep in touch with the police, the housing
association that rent to both me and the neighbour, the house
insurance company and the car insurance company. It is the biggest
ballache I have ever had to deal with. The police dust the place
down; they tell me the intruder used a crowbar on the kitchen window,
successfully entering, but this doesn't stop the window from
functioning. I have to kick off with them to get them to replace the
whole frame, as they claim there's nothing wrong with it. The
intruder was wearing workman gloves- rubber on the palms, fabric on
the back. There are no prints. He was wearing work boots, probably
steel-toecapped.
The
police offer me some stick-on window alarms that make a loud,
high-pitched noise if anyone bangs on the window. As the days go on I
manage to take this picture of the neighbour I was speaking to.
It's
difficult to get a clear picture of someone who's always shifty,
always jogging away between the shop, his flat and his car.
As
the weeks drag into months, a series of incidents occur. I see the
neighbour taking short car journeys. He changes his car. I look each
one up: one of them is untaxed. I tweet it to GMP, nothing happens. One night I hear some shouting on the
street; a woman's voice. It's about 3am on a weeknight. A window
smashes. When I leave the house the next morning, the neighbour
emerges with a bucket of soapy water and a cloth. His block door and
the ground floor windows have been spray painted with 'SMACK,'
'BUZZ,' and 'HEROINE.' (SIC) His lounge window has been put through.
He starts to mop down the graffiti.
Later
that day I phone the housing team: they've already been made aware of
the graffiti and they're sending someone out to take care of it. I
forgot to mention, though, who was the target of that attack and my
connection to him.
A
month later, again in the middle of the night, the neighbour's car
rear wind shield is put through.
I
make occasional visits to Housing to see whether anything has
happened, but frequently nobody knows anything. Eventually it emerges
that one particular housing officer knows his name, but isn't allowed
to tell me. She stresses the importance of residents coming forward
with information. I stress the importance of them actually DOING
SOMETHING WITH THAT INFORMATION when they do.
During
these months, the burglary incites me to look into the possibility of
buying a place to live, to stop throwing money away through rent and
to work towards being a homeowner. Most importantly, to get off that
dodgy-as-fuck council estate. I plan to move from the flat, which is
in Oldham just before the Saddleworth border, to somewhere similarly
far away but further around. I look at a handful of places but each
one has glaring problems: issues with the land deeds, unlit streets,
cluttered designs and- in one case, if my dad's eyes weren't
deceiving him- a rope noose hung from the attic beam.
Eventually
I find a terrace house on a quiet street for a fair price. We barter
for a bit but agree a price. Last month I picked up the keys.
Just
before I move out, I notice that the neighbour's car hasn't been on
the drive in days. The cameras he'd installed to watch his car are
gone. The blinds have been pulled back, and the lights are off.
I
phone housing, because of course, they will tell me fuck all without
prompting. They tell me he's gone. There was an order from the courts
demanding he was evicted. A week later, I move out myself.
So
here I am, blogging in my new little house. Things are moving
forward. There are a few electrical issues to sort out, plus the
spare room is full of stuff waiting to be put away. So what does this
have to do with psychology?
Well,
I've hardly blogged at all for the last few months as I've not done
a great deal other than sort the new place out. But in sorting the
new place out, with memory difficulties, I've had to rely on my
parents a lot. In buying insurance, in working out the costings, in
how much paint to buy, in what individual jobs are required and what
individual tools and products are needed (have you ever heard of
'kitchen paint?' I hadn't)- all of these needed addressing and acting
upon. Support from the NHS is currently not in place, and would only
take up more time that I have. What would they advise someone with
memory difficulties to do? I don't have a budget for a PA. People who
are bedridden, in wheelchairs and who can't work at all don't even
get the help that they need, so a working, well-spoken bloke like
myself would get fuck all. I've tried. It's over to my parents. Some
people at support group Andy's Man Club have chipped in, which has
been a huge help, but there's nothing formal in place.
What
harm does all this help do? Pride. It harms pride, that which comes
before a fall. It makes me doubt myself, and makes me wonder what
other people- particularly women- think of a 36-year-old relying on
his ageing parents for support with a burglary and the purchase and
renovation of a house. But, through years of NHS treatment, one of
the important things I've very steadily had to learn is, fuck what
other people think. What's the point in worrying that other people
perhaps think I'm a child for receiving parental support? What
benefit does that do? They might not even be thinking that anyway.
And who doesn't receive some form of help from their parents?
I
was once in a group of lad mates- between '09 and '15- whose banter
frequently got too sour for my tastes. My reliance on my parents was
the butt of their jokes, and after one too many incidents, I blocked
them all and haven't spoken since. My life has been better for it.
But I'm still conscious of how much I do, and how much I need my
parents to do, largely because of them. I realise, though, that it's
wasted thought- it's best to take the help and be appreciative of it.
And if you don't like people's banter, you don't have to give up your
time for them.
Another
piece of advice I'd give, if you feel I'm worth listening to, is not
to feel overwhelmed by how much needs to be done with any project,
like moving out. Although it's been a massive learning curve for me,
and although there's been hundreds of individual jobs, most of them
have now been done. One step at a time, things will move on. Little
improvements are big steps when you have anxiety, or memory
difficulties for that matter.
Accept
support, make notes, sacrifice time, kick off if organisations don't
do their jobs, and remember that pride comes before a fall.
