OK, so I was having a breakdown, far from friends and family, and I'd pushed away the one person who'd been sustaining me. I was completely devastated, and unable to cope with anything. It couldn't get worse, could it?
Of course it could.
I moved back into the hotel and I don't think I left my room for eight days except to go to the bathroom, which was upstairs and down the hall. (I couldn't get my old room with the private bath.) I saw a doctor, expecting her to prescribe anti-depressants or refer me to a therapist, but she did neither. Instead, she spent the entire appointment telling me about her own qualifications in treating mental health issues, and then told me to make a follow-up appointment in two weeks.
I asked the doctor if there was anything I could do in the meantime, and she recommended the book, "Mind Over Mood." I checked online and the local library said they had 3 copies; I went down and they had none. But they did have quite a few other books on depression -- in fact, they had a disproportionate number given the size of library, which makes me wonder about London in general. I thumbed through one book which politely but firmly told me that depression is indicated by a lack of sleep and loss of appetite. Since I was sleeping ok and eating constantly, I thought to myself: Damn it, I can't even get depressed properly.
Then I stopped at a deli for lunch and there was a hyperactive young man in line in front of me who -- without prompting -- told me he was schizophrenic, HIV positive, and so depressed that he'd been cutting himself. (Both his arms were bandaged from wrist to elbow.) My heart went out to him, but in the back of my mind I thought to myself: Damn it, I can't even get depressed properly.
That evening, to cheer myself up, I treated myself to a folk concert at Royal Albert Hall. The concert was excellent, but it turned out to be a charity fundraiser for teenagers with cancer, complete with video interludes of these kids trying to lead normal lives while undergoing chemotherapy. In the back of my mind I thought to myself: All right, I get it, I have no reason to be depressed: I have my health, friends, family, some money, a roof over my head, and even though my life isn't going exactly the way I'd like it to at the moment, that's just a challenge to be overcome, so get over yourself and get on with it.
A friend helped me accept the fact that I wasn't going to move in with Jessica at this time, and that I still needed a place to live, so I did a fresh search online and found a dozen places within my budget that all looked dreadful except for a one-bed flat in Pitshanger Village. I called the agent and she said it had just come on the market the day before and several people were already considering offers, but if I came immediately then I still might be able to get it. I went down and it was actually perfect -- completely refurbished, light and bright, quiet, with a little private outdoor patio in back. It was on the ground floor of a 2-storey conversion, across the street from a church, and two blocks from a large park with tennis courts, bicycle paths, and a golf course. Just down the road, Pitshanger Village is a cute little "main street" with a book store and library, a couple of cafes and restaurants, and two markets. The area is well served by buses and trains, and there is a gym about a mile away with six (!) yoga classes per week. (I haven't been to the gym in two months, and I'm sure that contributed to my emotional slide.)
I should mention that I know all of this because Jessica used to live in Pitshanger Village, and she highly recommended it. I'd looked at a couple of places before, but everything in my price range had been dark and dingy including, ironically enough, the flat above the one I was looking at, which I'd seen a month earlier. (I didn't take that one, in part, because they were doing construction work on the flat downstairs.)
So I told the agent I would take it. It was impulsive, but it was the best place I'd seen since I moved out of Brentford seven weeks ago, I didn't want to spend any more time looking, I really didn't want to continue sharing a bathroom at the hotel, and I knew that what I really needed in my life right now was stability, which is exactly what this would provide. Then the agent told me that since I wasn't employed, they would require six months in advance, plus security deposit.
I had just transferred money to the UK, and so I ran the numbers: They wanted £7,125, and I had £7,125.81.
I didn't plan on living off 81 pence--I had some more money in the US, and it was easy enough to transfer it over--but there was obviously a huge emotional cost of giving away all of my money, especially since I was feeling so insecure. However, my cousin was quite pragmatic: Since I was going to pay them that money anyway, paying up front was just a way of budgeting, and once I'd given them the money then it would reduce my stress because I wouldn't have to worry about rent. The lease was for a year but there was a "break clause" after six months, so if I still didn't have a job then I would just give notice and move out. (We didn't talk about what I might do then, and I'd still rather not think about it.) I couldn't argue with her logic, so I agreed.
Of course, my new landlord wasn't quite through wringing me emotionally: She wouldn't take a check, only cash. If this were a private landlord, I would have run away, but the proprty was actually owned by a charity (the Marr-Munning Trust), which was set up in 1970 to help students from third-world countries come to London for education. They bought a number of properties and converted them into student housing, but now they rented those properties and used the income to fund other charitable work. So it wasn't a question of trust, it was simply that when you're giving away all the money you have, somehow it's easier to write a check than to count it in cash.
In the meantime, Jessica and I have basically started our relationship over. It's very awkward, of course, considering where we were just a few weeks ago, but it's a lot better than where we were two weeks ago. I know what she is looking for right now is consistency, and I'm just grateful she is willing to work through this. Last night I took her to a comedy show in Soho; today she took me into the countryside to see newborn lambs. (They were so adorable, but unfortunately I didn't bring my camera, so you'll have to find your own sheep.)
So that's where I'm at. Tomorrow I will be moving my stuff out of the hotel; in the evening, Jessica will drop off everything I'd left at her place, and then -- for the ninth time in three years -- I have to set about making a home for myself.
Attached is a photo of the flat, and here is a map. (Those colored lines are the Underground routes.) Any care packages should be addressed to:
Flat 2, 197 Pitshanger Lane
London, W5 1RQ
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