I had just turned twenty six when I finally moved out into my own place. I got a modest grant from the council to furnish the place as I had never been able to work due to my mental health. I got a small amount of money to live on every week that I collected from the post office every Tuesday, the same day old people got their pensions. For a long time my mum had to go and collect it for me, and my prescriptions as I couldn’t leave the house that far. It was a ten minute walk but it might as well have been on the moon. And the thought of standing in a queue made me feel like a normal person would if they had a gun pointing at their head.
Eventually with practice and patience and medication and support from some lovely mental health workers I was able to venture into Pingley High Street and get the things I needed. The community mental health team withdrew support after this as I was considered independent as I could get my money, buy food and go into the chemist. I felt pretty let down and abandoned by them, how was I meant to progress any further in life if I didn’t have any help? It’s not like I had a support network of people who helped me venture outside. But I’m sounding childish.
I moved out in August 2001. I was afraid of what lay ahead. The first night I got into bed kind of agitated and kind of excited about how I would get on not being able to do my eight hour getting in to bed routine at mum's house. How I would manage to sleep in a new environment. Once I drifted off to sleep I slept like a lamb. Oh god I was free. Free from the tyranny of lining up tins in the kitchen cupboards and getting net curtains sat in just the right position and turning the taps off properly and moving the phone to the right spot and checking the time on three clocks over and over and over even though I felt so swimmy headed with tiredness I could have fallen asleep on my feet but I JUST COULDN’T STOP MYSELF.
I was free from it. I moved house to get away from it and it worked.
Of course I didn’t just move out to escape that fucking nightmare. I was twenty six and I was trapped at home with my raging bitch of a mother. I had to listen to her and her boyfriend have sex every night. I remember sitting on my bed one night just after they went to bed and the creaking started. I’m pretty sure mum got the bed when she got married to my dad so it was older than me and pretty knackered. It creaked like several coffin lids, plus a spooky old chest or two. I know more about their sex life than anyone could ever care to. I know mum never got much foreplay, he was right in there.
I put my walkman on and had my red binder spread out in front of me on my bed. I put a Smiths cassette in that I had gotten from the library. I was madly in love with The Smiths (though oddly I was always more into Johnny than Morrissey) and played Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now full blast through my headphones, swaying from side to side. Despite having the music blaring in my ears I could still hear the frantic bed creaking next door. They were unbelievable. I was happy for my mum, but jesus they were selfish.
I got up and went downstairs. I went into the living room. That was directly beneath their bedroom so that was no use. I went into the porch which was always freezing, and could still hear them in there. I went into the kitchen, the furthest away from them and could hear them clear as day. I was pissed off. I went and stood outside their bedroom door and with my hands poised in the air ready to pound on the door and shout, ‘Keep the noise down!’ but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I stalked off and got on with my going to bed rituals.
Often I’d have just got into bed after finishing my night of mind numbing tasks and I’d hear mum’s alarm go off in the morning. I’d hear little creaks coming from their room for a bit before she got up. I assumed she was giving him a blow job. Who knows.
They did buy a new bed but I don’t think that one lasted very long. I’m astonished when people assume older people don’t have sex. Why wouldn’t they. Such an arrogant, ignorant thing to say. If I didn’t believe it before I certainly did after my mum met my stepdad.
After I moved out my mum announced she assumed that we would be having tea at each others houses night about. Wtf excuse me? What’s the point of moving out if we’re going to eat together every night? I disabused her of that notion right away.
I went down and visited regularly though. I never really got lonely. I felt like I’d been waiting my whole life to finally live alone and I loved it. One afternoon a few weeks after I’d moved out I went down and there was rolling news on the tv. Her sister Sally had been on the phone saying something had happened in America and world war 3 might be about to start.
There was live footage of the twin towers in New York. Just after I got there one of the towers collapsed. There was this huge long black plume of smoke that stretched all the way out into the Atlantic and could be seen on satellite photos. The whole world seemed to stop what it was doing and watch the news.
I had some money of my own saved up when I moved out as I didn’t go out enough to buy anything, about seven hundred pounds. Along with the grant I received and the belongings mum let me take with me from hers (an old settee and my bed) I had enough money left over to buy my first computer. I didn’t know anything about computers, still don’t really. My brother was a proper nerd who worked in IT but he cut the family out of his life as soon as he could so I couldn’t ask his advice. I went to the local computer shop and bought a desktop PC. I have no idea if it was good or bad or if I was ripped off. I got me a dial up internet connection. I didn’t have a desk so I mostly had to lie on the floor when I was using it which meant I was stiff and sore a lot. I was very thin back then. I could eat when I wanted and exercised sporadically and I never really gained weight.
Finally I had a window on the world. For two hours at a time anyway, then I’d get kicked off and had to reconnect to the internet.
