Dreaming a life

I wake with a bird lodged in my chest, fluttering against my sternum and straining against my throat. I have slept deeply, alone in this rented bed that creaks and roils. The view outside my window is one I have grown to like, but not love. Trees that reach towards the tiled roofs of these rusty tenement blocks. Sun hiding just beyond my eyeline and casting shadows across the hedge. I didn’t think I would still be here to see leaves return to the branches, but here we still are.

My heart is racing because I’ve suddenly realised, in the immediate act of waking, that I may not be able to get the mortgage I need if my benefit payments do not resume very soon. Hard to know how I have forgotten this crucial fact, but my brain is on survival mode and must be forgiven for not functioning at full capacity. I am spending my days trying to stay utterly inside each moment, but now and again I am hit with a sense of terrifying panic that takes all of my effort to wrestle back into its box.

I fill water from the tap into the kettle and press down the switch. Tea will help. Pad to the toilet and, without warning, begin to imagine myself somewhere else, a flat across the park. My boyfriend lives across the park, but it is not his flat that I find myself in.

The place I’m dreaming of has a tiled floor in the hallway. A front door that nudges up against its neighbour. Inside, the floorboards are old and grooved and I imagine my bare feet walking across them, making them my own. The kitchen is painted orange and white, the cupboards a little tired but no worries I will stick postcards up to hide that. There’s a shared patch of grass below and beyond the window, and I want to see my daughters sitting there, eating Sherbert Dib Dabs and playing cards. I want this so much that I can see them now, seared onto the back of my eyes, long legs bare, blonde hair falling over their faces. Maybe the cat would like it out there too, and my quiet daughter could bury her face in her thick grey fur. I really want my cat to come home.

Opposite the kitchen there is a living room. In my mind my big bed, the one that is currently lying dismantled in a storage unit in Ibrox, is pushed against the wall and a table sits in the corner where I can write. Eventually there might be a sofa too, if I can afford one, and my kids can sit and talk to me while I work, or friends can have a coffee or a glass of wine in the fading daylight. Outside, the street is busy with students and tourists, people having a drink after work. I feel held by their presence, less lonely. And that has been the point of moving to a city.

Downstairs, two bedrooms are wedged into the basement, and they cradle my four daughters. It is not perfect, but it is safe, and I will do anything to keep this roof above our heads. A little outside space has been created beyond the sash window, and I imagine my daughters creeping in and out, having adventures without me knowing. I urgently want this for them, a chance for them to have their own adventures, move beyond the edges of mine. I have fought hard for this, to give them a big world.

On the other side of the park I make a cup of tea and return to my bed. Take out my laptop and sign in to the journal for my Universal Credit account. I type a message for my case worker, as I have done almost every day for the last week, and I tell him that I am starting to feel quite desperate. That if my payments do not resume I may not be able to buy a home for my family, and that renting is unsustainable. I want to tell him that if he just gives me a few more months to get sorted I will do absolutely anything. I will work anywhere. I will do everything possible to continue educating my daughters without funded support, care for them with their complex needs and earn enough money to keep us all. But I don’t say tell him this, because it is obvious surely. No one wants to be forced to beg and justify their life. No one wants to be just another number.

I close my laptop. There is nothing more I can do. I check the volume on my phone, make double sure I will not miss any calls from Decision Makers. Then I listen to a message from a friend. She is an online friend I have not yet met, a face on a screen, a voice inside my phone. She has gifted me some money and I am uncomfortably grateful. I haven’t told anyone because I feel both ashamed and humbled. This friend has been in the same situation as me. She is not rich. But she knows.

The horrendous stress of these weeks has had the beautiful flipside of reminding me that I am loved and regarded with care. My closest friends make space for me in their busy days, leaving me messages of hope and resilience. My mum tells me she will lend me her savings for a flat, she just wants to see me and the kids settled. And strangers write to me and tell me that my open-ness around money and housing has made them feel less alone. There is so much kindness in this world, amongst the casual cruelty.

My bedroom door pops open and a daughter walks in. Her face looks like sunshine. I arrange my own face so that it is calm and reassuring. The type of face I want to see everywhere at the moment. A face that says it will all be ok. When I look in the mirror my eyes are tired and those who know me best would notice the haunted look hovering inside them. But I brush mascara on my lashes and tie my hair up into a ponytail that bounces. Hope is a waking dream.