living in a burned out wreck

Standard of Living

In June 2015 I returned to the home I had spent years 'modernising' before fire completely destroyed all of my possessions, with one notably strange exception. A box of designer brand underwear (Calvin Klein and the like) made it out of the room with no heat damage of any sort. It defies understanding that a room so totally ablaze that the sofa in the next room spontaneously combusted had allowed designer pants a reprieve. The electrics and central heating plumbing were destroyed. No heating, no hot water and no electricity. I commenced a re-build project with a plumber and a general building contractor. The funds were not supported by buildings insurance, as the tenure was unclear and there was disagreement between the tenants on a common approach to insuring the freehold, of which two of us had a share.

The remaining burned out shell was totally inappropriate as living quarters. They were designated ‘dangerous building’ status, not fit or safe for human habitation. On more than one occasion police officers tramped up the stairs and as I opened the front door of the flat and they saw the fire damage turned and left immediately without saying a word. There were 6 came at once said nothing and almost ran down the stairs when I said there had been a fire. The place stank of burned house. It is an evil acrid stench those who have suffered a serious house fire would remember immediately. The sense of smell is very closely linked to memory.

I had an obvious case of post traumatic stress disorder, in hindsight. The symptoms of severe mood swings and anger management coupled with substance abuse do not make for an engaging personality. It was much the same as I would imagine hell on Earth to be. From the position of a nicely decorated flat, successful business, comfortable financial security, meals out, smart suits and two trips abroad that year for holiday breaks it was a huge drop. I had no money, the business collapsed, my living conditions not fit for human habitation and the lot lost through an act of arson. My mental health state was one of serious anxiety and depression.

Towards the end of summer funds became thin on the ground. I had thrown myself into work immediately after the fire and during the first three months of 2015 submitted a number of invoices. As they were paid and work done on the house I just couldn’t get a grip on finding more work. When the money from the last client invoice was spent I had nothing. Neighbours had reported my erratic behaviour per the stress disorder symptoms described above.

Two officers had taken me to Kings and the community psychiatric nurse in A&E gave me some sleeping pills and a sandwich to eat. Some sort of referral was made behind the scenes and in a short time I had a consultant psychiatrist pay me an unannounced visit. I won’t ever forget the conversation. At this point it had become obvious there was a problem with one of the neighbours. They knew some local gang members from Peckham and a campaign of intimidation was underway. As I tried to explain to the psychiatrist, I wanted to be sure my very strong perceptions about being under threat were properly checked out before it was assumed my mental health state was in psychosis or paranoia. This was my opening statement in a dialogue making it clear I did not want anti-psychotic drugs without clarity over the reality of my perceived threat status.

His reply was along the lines of no we don’t just give out these drugs like that but here’s a prescription for a low dose of something that might help. He was already writing out a prescription for Alanzopene.

He spent some time referring to snatches of conversation I had heard through the poor sound insulation in the building with my Acute hearing. He used a conspiratorial tone referring to this as voices inside my head, as though it was something secret.

I mentioned my main concern, I had no money and no food and was living in a burned out wreck. I asked them whether they could get me a food voucher. The nurse said she could, but I never received anything or had any welfare visit before I was expected to turn up in Dulwich to attend a clinic a week or so hence.

At this stage I was stealing food from the supermarket to survive.It was about two months before Tesco security caught me.