Painting better be therapeutic

A summary: In summer 2009 my dad died suddenly and unexpectedly in the room next to me. The rest of my summer was spent organising funereal arrangements and corresponding with utilities, banks and the mortgage lender, who between them are creditors of well over a hundred grand from my dad's estate, the only financial value of which is the house. I had exam retakes that I scraped through (and only because of extenuating circumstances), allowing me to progress to the third and final year of my four-year university course (having already failed to achieve grades enough to make the fourth year).

Obviously the house needed to be sold to pay off the debts (the mortgage especially is accruing interest like dog shit accrues flies), but with the property market as it is, I wanted to let it out, earning a bit before selling the house for its real value. This idea was scrapped because nobody agreed I could manage that while on my final year, and so my dad's house and my mum's flat (because it's not big enough to home an extra person and two cats) went on the market, while my cats are being fostered (because they have no company and no one to feed them at the house, and they'd render the flat an undesirable purchase) by my uncle.

And so I started my final year with every intention of working hard, only to find I have no work ethic at all, indeed little desire to leave the house for anything. I applied for and was granted leave of absense to give myself the time to get over the depression that's stiffling me socially and academically. Meanwhile, neither property is selling.

And now the thrilling continuation: So I booked an appointment with my university's counselling service. After two "pre-counselling" sessions to decide what they should do with me, they convinced me to try the new bereavement course, five weekly group sessions. I went with it knowing it wouldn't be addressing my depression or apathy, but not expecting it to be quite as pointless a waste of time as it was. It was nice to have an environment where it felt safe to talk about my experiences and feelings, but the bizarre exercises did nothing to help my state of mind in any way. I skipped the final session, figuring if I was going to waste two hours of my life I'd rather do it at home.

I needed one-on-one help, but they don't really want you doing this while on a group course, because seeing multiple counsellors at the same time can be a bad thing. But things got so bad I booked an appointment anyway. Or tried, because they're fully booked until after Easter, and I've come home for Easter, and I don't know when I'm going back.

I've had to come home to help redecorate the house. So long is it taking for anyone to show even the slightest interest in purchasing either property, the only chance I have of preventing the mortgage from growing to a size that will reduce my inheritance to precisely zero is to let the house, requiring expensive and time-consuming redecoration, repairs, quality assurance, and mortgage issues. Then we can put tennants in on a six-month fixed contract (the minimum feasible duration), giving the flat an extra half year to be sold, providing us the money to buy my dad's house to move into (rather than the smaller, cheaper flat we'd originally planned on).

But just today we went round my uncle's to check the cats. The ginger one has been very stressed out by his relocation, leaving mess about the house, overgrooming and underfeeding, and acquiring a skin allergy to his own fucking cat food. My uncle wasn't too eager to house them in the first place, but it was only going to be a temporary arrangement. Except the ginger one hasn't exactly been an endearing lodger, although after several diet changes and trips to the vet, he seems to be a lot healthier and tidier. So now my uncle wants them gone in a couple of weeks, but we've no where else to put them.

So it looks like our plans will be changing again: moving into the house and letting the flat. Rent on the flat won't be anywhere near as much as the house, and not enough to cover the house's mortgage, but it's a council flat, so it's assured rent even if there are no tennants. Short of losing entirely one or both properties, this is financially the worst eventuality, but so many problems make it our only real option left. And it will still require redecorating the house, which will take two weeks minimum.

That's two weeks down in Norwich I didn't want in the first place, because the flat is small and crampt, and I'm far away from all my friends, hobbies, and counselling. I've a hundred other things weighing on my mind continuously. Obligations, concerns, fears, irritations, heartache, loneliness, anger and even violent urges. I repeatedly find myself realizing that I hate every aspect of my life and myself, and then things get worse.

My housemate says he finds painting walls to be therapeutic. I told him he should come with me to help. He said if I paid for his travel, he would. I pointed out that anything other than a very advanced ticket was 62 quid, and that he wouldn't have anywhere to sleep, and we couldn't afford to feed him. I should have just given him the money. Painting is not fucking therapeutic, it's neck-, back- and armache inducing.