Free Bloodletting by Victoria Leatham Page A

went to bed.
    A few days later, as I watched Angus expertly kick down the door to Arthur the landlord’s self-contained flat, I decided that it really was time to end it.
    There had been a council inspection, prior to which we had been told to hide our beds.This odd request had led the guys to do some investigating and they had discovered that the warehouse was actually zoned light industrial, not residential.We were, therefore, living there illegally—and Arthur knew this. Furthermore, the guys had discovered that our rent, which was supposed to be funding improvements to the kitchen, bathroom and gallery space, was being channelled into one of Arthur’s other businesses. He’d never had any intention of improving the place for us, which had always been the promise.
    We knew something had been going on, as new partitions had been going up regularly, followed by ads in the paper for new tenants.There were now fourteen of us.We were all pissed off by what we’d discovered about Arthur, and decided to take over the lease for ourselves, as he wasn’t actually the owner.
    And then Arthur disappeared.Angus volunteered to break into his flat, to see if we could find out where he’d gone.There was nothing. No furniture, no food and no clues.The flat was empty.
    A month or so later, just as we’d got used to squatting, a formal eviction notice turned up. We had a week to move, and I decided to go rather than wait to be escorted off the premises. I packed up my things and left.
    I’d planned to stay in touch with everyone but by the time I had settled into my new flat and had the energy to call them, the phone had been cut off. I went to visit but the place was boarded up and vacant.
    After living in a household of fourteen people with only two showers to share, the idea of a place of my own was enormously appealing. I rented a one-bedroom ground floor flat that had once been part of a Victorian terrace house. It was the first affordable place I was offered. A tall thin bloke with lank hair lived upstairs.
    The design was peculiar.A home conversion had been made, and what would once have been a front sitting room was now a small kitchen and dining room. By ‘dining room’ I mean there was space for a table and some chairs.A bookshelf divided this section from the bedroom and bathroom. The high ceilings and open spaces meant the flat was impossible to heat but I didn’t care. It was mine.
    It was wonderful to be able to do what I liked, when I liked, without regard for any housemates. I’d never had that kind of freedom before and it was amazing.And it was how I managed to overlook the hideous carpet, the damp and the weeds in the garden. But while I loved the privacy, it wasn’t exactly good for me.
    At first I actually invited friends over, uni friends from whom I’d cut myself off over the last couple of years. I even cooked. But as the months passed, everything started to become more of an effort.When I went out, I tended to drink. Heavily.
    One morning I woke up next to a bloke I hardly knew, and certainly hadn’t seen for years. I had no memory of what had happened the previous night. I threw up, dressed and went to the gallery, telling him to let himself out. I’d never had such a complete blackout before, but had certainly slept with people inadvertently due to drinking too much.
    Most of the time I just stayed home in the flat, watching television or reading. Occasionally I went into uni, where I was still studying. I began letting the phone ring out and stopped returning calls.There was something wrong but I didn’t know what to do.The worse I felt, the more I thought I should keep away from people when I was like this: I didn’t want to ‘inflict’ myself on them. The urge to hurt myself returned as well. Sometimes I gave in to it. It was easier than dealing with the thoughts, which would be all-consuming until I finally picked up the razor blade.
    Dr G, who I still saw on a weekly basis, suggested