How it looks and feels once you start stripping back...

Bathrooms, bodies, life - same rules apply. Paper over the cracks or crack the issue wide open. Wish me luck...

Is it worth the change? Only you can decide that.

‘Isn’t silver the same as stone?’

My exhausted husband asks. Knowing the answer but hoping we can both just kid ourselves and move on. We stand in our hall, squinting our eyes at the numerous heaving towers of tiles that engulf us.

I don’t bother to answer. My face says it all.

We are having our bathroom refitted. The tiles in the shower have been letting through water since last year, forming a rather unappealing damp patch on the hall ceiling below. We have tried to ignore it. I don’t look up. I bathe instead of showering. I encourage the family to do the same.

Avoidance however is not a long-term strategy and the builders moved in last month. The leaking tiles were the final straw. The bathroom is old and needs a refit. The refit has been a testing time and has dragged on for far longer than planned.

Last week the tiles that were ‘on hold’ from the supplier were delivered to us. Well not to us, we were out. To our neighbour, who kindly signed for them and supervised as the delivery men stacked them in our hall. How was she to know they were the wrong tiles? Stone white ordered. Silver grey delivered. I could scream.

The bathroom is at the centre of our home, I mean literally at the centre. The middle room on the middle floor of three. All life passes by it and not one part of the house has not been affected by its remedial work.

The house is always cold as the builder’s traipse in and out to dump the rubbish in our now tatty looking front garden. The stairs are a no-go zone. The air is thick. The tile dust has spread downstairs into the kitchen, which is daubed with the washing which would normally hang in the now collapsed bathroom.

We live in a small house, and the new bathroom suite must be stored somewhere. And it is. Stored everywhere. The sink is next to the sofa in the living room. The shower screen blocks the hall. We eat dinner with a toilet (in its box at least) next to the table. A variety of unidentified sanitary ware form an obstacle course to access the kitchen sink.

Our everyday life has changed. Our cat keeps staying out late. My husband can no longer work from home. The noise, the mess, the fact his office is now full of mucky tools. He takes the car to work. I’m pissed. Carrying shopping hurts my back. It’s just one room but we are all affected. Should we have just soldiered on?

And I know I am lucky. To have a home. Even if many of the rooms are no bigger than cupboards and my children’s children will still be paying off the mortgage long after I die. I take constant solace in this safe space. It is more than I ever could have dreamed of through my early years of battling mental illness. I have come far. I am happy here.

My home is part of an ongoing strategy to keep me well. My home protects me. It nourishes me. Any change to it, even for the better, is hard to tolerate. Change feels (initially at least) like an assault to the bones of that have held me for years. I can’t wait for this bathroom to be finished. I need my peace. Is it worth this upheaval?

My husband unhelpfully lists the reasons this may have been a mistake; the damp patch in the hall was not getting any bigger, we have an alternative shower in our ensuite, our children will soon be leaving home, one daughter never takes showers anyway. Should we have just spent the money on a much-wanted holiday instead?

It tempting, isn’t it? To tolerate things, things we know are not right. Things that are getting worse. Things that will be painful, costly and disruptive to change. It is tempting to never look up. Avoidance becomes second nature. A quick getaway seems a worthy alternative to getting to the root of the issue.

The bathroom, the house, the husband, the job, the overdraft, the memories we don’t want to remember but live on in our aches and pains, everyday vices and dubious life choices. Fixing them is a risk. A disruption. It affects everyone. It is uncomfortable. It may not work. And of course it is endless. My ensuite bathroom is dying a slow death too. More change ahead.

But one of the very few benefits from a lifetime of managing mental illness is knowing that avoidance can only get you so far. Papering over the cracks, or in this case leaking tiles is not a long-term option. Problems fester and spread when left unattended. It is worth the pain, discomfort and disruption to normal life to remedy the problem. But it’s not easy.

Recognition of the issue comes first. I didn’t need the leak to tell me that the bathroom had had its day. I have known for a while, but I didn’t want to see it. The leak prompted me, forced my hand. It’s a tricky balance – sometimes we need to wait for the prompt before we are prepared to act. However, leave it too late and the prompt can spiral out of control. The prompt should guide us, not overwhelm us.

Timing of remedial action is crucial. I postponed the bathroom work until after the summer. Summer is family time. Winter is far too cold for any significant house changes, and I wanted the work done by Christmas. The time is now. Finding the right time to tackle any underlying issues takes time itself but finding the right time is time well spent.

Support makes all the difference. It was easier to find a husband than it was a builder! In the end I had to go to a specialist website. Finding the right kind of support to make the changes you need is hard work (hindered by the decline in health services and the difficulties accessing any kind of social care and support). We all need help at times; we all deserve it and it’s ok to ask for help finding it.

Resilience is key. Even when we commit to change there will be unforeseen setbacks and unexpected fortune. The tiles were not the tiles we ordered but on closer inspection they suit the bathroom style better. And they were cheaper. Our spirits fell and then rose again. This is normal. Change is not linear; you must ride out the highs and lows.

The final element is faith. You must keep the faith that the destination is worth the journey. And that’s where I am now. I have been here before. Many times. Struggling to see clearly for the mess, doubting myself and my choices, wondering if the situation was worth this amount of effort to change. I have learned however to reassure myself with the beauty of the new space I can see emerging, the thought of the refreshed, more comfortable, cleansing life that is to come.

No more avoiding looking up. Looking forward to having full vision. Prepared to see it through to the end. And then to rest. Before I start again. Redecorating, rewiring, reshaping and rebirthing more of my inner and outer world. A lifelong project for a lifelong safe place to inhabit.

At least soon I will have a beautiful new bath to luxuriate in until my next project reveals itself. I will be waiting; I’ll let you know when it comes along. Let me know when you start yours…

Progress not perfection. More work to be done but I am trusting the process.