The Housing Crisis: Letting Go

The author reflects on a Christmas crisis averted, and exactly at what point those caught up in Dublin’s housing crisis should let go of their anxiety.

Dear Minister,
How’s it going, Eoghan? How was Christmas? I have a mental picture of you, Colin and Cillian sitting at the table in Aylesbury with paper hats and a look of utter exhaustion and bemusement on your faces. Like, how the hell did we make it to the end of the year? What just happened? Or maybe all the bitterness from the year exploded in a Christmas barney with the brothers – because what Christmas is complete without some kind of family drama?

Me, I had 20lbs of food to cook, along with a father who demands the center of whatever room he’s in, to the detriment of his long-suffering relatives. The perfect recipe for a storm and, were it not for the fact that I had popped 5mg of Xanax (procured from a contact in south-east Asia who owed me a favour), it looked like my Christmas Day looked was headed for a cliff edge. As things went, though, I was pretty blissed out, and managed just fine…

https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/2X485T9Z5Ly0xyaghN73ed

Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I’m a man who needs to calm down a little. Always have been. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been bemusing friends and loved ones with the kinds of questions nobody can answer. Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Why does evil exist and, since it does, why be a good person?
Anytime someone gave me an answer it would just lead to more questions. Even a philosophy degree didn’t do the trick – so I suppose this is my fault more than anyone else’s.
I’m now at a stage where I haven’t reached any conclusions except to be a good person, work in a job where I’m not screwing anyone over, pay my taxes and not be in debt to anyone. Maybe some questions can’t be answered, but sometimes you’ve got to let them go, to get on with your life.

Most of us get through life just fine without these concerns. For others, there’s Xanax.

I remember the first time I did Xanax. It was about ten years ago, as I was leaving the city in Asia where I’d been living for over 2 years. It couldn’t have come at a more potent time. After a lifetime of freaking myself and others out, I had decamped to a new career in Asia, where I learned about hard work, studied Buddhism and started letting go. Letting go of my hang-ups and stresses; learning to concentrate on the things I could and wanted to control. The beginning of my long journey back to Ireland was an apogee: as the drug kicked in, I lay back in my seat on the bus and watched the streets and industrial parks flash by before the motorway slip-road. I didn’t know if I would see them again, and I didn’t really mind. That’s the great thing about opioids: you could be in the middle of an apocalyptic battle and with one blue pill you’re lost to all the madness that surrounds you.

I had a similar moment some weeks ago, but without any chemical inducements. I had been stressing out about money – specifically, my savings, which were dwindling and, in doing so, giving me the distinct impression that I was getting nowhere in life. I talked to my mother about it and, after venting my frustrations, she quietly replied: “Just forget about saving.” I looked at her blankly. She went on: “It sounds like things are getting too difficult to manage so, for now, at least, just go with the flow – don’t worry about your savings until things become more manageable.” A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Of course! I realised, It’s not the end of the world if I have to take the foot off the pedal for a while. I saw that my savings were becoming a fulcrum for my anxieties about the future, and my place in life. The dwindling  It wasn’t

Sadly, this feeling was not to last forever. As Christmas approached, the savings dwindled even further and I started to think, Maybe I should be worried about this. What happens if we have an emergency? When will we ever be secure in a home? And will I ever be able to figure out why I’m doing everything right but still can’t get off the back foot?
There are thousands of people who think like me all around the country, living in almost every strata of society, from the bottom to…well, around the upper-middle. They’re pissed because they’re hard-working people who can’t catch a break. They’re so pissed that there’s very little that you, Minister, or anyone else can do which doesn’t feel like a pat on the arm from a condescending parent, or that rich friend whose parents bought them a 4-bed house near the city center: Don’t worry about it – everything will be ok in the end. No, I want it to be ok NOW. I work hard, goddammit, and I deserve some security.

And this is where the Xanax philosophy of “letting go” veers straight into a brick wall. For all the thousands of people around the country who feel cheated, there are millions who have been cheated – especially in the midst of the crash ten years ago, when they lost their homes, pensions, jobs and even families because of some Wall Street Ponzi scheme. At the same time, along came opioids like Xanax and the die was cast. We now know the path that Xanax leads to, and the reason it’s widely (and rightly) banned. We know that, although it was supposed to be a pain reliever, it eventually became America’s perfect barbiturate. And millions used it to let go of their very real problems, until the only problem that was left was what to do when the drug ran out.

A couple of days before Christmas, M took me to see the Mary Poppins sequel. She’s loved the original since she was a kid and she figured a little Disney magic would make the holiday season even nicer. She was right: the movie was charming and full of magic – to a point.

Towards the end of the movie, the main characters find themselves staring a crisis in the face. The kids are about to lose their home because of a battle in the bank which they will never be able to wrap their little heads around – all they know is that if they don’t do something, and do it quickly, they’ll be out on their arses before you can say “chim-chimeroo”. No sooner do they start getting a plan together than they are whisked away into a song-and-dance routine about lighting lamps around London.

 

What? I was suddenly seething. What the hell had this to do with the story? And what freaking good was Mary Poppins trying to achieve for these kids before they became waifs and strays?

I got so pissed off because they were being bamboozled. Whether it’s the characters or the writers themselves, someone was telling these kids – and, by proxy, the audience – “Hey, if you’re up against a massive crisis created by even bigger, more arbitrary forces – just forget about it and sing.” Nothing about how to deal with a crisis – even better, how to resolve it – and ultimately get past it. What would have been much better – or at least a decent compromise – would have been to sing about the crisis at hand, and at least acknowledge it.

Because this, I suppose, is the only way to let go: to admit that your back’s against the wall, but laugh regardless. Dance if you’re weighed down with balls and chains. Sing while the taxman is removing his pound of flesh from your side. But you must always acknowledge the crisis at hand – that is the key in revelling in its absurdity.(Or, to put it in more practical terms: you’re never going to be able to afford a deposit for a mortgage – not for the next few years at least – so enjoy your life; eat that avocado toast; take that holiday. This must be what my mother meant.)

If the writers of Mary Poppins were looking for a little more honesty and depth, they could do no better than getting a songwriter like Father John Misty in. The man is an unkempt reprobate who is rarely sober, but man does he know how to write about love in the aftermath of chaos. He would have come out with a song which would have both regaled the kids and given them a few life lessons about coping with loss. God knows he’s done it before:

As death fills the streets we’re garden-variety oblivious;
You grab my hand and say in a told-you-so-voice: “It’s just how we expected.”

Everything is doomed, and nothing will be spared,
But I love you honeybear.

All the best, Minister,
Simon