Victoria is in the grip of the lowest vacancy rate in a decade. It’s not uncommon to be shown through a rental property with over a dozen other hopefuls. Of course the law of supply and demand mean weekly rents are going up, and demand is typically higher in January.

I’ve rented for 24 years, always with a cat on the lease, never lost a bond, never been late with my rent – and don’t expect maintenance. Of the six rentals I’ve lived in, two have been absolute gems (I refuse to count the house I picked up and returned the keys for on the same day because I opened up a kitchen cupboard and three large rats with attitude glared me down over a funky potato).

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Property one came with an ant infestation so bad that when I finally convinced the property manager to send a handyman the large front window was a pulsing black mass suited to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as the ants exited the roof.

Property two required a bucket of water to be added to the toilet bowl to flush the crap of my six-year-old. The plumber gave me a lecture on how some humans produced waste that was too large to flush. How would this toilet cope with a burley tradie’s deposit? Eventually a new toilet proved that size wasn’t important and that our toilet had indeed been crappy.

The third property had a leaky roof providing us one morning with an indoor water fountain, to go with our mildewed blankets and the mould covering the backs of furniture. The owner was playing Monopoly, putting one house up against the next, yet couldn’t afford repairs.

I cried randomly, felt my gut was being torn from me, and my heart ached – not metaphorically

The last house I’ve lived in has been the worst. I started feeling off in 2015. I’d been working two jobs at university, writing a thesis, and my daughter had left home. Was it empty nest? Menopause?

By winter 2016 I quit my job. I dropped my PhD placement, woke each morning with a headache that turned into a migraine. My body felt heavy and drawn to the floor. Had gravity become stronger? I cried randomly, felt my gut was being torn from me, and my heart ached – not metaphorically. Nausea was with me like morning sickness, and I was giddy, walking into walls and door frames, bruising easily. Painkillers became a food staple. My blood work was all clear, as was the cat’s. He’d developed much the same symptoms, and we both picked up late each spring and declined again in early autumn. My cat scummed. I started to believe I would too. “We have to prepare for something more sinister now”, my doctor said over the phone when I rang for my latest results.

As things started to decline after the first couple of chilly nights in early autumn I Googled central heating and migraines. Like most people I’d seen news reports where acute carbon monoxide poisoning took out whole families overnight, but what was with chronic long-term exposure to carbon monoxide? All the symptoms fit. My poor cat had stretched his neck long over the heating grate waiting for the gush of warm air to set his whiskers a-quiver and his cheek fur to cotton wool. Had I been killing him?

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The gas had never been checked during my six-year tenancy. The property manager said I could pay for it myself as it was only for my peace of mind. I rang her back an hour later to say the plumber had switched it off. It was the worst cracking he’d seen and legally he had to shut it off. His estimate was one hour of use before the house would be pumping carbon monoxide around.

The new rental laws passed by the Victorian government in September, which will come into effect by 2020, will give more rights to tenants. The REIV ran a “rent fair” petition against these new laws. What we need is realistic bonds, an end to rental bidding, and safe and affordable housing. And we need more incentives for investors who can afford to maintain their properties to get into the market.

The new heating system worked brilliantly and all my symptoms cleared 48 hours after the old unit was disconnected. However, I wasn’t offered a seventh lease, my rent jumped by a substantial amount, and when I didn’t take the hint I was given a notice to vacate. The $100,000 I’d paid in rent meant nothing, much like my health.

• Joanne Penney is a freelance writer and journalist