We moved constantly when I was growing up. My parents had a habit of giving away all of our furniture and just striking out for greener pasture at the drop of a hat. I owned very little that was mine, and even fewer things that could be taken each move. I was determined to own my own home “when I grew up.” I wanted roots, permanence and stability. I wanted something that couldn’t be taken away. I wanted something that was mine.
It may be no coincidence that I married a carpenter. I designed my home on graph paper, and my husband built it. It was a simple house, but it was mine. Every square foot of that house was used and loved. My children spent their childhoods there, the yard hosted forts and tents and the most magnificent treehouse. I healed there, where I felt safe and secure. I adored that house more than is probably rational. It was a loving home, and I was so proud of it.
Things here have been so complicated lately. My sister couldn’t live alone, nor could my mom. I originally moved everyone into my house, but managing their houses on top of my own, and living in far too small a space for so many people really took a toll on all of us. And on my house. It was meant to be a temporary situation, but as these things do, it became more long term and I had to face the fact that my home just wasn’t practical. It made better sense to move us all to my mother’s house.
And so my house sat empty for a while. We tried to rent it, and then, with heavy hearts, we tried to sell it. The burdens of the mortgage and the upkeep were as heavy as the weight on my heart. Moving into my mother’s house was the last thing I wanted to do, losing my own home because of it felt like … well, it felt like hell. I’m bitter. I feel as if my mother has again taken away my stability, even though it was (and has always been) my choice to care for her, for my sister, for my family. The irony of my losing my beloved stability in order to provide the same for them is not lost on me.
As of last week, my house was gone for good. I no longer own a home. I no longer have my own space. I am heartbroken.
Every step I’ve taken has been by choice. I realize this. But we can so rarely see very far ahead when we’re taking these steps; there are so many curves and obstacles in the way to make our vision short. I had no idea that the emergent situations I stepped in to deal with would lead to this. I try not to wonder if I would have still done the same, had I known. I’d like to think that I would, that caring for my family would be more important than even a house. But I can’t say with certainty that I would have.
I still have my house key on my keychain.
I can’t decide if it would hurt more to toss it, or to keep it.
Real life woman. Virtual World avatar. Likes top shelf vodka, dominant men, blues, sunsets and playing darts. Dislikes insecurity, rap, small children and clowns. I'm either behind the bar or under it.