A really cool, funky house surrounded by trees and nice people and gentle hills.
The house needed a lot of love, and we were willing to give that love.
But fate, or whatever it is, intervened and we lost our little house. Days before it was officially ours.
And it feels like a death. It's crushing, really, how badly losing a home feels.
A home that, like I just said, wasn't even ours yet.
I pride myself on not being super materialistic. If my apartment burned down, I'd miss my shoes and my jeans and my computer, but I'd live.
I'd mourn for my iPhone, sure, and I'd be sad having to replace my "[Name of High School] Class of '01" coffee mug with something generic from Target. But I'd live.
And I'll live after losing this house. But this hurts so impossibly much.
I'm no stranger to mental pain. I lost a job when the economy was shit, while I was unmarried and living with a guy. And I was frightful that he'd leave me if he had to support me. I've lost family members and friends, and nearly lost my mind at the same time. I even faced being crippled when my surgery went all wrong and had to deal with the fear that I might not walk right, get in and out of cars easily, or run ever again (I still have a slight limp today, but only a few have noticed).
But losing this house hurt in a new way. It was a failure. I failed. I failed that little house and the future we would share. And now it will sit there and continue to rot away and die.
We dodged a bullet, everyone is saying.
It happened for a reason, we keep hearing.
It wasn't meant to be, people have repeated ad infinitum.
Blessing in disguise? Maybe. Divine intervention? Arrogant to think that my life is that important, but whatever. Fucked up coincidence that happened in the nick of time? Most likely, although that blows, too.
Anyway, I'll just keep on keeping on. And eventually I'll get off of this sad little roller coaster and onto the platform of another home. Hopefully a better home.
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