The House That Healed Me
My whole life, all I ever wanted (other than a pulitzer prize) was to have a family and a house of my own.
Easier said than done when you have the same number of successful relationships as Jeffrey Dahmer and a credit history not unlike the Black Plague. Yet, somehow I managed to maintain a marriage and a decent job long enough to accomplish my silly little goal. It wasn’t easy. The homebuying process literally gutted me - running a razor comb over my past, exposing every single one of my financial failures. The case of Red Dog I bought for my high school graduation? I’m sure they found it.
In the tarot community, we like to refer to such a period as a ‘tower period’. Loosely based on the tower card, it means a time when everything in your life ‘burns down’ - is destroyed, leaving you prepared for the upcoming journey of growth. Or something like that.
I called this point in my life my ‘tower period’.
If I only knew…
We got the house and my wife, my stepdaughter, and I moved in literally the moment the world shut down for Covid.
Boom. Dream achieved.
Four years later I was alone.
The house was mine. I know you might be considering me quite the materialistic douchebag at this moment, but believe me when I say that my desire to keep this house was not based on such means.
You see, this was the house that healed me.
This was the part in my timeline where I suffered the psychotic break that would end up running my soul through the ringer. Every single pillar of my life would burn down to ash. Then, step by awkward step, I built myself back up. I holed up in the kitchen - sewing myself together one recipe at a time. I found security in its walls, tranquility under the large, ancient oak in the backyard, and I paced its now, empty rooms holding council with myself.
The divorce was amicable. We didn’t fight over a thing. The house was in my name and would stay that way. (although, I think this outcome had more to do with a well-timed leak in the roof). As of this writing, we are still on friendly terms.
All of this is material for other posts.
The house is nothing fancy. It’s a three bedroom, one-and-a-half bath ranch style. The siding is a little worn and the trim needs repainted.
The carpet smells of dog piss because it was a struggle to get Bear potty trained.
The lawn is overgrown…
I’m pretty sure the trees are dying…
The linoleum flooring is starting to peel…
Some of the appliances are failing…
The back storm door broke during a series of early summer ‘monsoons’…
My garden never flourished…
The garage is full of shit collected during nearly two decades of life…
You see where this is going.
I still love this house. It would probably be a lot easier for me if I just sold it and moved on. I could be free from the one thing keeping me glued down. Yet, where I live it is still cheaper to own a house than to rent an apartment - so far. This town keeps raising its cost of living without providing any improvements to ‘living’. Yet, there are nights like last night when the ‘projects’ begin piling up in my broken brain.
…you need to shampoo the carpets…time to treat the lawn…you always wanted to wallpaper the bathroom…wouldn’t the TV look better over THERE?
The dirty dishes are piling up in the sink. The laundry still needs folded.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
When this happens I have to stop. I have to sit, catch my breath, and know that I’m doing my best - even if I’m not. Because, when you’re built like me (as I’m sure. many people are) no amount of accomplishments is ever good enough. I begin to compare myself to others. Productivity becomes a competitive sport.
Your ex-wife kept this place cleaner than you! It looks like a dorm room. You only work part time. That should give you plenty of time to mop the floor.
I have Multiple Sclerosis. The job is physically demanding.
I shift my perspective. For a second I realize that everybody else is in the same struggle bus, we’re just taking different routes. I make a mental check of where I am for the evening, and I call it a day. If it’s late enough I go to bed. Sometimes, I read a book. It’s not giving up. This is not a defeat. It’s a pause to clear the jelly from my brain - to keep the medicated demons at bay.
It works some of the time.
The dishes will still be dirty in the morning. The dog might piss on the carpet. The handle on the toilet will still need jiggled.
But that will be tomorrow’s misery.
The spare rooms still hold their shadows. Some of the stains of memory will never be scrubbed away. Maybe this struggle is part of the process. In a way, I’m cleaning my way through my proverbial sins one broken task at a time. It feels like the Karate Kid when Ralph Machio keeps getting pissed off because he wants to learn how to fight and all that Mr. Miyagi does is teach him how to wax his fucking car.
My healing is a house. Its upkeep has been assigned to me by the universe. I’m learning how to be better person - a responsible person (which is tough for me). I might not get it all right. It might take a whole lot of sweat and Youtube videos to maintain this place, but it’s helped me become a more aware human.
Now, if somebody could help me install a storm door that would be great.