That house had always been a place of safety for me, and I loved it there when I was young, but it was more than I could handle on my own. It was old. It needed maintenance. I had a small child, and my husband had a job that was much too far away. I could not envision buying it from my father though I ached when he sold it to another. And it felt like the past. Like my childhood. To grow up, I felt I had to get away. To set out with my new family into the great wide open. I needed to acquire a house of my own as quickly as possible in order to fulfill these dreams and not only that, but I had to spend my time waiting to make the largest purchase of my life before I could even be happy. I had to wait to be happy.
It took me three years to realize I was wrong. Wrong in so many ways. Wrong to think that I could not have continued my life in the walls of the home where my father grew up. Wrong to think that I could never find happiness in an apartment. Wrong to think that I had failed as a human being if I had not found and purchased a free-standing building on a square piece of land with a back-yard and a garage by the time I was 30 years old. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
So when I discovered I actually lived in my apartment, I had to "move in." I had to admit to myself that this is where I spend my time and where I am raising my children. This coupled with the endless toil of cleaning, rearranging, and organizing the accumulated possessions of half a dozen people was wearing me down. If I wasn't working, I was cleaning. And it never got clean. I needed that to change. I needed to take charge of my space and my life. I needed to make something happen.
To be continued...