Everyone living in America, whether you are a snot nosed Republican or a just-as-confused-as-I-am Democrat, wants to be home with their loved ones on the Holidays. Whatever holiday that may be for you…seeing family and friends who you don’t get to see throughout the year…or even people you see daily…society has tricked us all in to believing that if you are without a loved one on said holiday, you are alone. Lonely. Miserable. May meet DSM 5 diagnostic criteria for mild depression. All. Of. The. Above.
Home is a state of mind for most people with some form of emotional intelligence…but for the other 98% of the world and children…home is where someone lives. A house, if you will…whether it’s an apartment, a room, a mansion (go f- yourself) or what not…is simply where you build memories with the ones you love most of the time.
I had the opportunity to buy a house once…with my ex-husband (well, soon to be ex-husband). It was the most perfect imperfect house ever and while I regret not having it now, I don’t regret what it would have done to me. See, buying that perfect imperfect house would have left me high in financial debt, probably left me emotionally weaker than I am now, and would have been yet another something my wonderful ex could have used to throw in my face. However, during this wonderful time of year, I can’t help but regret not getting it. Not sucking it up, living with his bat shit crazy mother for another few months until the bank decided that no other offers were worth taking. Not biting my tongue when he would be emotionally and psychologically abusive by calling me choice words to my face, in front of our young and impressionable daughter. Not just dealing with the cold and heartless “love” he showed me on a regular basis. Yet, if I just accepted that maybe this is what my life had to be like to get that house…well, it’s hard not to fault myself for not being able to provide my daughter with something to call home. Something permanent.
We rent. I do not see anything wrong with that, but my stuck up, superficial friends, family, and the like, find it bizarre that I pay just as much towards someone’s mortgage as I could pay for my own. To try to prove them wrong I researched houses in a comparable neighborhood, one with a much better school district, and realized I was wrong. I am paying a mortgage payment, including property and school tax, in rent monthly. The sad thing is, I am not even paying it. My father and my limited child support is paying it because as a social worker…someone who actually makes a difference in the world…I cannot afford my daughter’s daycare and this pseudo-mortgage.
I don’t even mind living where I live. But it isn’t permanent. Nothing in my life right now is. I am living paycheck-to-paycheck. Something I am sure many of you are familiar with…but perhaps your savings account is more than $25.00. Regardless, I am living in this apartment where my husband and I once shared memories. Not that I miss him…but I miss the ease of having someone else to depend on if I just needed a break. I was violently ill the other day (food poisoning at its finest) and had to bother my 61-year-old mother to come to care for me and my daughter because I frankly, had nobody else. I am grateful she came to my aid…but with that just comes reminders that I can’t do this.
I don’t think owning a home would be easy…but it would some place where my daughter would have a bedroom that was hers. Working with homeless families for five years…I can empathize with them. Sure, we gave them a structure to place their things in…but what they were really lacking was the freedom to not have to feel so trapped in another person’s place. Feeling trapped is one of the worst things a person can experience. It creates fear, anxiety, anger, frustration, confusion. I mean think about what would happen if you were trapped in an elevator. All those emotions and what-ifs popping in to your head. It would start small….rational….and be almost typical of what anyone would do in the situation. But then, each person would veer off towards their own issues and fears that were there before getting stuck in this stupid elevator. Whatever they were. Regrets start popping up. Silencing them and keeping this illusion of calmness and control would satisfy embarrassment felt by your elevator mates seeing the real you. The vulnerable you.
I feel like I am trapped in this elevator that only goes between several floors. My family. My job. My responsibilities to keep said family and job at bay. There is no floor for me to be me. There is no room for it. I am trapped. Living someone’s life. Someone who maybe has it more together.
Not that you would be able to tell I was a mess….I am a therapist after all. Master of disguise.
The point, is that I feel ashamed every time my daughter looks at me and tells me she loves me. I want to ask her why…but she’s 4 1/2 and she’d probably say something so awkward it would just be hilarious and defeat the purpose that I am choosing to feel miserable. Sure, I kept her out of harms way when my ex was being a total douche bag. Sure, I keep her alive, well-fed, comfortable, loved, and happy. And yes, I can do this from a tent in the woods….but I want to give her a house. I don’t even care if it is furnished (I mean, the incorporated village snob cares…but I can silence her!). I don’t care if it’s in the town I want to be in. As long as it has bedrooms, a staircase, and a fireplace….I. am. set.
The worst was today when I tried to feel out what my parents would say about the idea of them spotting me the thousands of dollars I would need to collect a down payment for a house…and I was told that they can no longer help me how they used to. Stupid stock-market. Thank you for destroying my life.
So, here I sit…miserable. Recognizing that society does not view me as poor…but in reality I cannot make ends meet. I don’t buy pretty or lavish things. I shop at Trader Joes, Target, and Wal-Mart. I watch regular TV. I don’t own anything fancy. I don’t shop for clothes like I used to (or at all), unless my daughter needs pants that touch her ankles. I have curbed every habit that made me feel good to sacrifice a 2-bedroom apartment in a shitty school district just so that my daughter can have a place to live. The best, is that my ex does nothing but take his fancy new girlfriend out. Shocking, right?
I don’t even know what I am asking for….but I am reaching out to someone on this world wide web who wants to offer me some assistance, preferably in the form of a check. I promise, when I finally perfect that 5-course meal I have been working on, I will invite you and whomever over for a nice warm meal…in the home you helped me purchase for my daughter.
[11/24/2014]