It’s been a difficult weekend. Nothing quite like getting disturbing news on a Friday afternoon, right before the close of business so you get to sweat and agonize for an entire weekend, and Monday morning as well before anyone can get through mandatory meetings to sift email and answer questions.
This has been ugly. One thing after another. Hurdle after hurdle, and those hurdles have teeth. And it can still end if the seller says, “fuck this. We’re outta here.” I wouldn’t blame them in the least and I hold no animosity toward them if they do pull out.
All things considered, I’ve held it together pretty well, but I can pretty much guarantee you the first person to say, “If it was meant to be, it will be. Maybe this just wasn’t meant for you,” or, “god has something better in mind for you,” is going to find breathing difficult and my hands will probably cramp waiting for them to stop struggling.
Seriously, that platitude of “if it was meant to be, it will be” is a one-way ticket to a special place in hell, a place forgotten by gods and demons alike, where only the denizens of shattered dreams and “just out of reach” and “snatched from the palm of your hand,” dwell.
One does not go looking for a house, sees a listing with the required number of bedrooms and bathrooms and says, “Yeah, this will work. We’ll take it.” One (generally) shops around, looks through houses and mentally puts themselves into these places, fitting their lives in the surroundings, seeing if it will fit. They check out how the sunlight comes through windows, how the floor plan flows, if it’s a quiet location, or surrounded with noise. They put themselves in these places and when they find one that fits, they are suddenly bonded. They’ve found their home and they know they want to be there.
Then the paperwork starts and the lender begins to ask for obscure items that may or may not be easily accessible. Misfiled taxes have proven to be my Achilles heel and a single form now stands between me and the house where I wanted to bring my parents to live out their lives in comfort and safety.
The paperwork snafu is going to be our undoing, and it has hit us pretty hard. Getting the news late Friday meant we had a whole weekend to drown in the questions of “what do we do now?” and “can we even fix this?” It feels much like watching the rope being pulled up just as your lifeboat gets close to the rescue ship. Adrift with no oars or motor. One thing I hate is feeling directionless and with no answers coming from those who don’t work weekends (lenders) I had no way to stabilize my emotions and things got bleak. Very bleak. At least now I recognize that feeling I’ve been having for years is anxiety. I never realized it until this weekend. Putting a name to it gives me a little bit of control. I still feel horrible, but I know I’m not dying, I just feel like I am. Being without direction makes me very anxious.
It took me two and a half days to come up with another plan, but I did it. I stood up and threw a fucking rock at the Universe and told it to get the hell off my lawn. Moving here has been pushed back. Fine. I’ll get my house ready for market first. As soon as it sells, I’m outta there, heading to my parents’ place in
We’ll get their place cleared out and on the market, although they already have
a potential buyer for their place, so it may not take too long.
Once their place sells, we find a spot on the coast and cash out the deal, cutting the lenders off at the pockets. Fuck them. Fuck them all. They’ve been digging through my shorts long enough and I’m done. The sellers are done. We’re throwing our rocks and chasing the paperwork out of the yard. My anxiety keeps shifting to anger and the rocks keep getting bigger. The one I’ve been held under is next.
I can’t wait to throw it.