I am still baffled at how little, innocent moments and messages seem to imprint themselves on my identity and lead me down a specific path. I mean, I totally get how core wounds have affected how I process information, relate to others, and why I instinctively want to hoard cats, but I am still discovering these additional layers of my identity that go way deeper than I ever thought possible. It’s almost like I don’t know everything about myself, to which I scoff and say “excuse me, but my therapists have always noted my amazing insight into my own bullshit”.

Take for example, homeownership.

Now, I know my dream of having an older house is 100% a result of growing up in a home built in 1901, lovingly restored by my parents into a Bed and Breakfast (a B&B that is still in operation today, using the exact same photos on the website my parents took in 1999). And I know I equate the years living in that home as being the most stable years of my childhood (even with the cemetery across the street). And I also know the old-house bug runs deep in my family — my dad has restored between ten and fifteen old houses since that first house, each one more beautiful than the last. Two of his siblings live in old homes in New England, one tall and stout next to a river, the other an old farmhouse complete with barn, and their parent’s and other family member’s homes are old but well-loved and still standing. But I never really thought the motivations to own my old house went beyond that.

Narrator: It went deeper than that.

My house was built in 1938, converted at some point into a duplex, then converted back into a single family home with a floorpan that can be best described as “Jackson Pollock dabbled in Architecture”. We bought the place a little over five years ago, Drew having little fight against me and my old house destiny laid before me.

The house was old enough to be considered charming, cheap enough to justify the switch from renting, and in decent enough shape to bring a then two-year old child in without worrying about fruit snacks mixing with lead paint. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a side porch and a back porch, and an odd little den for a playroom or office — it fit the bill. It was flipped so we could move in right away, but the flip still needed some cosmetic updates (and some un-doing). When we moved in, I felt like I was honoring that inner child who romped with glee in an old home and joined the family legacy of old-house life.

Since owning it, we’ve had to had plumbing and wiring repaired, structural beams added in the attic, insulation blown in, the entire pier and beam foundation replaced (the timing of which was a little too on the nose), a new shower installed when the foundation repair tore up the previous tub/shower combo, replaced rotted subfloors and tile floors in bathrooms from leaky toilets (and learned after the fact that I could have made a claim with our homeowners insurance to repair it instead of DIY-ing it), addressed jagged cracks in walls from the foundation replacement, a whole squirrels-in-the-attic situation, and now a new patch of rotted subfloor from a leaking water softener (instead of crying after I spotted the rot, I cried and called the insurance company after spotting the rot).

I’ve since learned how to use a tile saw, miter saw, table saw, and nail gun, and have installed (poorly if you look closely) my own crown molding and a tile floor. I have painted, sanded, patched, cried, and painted some more.

I planted a lemon tree and two random discount rose bushes that have grown to over six feet tall now — both provide me with ample blooms and fruit each year. Once, I thought I was being so slick getting mulch on the cheap from the city’s tree recycling center, only to realize upon entering that all mulch was loose, not bagged, and it was loaded in by a front loader. One scoop of the front loader equaled 970lbs of mulch that I was going to have to unload and spread by hand. I violently waved to the operator to not drop a single ounce more after the initial scoop.

I told myself I was happily living that old-house homeowner dream and clearly I need my own comedy-of-errors HGTV show. And on most days I truly felt it. This was my home and I was making it into my own palace of stability (ignore that foundation issue), one project at a time.

So when the pandemic started and we all began working and schooling from home, I attributed all feelings of uneasiness to the truly awful state of the world. I would go on little walks to break up the work-from-home, live-from-home, teach-from-home life and take in our gorgeous old neighborhood. I hated my new home office so I researched shades of greens and how to install crown moulding to make it seem like an antique study fit for cigars and scheming (and work). Drew opted to do the same, painting his office a light shade with cool tones to replace the warm, beige-y bullshit that house flippers seemed to love.

And yet.

By October, Drew was miserable working from home in his new role of remote sales. He started looking for an escape through a job promotion to a larger market in a new city. Watching him daydream through new roles and new cities, I could tell that a part of this new dream was selling our house and moving into an apartment. I understood why it was alluring — this house has been a lot of work, and he spent several years of owning this house crippled with depression, anxiety, and a wife that was really good at making a to-do list of projects. I cannot tell you how many times I came into Drew’s office and found him apartment hunting in various cities, comparing price-per-square feet ratios, filtering out walk-ups and debating the need for a doorman.

I used this as an opportunity to NOT act out on my fears of leaving my dream house in a wonderful city with amazing friends and a very easy commute and try to discourage him, so I let this daydream play out instead.

I know — choosing to not shit on my husband’s dream is very big of me.

He actually interviewed for two cities in the Northeast and spoke to a third, receiving an offer that would be a promotion. Unfortunately, the cost of living adjustment would have eaten up the increase in salary and the company wouldn’t cover the cost of transferring an employee-initiated move, so he had to turn it down. With that decision, his dream of getting away from this house was squashed.

Unlike me, Drew wasn’t taking quarantine walks to reactive the Pollyana mindset of “It’ll get better”, “This too shall pass”, and “Sweat equity is still equity”. I’d say his mental health took a bit of a decline in the weeks after turning down the offer. Seeing Drew’s tiny living space dreams and downsized responsibilities dashed, I took a big ol’ codependent breath and offered to sell the house anyways.

To my own surprise, I actually agreed with the proposition meant to soothe Drew.

It turns out the pier-and-beam foundation of my old house dreams was replaced with “It’s 2021 and I need a fucking break”. All at once, everything clicked: I’ve been trying to force an identity that doesn’t quite mesh well with reality.

I’m not rich enough or have the energy to own and maintain an old home in perpetuity, and Drew isn’t going to magically wake up with the skillset of a general contractor or the dimples of an HGTV star. I have deep down resented shouldering much of the fixer-upper life, and the looming list of things to still address was haunting me in a very real way (which is unfair because I very much want to live in a haunted house).

The more I thought about it, I realized I have been using this old house as a way to bond with my geographically-distant dad to an extreme level, equating him loving me more if I had an old house. It’s insane to look back and see that I still clung to the narrative that I needed to justify why my dad should love me (I don’t — it’s pretty unconditional) and this was my brilliant way to ensure that I’m loved.

If I removed the false narrative of old house+me=dreams achieved and dad love secured, then why am I owning a house? The remaining narrative said “Because you’re an adult and that’s a sign of a successful adult” and “That’s just what you do when you grow up. You buy a house.” I know I inherited that message from multiple sources: my parents, watching others zooming past me in life achievement marks, general societal pressure, etc.

Oh shit. Another false narrative weaving itself into my motivations and actions.

It turns out I don’t need a house to have pride in where I am at. I don’t need a house to prove to anyone that I am a fully functional adult. My friends aren’t my friends because I have a house. My daughter doesn’t love me because I own a house. My parents are just happy I am alive and well and remember to call them. And I’m pretty sure my spouse fucking hates the responsibility of owning a house.

So why did I ignore looking at my motivations for making such a huge, burdensome, costly decision? I couldn’t tell you. I’m not in that place anymore. No amount of historic trim or idyllic instagram posts documenting renovation projects can match what sitting down and doing some real self reflection can offer.

So, we’re selling the house and downsizing.

Since making that decision, Drew has been the happiest I’ve seen him in years. The weight of all the projects left to do without a clear idea of how to do it had been crushing him. He has stopped searching for a new job in a new city and he ended up switching to a new role while working from home that he enjoys. We found a brand-new apartment complex to move into and hired out all the remaining projects needing to be addressed before we list. My daughter is ecstatic there’s a pool, and I’m now down the street from my favorite bike trail. I have weekends to think, sleep, play, or find a new show to watch without inwardly shaming myself that I need to be addressing this or fixing that.

I don’t know if we will make money on the sale of the house, but frankly I am at the point where it doesn’t matter anymore. I have an active, engaged partner again. I have free time. Dare I say I’m happier? I’m happier.

It’s been a little bittersweet watching our house be fixed up for someone else. All the fun, pretty things we meant to do has now happened for the benefit of someone else. The cloud of “what if” lingers until I drive home to my new energy-efficient apartment with a garden tub and ample natural light to remember, “oh yeah, fuck that house”. It truly holds nothing for me anymore. It’s a visible reminder that when I don’t check my motivations and intentions, I can get bogged down quick and lose myself to finding quick fixes to deep wounds.

So I guess that’s been the biggest lesson out of this phase of quarantine. What started with “Stay at Home” orders ended up with me acknowledging I didn’t want to stay another night in that home, nor did I have to. Dropping my ego, pride, and childhood need for approval, and letting go of the narrative that I even “should” own a home as a life skills accomplishment has lifted a weight I had no idea was crushing me.

I’ll miss the picturesque Meyer lemon tree in the front yard, but now I know I can just buy some damn lemonade. The juice is not worth the squeeze.