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on gratitude and patience and setbacks...

We've had a lot of frustrations over the past year. For one, we loved the place we were living and the landlord suddenly and inexplicably decided she wanted to list the house. We had twenty days, really- all told- to find a new place for us and six kids and two dogs, during an absolutely INSANE housing market, pack up the whole house, scrape together a security deposit and moving costs..... and the only place we could find was across town. We didn't think it would be that big a deal...


It was a big deal. The house is old and falling apart. There were recurring plumbing issues that caused human waste to come up in the master bathroom shower for the first TEN MONTHS we lived here. The landlord was rude and dragged her feet to do anything with the property until we even mentioned legal recourse, and then her husband stepped in to take over and get things done. The house has been a rental for decades, and it shows. Whatever insulation was put in place in 1964 is long gone and our power bills are totally unbelievable. We've fought bugs and leaks and mysterious wiring issues (a venture into the attic showed that the original owner probably did all the wiring himself.. it's very... DIY. Which is, you know, super comforting). The poor wiring blew up our dryer and we had to purchase another. Our older dog died within six weeks of moving here. It really has been incredibly disappointing and frustrating.


But ALL of that could have been dealt with if we didn't live in such a shit neighborhood now. And I don't mean the neighbors. I like the neighbors just fine. It was moving from a walkable neighborhood with sidewalks, trails, and plenty of parks and playgrounds, close to the kids' schools and stores and restaurants and stuff to do. Now we live in a closed neighborhood, behind a WalMart and the police station, a dead end road with a 50 foot concrete wall that flanks the interstate, no sidewalks so we walk on black asphalt (no walking the dog during daylight hours because the road is well over 100 degrees), no parks or playgrounds in reasonable walking distance. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. My teenagers and I have basically languished stuck back here. Two kids in therapy now. I've been in therapy. It's just miserable.


I've tried focusing on gratitude. The house is bigger, I'll give it that. Each kid has their own space. That is the ONE upside to this situation. And that's literally it. Endless problems with a property we don't own and we are left to deal with because the owner literally bought this property the month before we moved in and she has no clue what she's doing (nor does she care). So I keep coming back to focusing on the good things I CAN control and I CAN be grateful for.


So today, I was mopping. I mop the floors almost every day... kids and dogs and all. As I was mopping I suddenly and randomly thought about my first apartment; specifically my first bedroom in my first apartment.


I was barely 19 and secured a room via a classified ad posted on a coffeeshop bulletin board. A BBC correspondent had returned from an assignment in South America and whatever roommate he had lined up "didn't work out" and she had moved out pretty quickly. I was desperate- living in a car, officially, showering in friends' dorm rooms and whatnot- so I didn't ask too many questions. I had enough cash from waitressing to pay him one month's rent up front so I moved in. It was an old converted textile mill, but this was before this was a "cool" thing, so it was considered kind of a crappy place. I loved the quirks of it- we had an interior window looking into a converted cargo elevator shaft with a skylight at the top, and our apartment was 2 stories with an iron spiral staircase. Very weird and unique... and cheap.


I didn't have a stick of furniture or a thing to my name other than a small bag of clothes and toiletries. I would sleep on the couch unless he had friends over and then I would sleep on the floor in my room. It was a tiny little room- I don't even remember it having a closet, but it had a little window and a door and a space to call My Own. I was saving for a bed when a neighbor gave me his kid's twin mattress when they moved, so then I had a twin mattress on the floor. I scraped together enough for a bed frame at a thrift store, the metal kind, just enough to elevate it off the floor, and a small dresser that doubled as a side table. I made some curtains from fabric I got on discount- uneven selvage edges from the fabric store I passed on the way home from my lunchtime waitressing gig. I stopped in a couple times a week to peruse the beautiful fashion fabrics... delicate lace and lush velvets... and developed a little rapport with the elderly owner so I would sometimes find little odds and ends set aside for me, very deeply discounted (I remember a decent sized chunk of fabric that I bought for 95c and made into a skirt for myself).


I was desperately poor but I don't recall ever feeling so free. No kids, no obligations, no real bills other than the rent and the light bill; I could wander the city for hours outside of my work schedule, just go where I wanted without having to request permission or jump through hoops. I would hang out at coffeeshops and drink the most delicious coffee I'd ever tasted and watch people for hours. I would hand-sew those bits of fabric and make tops and skirts... I wasn't a professional so they weren't great, but they were unique and I was completely oblivious to what anyone thought of them... they were mine and I made them and I loved them. I made friends, at my jobs and at the coffeehouses I liked to frequent, and they didn't know my parents or my family or my past or my traumas and they only knew the person I presented to them at the time, and that was something I was in control of. I liked that.



I think about how crazy it was, me being alone in a city, my little shoebox room in a rather crappy

apartment, sharing a large converted textile mill with tons of immigrant college students so the building perpetually smelled of curry and garlic (not that I minded- curry is still one of my favorite foods ever), living on a shoestring paycheck to paycheck, well, cash tip to cash tip, really. I would stop in the bank on the way home from my shift every day and deposit cash into my checking account. Sometimes it was just enough to cover the rent, so I ate crackers from the salad prep area at Sherlock Holmes (the restaurant where I worked, a cool traditional pub that was literally located underground- the above ground entrance pictured here) for lunch and, once I started working a second job waiting tables at night, I got a shift meal at that restaurant so that was basically what I ate to survive. Sometimes at Sherlocks, the chef would see me munching on crackers and would "accidentally" make a plate wrong and set it aside for me to eat. By sometimes, I mean... quite a bit.


The staff at Sherlock's was all older- I was their first hire in several years. The owner, Chris, was a Navy sailor, former boxer, and firey badass. I learned every great string of curse words and illicit phrases from that man, blustering his way to his office during a busy lunch shift he could weave a tapestry of words that invoked shock and awe to young virgin ears. His daughter worked there- an angry, snippy blonde in her late 30's who was unmarried and more than slightly bitter, but somewhere under there she had a little soft heart and was always good to me. The full-time chef was an older man named Doug. He was quiet, didn't speak much, but man he could cook, and like I said, he had a bit of pity on me and made sure I ate something. Henry was the occasional chef; a true professional who had been put through culinary school in Holland courtesy of the US Navy, after which he was promptly kicked out for smoking weed.



Incidentally, Henry was also my weed guy. Believe me when I say having a weed guy who is also a chef is incredibly fortuitous- the times I would drop by his house and he'd be baking some spectacular cookies... it was a good thing.


We had a tight little crew and they really took me under their wing. Instead of laughing or being cruel when I didn't understand a phrase, or how to make a certain drink, or where to pay a parking ticket, they were kind and just explained it to me. (I look back at pictures from that time and I looked all of 14 years old, so I'm sure they just flat out pitied me.) And when I enlisted in the Navy and was getting ready to leave for boot camp, Chris was so proud he threw me a big party at the restaurant, complete with a custom cake designed to look like a beach and ocean with a ship on it, and this was in 2003 when custom cakes weren't such a thing. It was a big deal. HE made it a big deal. I wish I had kept in touch with him better.



Anyway, as I reflected on all of that as I was mopping my house this morning, I looked around. A house chock full of furniture that reflects my style and taste. Pretty painted walls lined with art and photos of a big family on the walls and shelves. When I compare my life with some others I know, it falls quite short. But when I compare it to that twin mattress on the floor of that tiny bedroom in an old converted textile mill, it really does bring a lot into perspective.






First of all, of course I'm grateful. But second, I've never settled somewhere I didn't feel healthy. I'm a big proponent of get up and move, especially if you're deeply unhappy. We are working fiercely to position ourselves to buy a home soon because as grateful as I am for this house providing shelter for our family when we desperately needed it, I also know I've come too far to regress to settling for shit. And this house is shit. Instead of focusing so much on gratitude that I just have to suck it up and deal, I focus on motivation to get the fuck out of here. Toxic positivity is a thing. Continuing to tell someone to "be grateful" when THEY know the situation they're in isn't serving them does nobody any good, especially the person you're throwing this "advice" onto. If someone can't seem to pull themselves out of their hole, blithely throwing pinterest 'advice' at them does nothing but frustrate them further. I can simultaneously be grateful this place was here to provide us shelter and also find it ultimately incredibly lacking and disappointing and make plans to move elsewhere.


Ironically, when we were moving in to this house, I was standing by the door to the sunroom, facing the den, and I had a thought burst like a water balloon in my mind: 'A great tragedy will happen here.' I know, it sounds dramatic, but whatever. That's how it happened. Now, sitting here a year later, I'm trying to decipher... which one was the tragedy? My beloved dog dying? Our "friends" betraying and hurting us? The crippling depression that took hold of me and two of my kids? Which tragedy, oh great foreshadowing thought? Which one?!?!? I don't want to stick around for any more.


I may have come from a twin mattress on the floor, but that doesn't mean I have to settle for shit now. Once again, I can and will pick myself up and get myself where I (and my family) deserve to be. One foot in front of the other on the path to get there.... we'll get there soon. I seem to always end up exactly where I'm supposed to be (and it's because I pick up my ass and move, not because some mysterious force got me there). Here's to the growing pains of life!

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