Gasp...plunge. Two points to fragility. A three pointer to the abyss.
Now really. Is this necessary?! How much can one person take? I'm sick and tired and hateful. I can't listen to anymore do-gooder platitudes and niceties along with their pats on the back and false smiles. I'm sick of the bile burning in my throat. I'm tired of my shoulders in my ears and the hammer in my head. I resent the liars, cheats, destroyers of life. I'm numb from constant combustion. I sink into the scortched frozen lands far from Elysium. A zombie. Sterile and pointless.
Faith? Hope? Justice? All dead. See their beautiful landmarks in the endless green? Ahhhh...Here lies Faith, reads the angel Gabriel perched high in concrete splendor, the mother of love and promises of protection. May she rest in peace. Over there the marble room houses her daughter Hope. Hope was larger than life, and life destroyed her in jealousy. What a lovely resting place for such a grand princess. Now Justice...far off in the corner, simple...ignored. Her stone reads...Justice was slayed by the human race, flawed and ugly with their greed and lies.
Don't worry, this too shall pass. You are only given what you are strong enough to face. You will get through this. There are people in far worse situations. Be grateful for what you have. What doesn't kill you will make you stronger. You have to think only of your daughter and family. Stop panicking. You will be ok. It will all work out in the end. Don't question what is.
The justice system failed since he with the most money wins...and let me take what you don't have and your ends won't meet. All because of a part time job that he never would have taken if any of that were true.
My head is exploding and my eyes bulging and under my fingernails bleed. My body keeps twitching and my mouth is dry. My teeth hurt and I taste iron in my throat. My lungs are flaming with each breath. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty.
I give up. I really do. Every time I feel like I've gotten a grip and I can move along something new comes at me and now I'm buried. I'm walking the fields looking for my lost beliefs. They are all here. Eating worms. I don't have the strenght to dig them up. Maybe I'll just sit here under this tree. I worked too hard to watch my life crumble like the mortar in my basement.
My basement. It's a scary place - all stone and crumbling mortar - spiders and creepy crawlies are freeloading residents. The inspector said it was in great condition...the foundation is solid. The house I live in was built in 1880. The day we saw our house we knew it was ours. It felt like ours. We felt it call to us to bring life back to its halls. We had looked at so many houses already with dismay, and this house we had crossed off our list, but we needed to kill time. And this house...this was the one. The man and his wife before us lived amoungst the things of several generations and the filth of 7 years that they couldn't let go. Our realtor held a tissue to her nose as we walked through the devastation of the zombie life. The husband was physically, and from our perception emotionally, broken. He walked room to room with us pointing out the love that he wanted to give the house, but couldn't. We walked along enchanted by the house itself: the transom windows, porcelain knobs, original mouldings, plaster walls, original light fixtures, wavy glass windows, three stories of advnture. The man and his wife were losing this house, this home, to the bank. But we were going to save it we promised.
Our offer went in and the games began. O another offer has come in...same specs...what's your second offer...we have to move settlement date...he did get the grass cut...we need to make it later. Two months of nail biting and determination and settlement day arrived. We arrived at the house excited as first time homeowners to do the walk thru...ahhh we would get to see the house empty. The day had other plans...the man and his wife who had moved into a new home two weeks before had not vacated the property and in no way was it broom swept - our relator wouldn't even let us in the house. The flurry of a devils doing unraveled.
Our relator feverishly got on the phone with others from her office and the man and wife's realtor. What to do now? How can this go through? What...it went into foreclosure today? He's swinging an axe in the yard yelling at the hauler you sent. Do they still want to go through with it? I sat on the curb and cried. Yes, we wanted this house. But. 3 hours after our scheduled settlement on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend we were wisked to the realtor office and told that we would do this in separate rooms and we wouldn't have to see the man and his wife. We will build in left over monies from settlement to pay for a hauling company to come back tomorrow, the man is not right in the head, the wife's son needs this house sold, we will add a clause that forbids him from returning to the property...you could call the police if he does. If we really want this we can do this. They aren't making anything on the house...they owe too much. Let me know what you want to do. Papers signed, we were handed the keys, and we had to wait until tomorrow to go back to the property that we technically owned today.
Our relator is one of my best friends. We were her first, and last client. She gave me a hug, handed me a card and bottle of champagne and said she was sorry for our experience. But we were happy, we loved our new house. We were happy it was finally ours. We would build our first home together here...our wedding was four months away. Plenty of time to bring this house to life once more.
The next day I arrived at the new house alone. The haulers that were ordered would arrive by 9am. I had an hour to walk through alone for the first time since we decided we wanted to buy this house. I unlocked the door, whose lock would be changed in a few hours, and walked inside. I knew Nance said it was bad. And I expected bad, but this was living hell. The stench was suffocating and I couldn't open the windows. I held my Teeshirt to my nose and did my own walk through.
The tears...they started...and I couldn't stop them. The kitchen brought on dry heaves. The sink was full of dishes and cat food and unidentifyable morsels. The refridgerator was filled to bursting with spoiled food years expired, and jars, and cans, and boxes of leftovers...how could they live like this. The bathroom tub was filled with mud and more dishes and mud and junk. The floors were covered with animal urine and feces and trash and more trash. The dining room hosted floor to celing phone books from years gone by from locations near and far and wires and cables and newspapers and debris. The living room no longer even had a path. I was afraid to go upstairs. I walked into the first room and saw it just as I had on our first seeing. The fly paper still hung from the ceiling next to the dead mother's bed. I gaged. The master bedroom was devoid of furniture but unwalkable with debris: pictures, clothing, dishes, chachkis, junk. I didn't even walk up to the third floor. I ran down the stairs and out the door and burst into sobs. What had we done. Hyperventilating I called Rich to tell him it was worse than we thought and I don't know what to do. He reminded me that the haulers would be here soon and he'll be over as soon as he was done work, and so would my sisters with some bleach and rags.
The haulers arrived in parade fashion with their dump truck and pick ups and dungareed treasure seekers. They saw me slumped and bleary eyed on the porch stairs, introduced themselves, and said that when they were done I will be able to call it my own. I warned them that it was ugly, and they replied, "we've seen everything, don't worry." I mostly stayed out of their way and watched in amazement how they systematically went room by room, they decided to call in more recruits and work separately. They pryed off the storms from some of the windows and let the air in. They stripped the caulk from the balcony door and swung it wide. They pulled the dump truck on the lawn and just tossed from second and thrid story...look out below. Every once in a while I would hear one of them call out...look what I found...and every once in a while they would ask if I wanted to keep something. Then at some point I saw it pull up...the blue PT cruiser and the man and his wife dove into the dumpster after their things.
The haulers told me to stay in the house and they would take care of everything, and if need be they would call the police. They will take care of this too. I was paralysed. I began to feel dirt like never before. I knew I smelled like the house. Now that stacks and piles were disappearing I realized that the entire house, floor to ceiling was grey. Everything everywhere grey. I felt grey. I couldn't eat or drink. I had no one left to call. I waited and watched and held doors and bought hoagies from the deli across the street for my miracle workers. At times I felt a pang for the man and his wife. How did they get so desparate? What happened to their lives? Were they always like this? How sad to watch your family history tossed with giggles into a dumpster. Then I looked around and my pang turned to anger. How could they let this happen?
8 hours, 4 dump trucks, 9 haulers, a hundred rubber gloves, 5 brooms, thousands of trash bags...and they were gone.
My sister came with 4 gallons of bleach and more rubber gloves and buckets and brooms. We filled the buckets and started in the kitchen and bathroom. We bleached the fixtures, the floors, the walls, the moulding, the doors, the sinks, the closets, and the shelves. Then we worked our way into the main house and tried to get some grime from the windows and woodwork before we collapsed. When she felt as grey as I, she stood up and said I'm sorry. I thanked her, and she left for a shower or sandblaster to clean up. By the time my husband came the house was empty and smelled of bleach and urine. He entered and instantly turned grey. But he hadn't seen what I had. And never would know what it felt like when the house took its first breath after 7 years. I felt the shutter and the heard the creeking and I wiped my forehead and said tomorrow we pull up the rugs.
That next day Erica came. We donned masks and rubber gloves and clothes we'd be willing to throw away and cut and tore and shredded the carpets. Floor by floor room by room we lifted one layer of grey out of the house. The stench was corrosive, and the sticky ickiness left our stomachs upside down. We worked for hours until the daylight started to sag. Once we lifted the carpets we found rug sized linoleum: we lifted the linoleum to find newspaper from 1943. We read headlines of WWII and the comics eerily maintained their brilliant color. We saw advertisements and sale fliers from $.10 bread and and $2.00 dresses. We hollared from one room to the next about the secret news under the floors. For scattered moments the house told us her stories.
We surveyed the house now bare of all carpet and bleach now penetrating the urine burn, and felt that she was thanking us. One last item before we said good night...the stove...the avacado green stove with broken glass and food particles in its belly...needed to go to the curb. We all heaved and hauled it outside amidst the piles of rolled grey bound in duck tape. The green was so faded and worn it gave way to the twilight and knew it had met its time. We locked up for the night, and knew that hour long showers would be the least of what we needed to feel clean again. But tomorrow we paint the walls.
Day three of homeownership and we were having a painting party. Slowly all our brave friends showed up to see the nightmare in person. They would help us defeat the somber grey and stench of neglect. Every room was abuzz with spackle and sanding and primer and bleach. We had high hopes for this day. Yet like everything else the party came and went with progress, but so far away from any sense of accomplishment. Pizza and beer and laughter and cigarette smoke mixed with bleach and primer. All the windows were now open and you could breath the air without gaging. By the end of the day we hugged all our helpers and thanked them for believing in us and our home. Some snickered on their way out in disbelief of the tasks still at hand. Everyone was eager to see what we would make of our adventure. For four months we painted and repaired and replaced and carpeted and built and decorated. Our grey house was now alive with color and happiness. We feel safe and protected and know that our house is thankful for the redemption.
In almost three years we've put in a driveway, regraded the land, put up a fence, replaced walls, put in new windows (well mostly), replaced the stove, fridge, washing maching and some air conditioners, and converted to a gas heater and did a lot of rewiring. We were ready to install the kitchen when my husband lost his job and I was 5 months pregnant. All those things that enchanted us, now irritate, and there is no more money to continue with her transformation. I sit here wondering if we will have to give up this house that I love to hate. I wonder if she was not calling us to rebuild her, but a life sucking curse to all those that live within her frame. I look around at the vibrant walls I decorated and think maybe they are too bright and we should go neutral. I wonder...and I cry.
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