I think I’m a kind of stalker now, obsessed not with a person, but with an inanimate thing. A building, actually. Four walls, a roof, and a floor that housed my life for five years. It’s true. For almost two months now, I’ve stalked our old place like an ex-boyfriend who broke my heart. I find myself wondering if I could have done things differently. I worry I didn’t try hard enough, didn’t fight for our relationship. It bothers me to know that I think about it when it doesn’t think about me. So I drive by there to see it and check up on it and prove that it was once a part of me. I wonder when the “for sale” sign will go up and I wonder how much less it will sell for than what we paid and I wonder if anyone will see the note I penned inside an upstairs closet. I am bothered, truly, that our loss will be someone else’s gain. No, seriously, it really chaps my hide. I don’t wish the new owners well. I’m horrible. I want the floor to explode on them, too. I want the neighbors to make them crazy, too. They could be a couple of darling old gammies and I will resent them with my entire shriveled heart because they will have what I still think should be mine. You hate the next girl your ex-boyfriend starts dating; you hate the new owners of the house you lost. It’s weird to be writing about this because, in all honesty, I have compartmentalized my thinking about it. I seem to obsess about it, pine for it, only on my drive-bys. But when I pull up in front of our new place, that old screen clicks off and the reality of the new screen is right in front of me, undeniable. It’s not even a conscious decision I’ve made, this thinking; it’s just happened. Even thinking about it right now is breaking my own unconscious rule and takes effort, actual effort — forcing these thoughts into my head that flow so easily at the designated time. There’s an internal on/off switch that seems very persnickety about the rules of use and it feels as if I don’t even control it. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s a guardian angel. Some kind of divine authority figure allowing me to wallow only so much. It all seems vaguely illogical to me. Rationally, I understand certain things. Emotionally, well, I think I understand almost nothing in this life.
We drove by early this morning and my heart sank, the tears came, as we pulled past the tree overhanging the sidewalk and I could suddenly see the new “for sale” sign. The “for sale” sign that blares “foreclosure” on the top in bold red letters. The sting of that. The sting of that! You know, I can tell myself all these truths: we did all we could, we didn’t lie or cheat to get a loan, we were legit, we found ourselves in the perfect financial storm, it’s happening to lots of people, but the sting of that lingers like a low-hanging cloud and I don’t know when or if it will ever burn away.
Turns out, Jersey Boy is the selling agent, that ass. Pimping my house out for cheap. Asking $125K less than what we paid. I feel bad for my old place. Like, in my heart it’s worth more, despite the warped floorboards and the peachy-pink paint stain on the bedroom carpet and the insane squabbling neighbors. It was my home because I made a life there and for as long as I remember that, it will always stay my home. Other people will move in, have plumbing leaks, stain the carpet, struggle with neighbors, but I will always feel it’s mine. I can’t say if it’s right or wrong or even healthy — it’s mine because it’s in my heart and because I need to believe that once upon a time it was all real.