Apr 29 2009
It Ain’t Over ‘Til It’s Over
I thought I’d feel relieved and happy once the whole storage debacle was over, but I don’t, really. Sure, I’m glad that we aren’t spending all that money every month when we have so little to begin with. Yes, I’m glad that I’ll never have to go there again and see the sad remnants of the past, and be faced with how different our lives are now.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m like the Magnificent Ambersons, finally getting my comeuppance. When I was a girl, we lived in a beautiful 150 year house on five acres of land, had two cars, went to Maine every summer and often visited Dad’s parents in England. My mother never had to work.
When I grew up and got married, we owned a gracious Jazz Age apartment in one of the best neighborhoods in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I drove a 1966 Mustang convertible, wore diamonds and went to Europe at least once a year. The world was my oyster.
Now, I live in a tiny house in a city where murders are commonplace. My brother, sister and I are panicking about our ability to continue paying the mortgage on the property where we will eventually retire. Or not, if we’re forced to sell when there’s little or no market for undeveloped rural property. I’m selling the diamonds I used to wear so proudly just to make ends meet (and the ends appear to want nothing to do with each other).
Confronting that storage space and thinking of how far I’ve come in the past thirty years has been a deeply saddening experience. And instead of feeling like a weight has been lifted, I’ve had insomnia, nightmares, and headaches ever since. Is it the closing of a chapter of my life, facing up to the deaths of my parents, grandparents, and my marriage? My tiny house is jam-packed with boxes, which will eventually be put into the storage cube my brother bought, and furniture, which there isn’t room for. Maybe it’s not really over yet and I still have some things to work through. My head aches too much to think about it any more.
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