When I left my partner of six years — the father of my son — I left with almost nothing. He was… less than cooperative, and I had to get out. We, as women, do what we need to do in times of crisis. I purchased a little townhouse, packed what was mine, and bounced.
That’s when the fun started.
When I signed the papers, everything was peachy. Two weeks later, when I received the keys, everything was not peachy. I opened the door, looked around, sank to the floor, and cried. The former owners had trashed the property.
There was garbage, scrap wood, and scrap metal everywhere. The bathroom sink had been ripped from the wall; toilets and appliances were broken. The walls were badly damaged. The carpet, which was was covered in dirt and unsightly pet stains, had an unmistakable funk to it. I could go on, but I’ll spare you. The bottom line is: the place needed a lot of work.
It only took a few days of solitude for me to discover that I did, too.
The relationship between me and my ex had effectively ended years prior; I’d already mourned it. That wasn’t the issue. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Living in his house (yes, his house), I was a fiancée/partner and a mother. I was never just me. I had no hobbies, no interests, one remaining friend* (whom he’d tried very hard to alienate me from), no joy. I was no damn fun and I knew it.
As I started to work (very slowly) on the house, with small projects here and there, the parallel struck me: I was rebuilding myself along with my disaster of a house. So, I decided to write about. As you do.
This blog will chronicle my journey to self-discovery and independence as I dive back into the dating game (God, help us all), and fix up this place I call home.
* Also known as The Greatest Person Ever™️ — I will get to her later.