I had the most interesting brain breakthrough. My therapist would be proud.
When I get anxious and restless (which is, uh, FREQUENT) I go looking at real estate online. I plan how I would move, draw floor plans on paper, declutter, check interest rates, maybe shore up my credit score, occasionally go so far as to apply for a loan to see what I qualify for. Eventually I convince myself I should stay put. This is on an 18 month cycle, generally. I try not to get anyone else involved in this except for sending friends real estate listings, mostly if I think they will encourage this behavior.
Lately it’s been all over. Boulder, Seattle, Austin, Little Rock, Philadelphia. (Very loosely speaking, because I am usually looking at farmland.) And while gazing longingly at a 2 acre plot with a 100 year old house that “needed TLC” in the most generous sense of the phrase, it hit me what I was actually looking for when I did this.
I was looking for a place that needed me.
A place where I was wanted. Where I fit. Where I was supposed to be. A place that would say “Oh thank god, she’s HERE! At last!” A place that I could be so proud of as I made it into a truly wonderful home.
Because my husband left, nine years ago. He didn’t need me. My children are teenagers, one about to go to college. They need me, but they would rather not acknowledge it. My friends are almost all married, almost all living far away these days. They don’t need me. My community wouldn’t even notice if I left. They don’t need me.
You should feel needed in your home, right? You should feel important. Essential. You should feel like the main character in your own story. And … I don’t feel like that. My house is fine, but it doesn’t need me, either.
So I guess, when I go haring off down real estate paths … I’m looking for a place where I am, at last, needed.
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