I sold my house yesterday. That is, it’s been sold for a few days now but we signed the contract yesterday. It happened on the exact day when I first met my girlfriend a year ago. Funny that. I guess thats what you call symbolic? It’s almost a bit scary.
I bought my house almost six months after my marriage fell apart. I wanted to wait until the right moment came to buy the right house. Turns out – in the end – it was a really good idea even if I have been living on an extremely tight budget for two years considering the expense of living in, and maintaining a house of that size all alone. Back in 2016, I had actually won the bidding round for another house, and if that deal hadn’t fallen through at the last minute I would have been much worse off and in much more trouble. Take my word for it.
Come to think of it, that happened twice actually, almost the same way. Thankfully those fell through and this deal happened.
I never really intended on selling my house. My plan was to live there for the forseeable future, meet someone marginally younger with no house commitments herself and create something together in this house. It was perfect for families with one or two children. Perfect area for children with a kindergarten and a school very close by in the neighbourhood. My backgarden was lovely and both sides of the property was covered up by trees and bushes so it didn’t feel like living in a suburb at all. It felt like living rather isolated – as I wanted too. I honestly don’t like neighbours that much. I loved the property even if the house needed some upgrades. Now, I’m not extremely handy – I am first and foremost an academic. But I did what I could with it and boy it paid off.
The first night in my house in the fall of 2016 was a somber, depressing experience. I felt like I was breaking in, and living in a house that didn’t belong to me. All my stuff was packed in boxes. Nothing was in order. I didn’t even have a bed. Just a tiny, single one meant for guests or children or whaetever. I went to sleep that night listening to the complete silence. It engulfed me. There were no dogs around me either. Suddenly the days with my dog beside me and another on the floor were gone. It was just me all alone in a big house. It felt horribly wrong for a 35 year old. After a week or so, at least it didn’t feel like I was making a criminal offence going to sleep, but the loneliness and silence never let go. Coming home to an empty house, watching TV alone – feeling like I was wasting time. It felt like that at least until the spring of 2017 when I spent more time in my house.
I painted the entire first floor within weeks of living there. I also painted the stairs in a proper and modern blue-gray colour. It took me like nine hours work those stairs. In February 2017 I re-did the kitchen with new colours. At least my house did not look all 1997 any longer. It honestly looked alright. In the spring of 2017 I even had two parties full of people coming in and giving me compliments about the look of the place. In the summer of 2017 I did some work outdoors. I removed some bushes and trees, made things look a bit better. My mother helped me all the way. So did my father and sister.
During the first six months or so I struggled badly. The silence and emptiness of being there alone was overwhelming. Mostly because of my age. I felt so old. Some neighbours around me were my age and had families. I felt completely out of tune with the world. It was like I had been flown off to a foreign country and left there with no way of coming home. I felt society had somewhat left me behind. Chewed well and spat out like a piece of meat. A very serious and real feeling of failure did not leave me for months and months. I was severely depressed. It took me almost a year to feel right again. Like the person I once was. I think that time came for real on June 30 2017, and I knew it. I even wrote about it.
I leave that house now with mixed feelings. The fact is, I managed to get out of the deal in a good way. So even if my longterm plan for the house is canceled, it served its purpose. Was it ever really my home? No, not really. I haven’t really slept there for months now. I have no personal connection to it. I have no sense of loss from it. I feel slightly bad for my parents to invest so much time with it, and then I get rid of it all of a sudden, but they know I’ve made a good deal and as payment they get to be grandparents. Not a bad deal I’d say.
In ten years time, the house will just be a reminder of a transit stop between my past life and my next life. Like an airport. Like my seven hour transits in Prague ten years ago. I was neither here nor there. And I got out of it in a good way. In all ways possible. From feeling like I completely failed in life to a complete victory in two years time. A proper comeback. Am I lucky or just a good planner? Did I loose something between 2016 and now? Yes I did, but gained more. I will gain the most important thing in the world, and screw it if I can’t gather enough time to write books any longer. My two year transit is about to end. I can finally start a new life.