I had a no-good-rotten afternoon. Enough to make me want to put my head down and cry.
Does it count that for once this isn’t sexual, romantic, D/s angst?
In my very vanilla life, like everyone else in the blogosphere, shit happens. The shit that happens to me is no different from (and sometimes no where near as bad as) the shit that happens to everyone else. Some days just suck. Today was one of those days.
Something I wouldn’t be willing to admit in my real life – I’m being foreclosed upon. No, no, I’m not being thrown into the street by the big, mean bankers. After my divorce a couple of years ago, I had to move. I didn’t qualify for any family assistance anymore, and with the additional childcare costs I had to take on, I couldn’t afford to live where I lived anymore. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to sell my house as a short sale. In my professional life, I’m fairly well-versed in these things. It was a point of honor to try and do what I consider the right thing.
I found out today that government regulations prevent my short sale approval because I chose to move away and become a renter. The hardship letter be damned. The single-mom-with-two-kids-and-no-child-support be damned. I kept my chin up, did the stiff upper lip thing in my office, which I share with my trainee. I kept it together until I was alone in the ladies room. Then I sobbed like a baby.
Foreclosures happen all the time. They happen in more tragic situations than my own. I’m not broke and on the streets. I’m not wondering where I’ll sleep tonight. The sadness is more abstract. It’s pride. I worked very hard to repair my credit enough to buy that house – my first house. It was supposed to be the starter house where we lived until our lives improved enough and our family grew enough to justify the nicer, slightly larger home.
Today was a reminder that some dreams have to be set aside, and some dreams die. But the work and effort that went into affording that house, and the last vestiges of the dreams I once had of making it a home – it was too much. I will admit, there was a bit of shame, too. My mother instilled in me a sense of honor, duty, and obligation to take care of my responsibilities, including my financial responsibilities. I couldn’t afford to live there. I thought I was doing the right thing. The choice was taken out of my hands.
I dried my eyes and went back to work. Within moments, I received a text message from my mother. After weeks of planning and days of getting the boys excited, she won’t be coming to visit this weekend. If there was ever a weekend when I needed my mom, this was probably it. I just need her calm presence to remind me that this isn’t the end of the world. For reasons beyond her control (he’s called my stepfather – and I sometimes wonder if he’s a closet Dominant…and then shit like this happens, and I think he’s just an open asshole), she won’t be coming to visit this weekend. It was a visit she looked forward to as much as I did. We made big plans. We were going to be tacky tourists in my little neck of the woods. We were like little girls planning out our fun.
I fluctuate being pissed off at both situations, of which I have no control, and being very sad. I don’t like being angry – who does, right? I found myself pouting tonight. Lower-lip-jutting-out, gonna-trip-over-it pouting.
For the first time ever, I made the conscious decision to put myself into little space. Instead of finding myself there and rejoicing, I walked into it, hoping it would help me. Pigtails, knee socks, and pouty lip – I feel less angry. I’m still very sad. I just want to lay my head in my arms and sob. I want to rail against the unfairness of it all. I want to stomp my feet and slam doors.
Instead, I sit here in pigtails and knee socks as a sad little girl, hopeful that tomorrow will be a brighter day.