The For Sale Sign is mocking me....

The For Sale sign is mocking me. Everytime I drive by it, I have to catch my breath, and while I’ve scrubbed, polished, stuffed, hidden or “decorated” a lot of things, I think the hardest part of this whole Home Transformation is yet to come. Or, pehaps, if I’m totally candid, it has already, I’m just putting it off.

It’s all centered around cleaning out the office. The one true space that both B and I occupied for the brief time that he resided here. Most people would say the bedroom, was thier One True Space with thier partner; not us. We never centered around the bedroom - and while I faced down the whole I Didn’t Deserve A Nice Bedroom Demon, when Mags was here (bless her heart for dealing with all of me in my Soon To Be Moving Glory - it’s not pretty) - this room just taunts me.

I suppose, in much the same way that the kitchen cabinets in the last house embodied B’s mother, and the unshakable proof that he’d thrown me under a bus for her, and I would never be the top slot on his list; this office embodies Us. And to go through it, means I finally have to go through and give up all that adolescent crap about Happy Ever After, how we could work through everything, and be fine, and fabulous, with another baby, a girl, with a successful company - how leaving this space virtually untouched since his departure, means that on some level, I’ve not completely hashed out my feelings on the divorce, and this house.

Our Savior House.

I’d like to think that all that’s required in selling this place is to attack the months worth of backed up unopened mail that litters the floor, put away the pictures, in an album (or thirty, there are quite a few to put away) vac up the dog fur, that accumulates on every surface of th house; maybe clean out my inbox. However. It’s not that simple. It’s in this office that B and I hashed out our separation agreement; it’s in here that I mourned the loss of my faith in him, again, and his trust - it’s that corner of moulding that had to be replaced, when he....reached his limit with me. Thank God for Gauge, Baby Gauge, who stopped him before any more damage occurred.

As if there wasn't enough already.

It’s in this very office, or room, or space - that I had hoped to reconcile my feelings of abandonment and betrayl, and I think, on some very metaphysical level, that until I finally go through here with a fine tooth comb and simply accept what’s occured, and what’s yet to come, prepare for it, and move past it, the house won’t sell. So today, I’ve brought out the trash bags, fired up the vacuum, and opened the filing cabinet. It’s so … overwhelming, both the desire to finish this project, and the feeling it’s insumountable - which is silly, it’s just an office - but today, I’m going to Finish It. We’re not getting back together. I don’t want to. I don’t love him. And hanging onto this house full of dreams that never were, and won’t ever be, seems rediculous, childish, and passive aggressive. In letting go of the office, the house, I have a feeling that I’ll be letting go of invisible leashes that have kept me tethered here. In this space. With this man, who is not my soul mate, not my friend; who instead became my worst nightmare.

Plus. I can see the For Sale sign, winking at me in the sun, through the windows, and I’m telling you, it’s thumbing it’s nose at me.