Saying goodbye to my "Limbo" house.

During the divorce, I gave up the house. There was not a single part of me that wanted it, despite buying it less than a year prior, believing it would be my forever home. I didn’t even fight for my share of equity (a regret I hold onto to this day), but I didn’t have it in me.

My dear, badass friend who “dabbles” in real estate in addition to her fulltime job happened to be in the final stages of flipping a house when my living situation abruptly changed.

So, I took with me the very bare minimum and traded in my three-bedroom, two-bathroom dream home for a 700 square-foot shoebox. It was a house I would have never selected for myself, even to rent. As Brad describes it, “You can hear your neighbors sneeze.”

But my emotional tank was on E, and the thought of not having to apartment search, especially for one that would allow a Pitbull, was strongly appealing. I didn’t even look at the inside before I decided I would move in. This was one less thing I would have to sort out … And at that time, I was sorting out my entire life.

I called it my “limbo home.” To me, I strategically framed my whole life during that period as my “limbo stage.” Deep down, I knew nothing was permanent, even my last name. If my house was temporary, and my last name was temporary, then perhaps something else could be temporary … the pain.

And I was right. The house was temporary, as I will be moving in with Brad on July 1 (stay tuned for another blog post about that).

But what if I told you my “limbo house” has been my favorite home I have ever lived in? Would you believe me?

I cried myself to sleep so many times in this house. I spent 33 days recovering from a mental episode in this house. I wrote to-do lists like “brush your teeth” and “try to eat” in this house. I lived off $1 chicken pot pies in this house. I abused alcohol in this house. I wrote two suicide notes in this house (knowing I would never carry them out). I let strange men share my bed in this house (to abruptly be ghosted when they realized I wasn’t after a booty call, but rather, for someone – anyone – to fill the void of loneliness). I showed more strength and grit than I knew possible in this house. I spent many nights realizing “lonely on your own” is less heartbreaking than “lonely while with somebody” in this house. I became fully independent, maybe for the first time ever, in this house. I killed bugs on my own in this house. I cooked homemade meals in this house. I started a blog in this house. I fell in love with myself in this house.

Leaving a home is always emotional. I cried when we sold my childhood home. I cried when I moved to Louisville. I cried when we moved out of our first apartment. The nearing departure from the limbo house is hitting me in a place deeper than I can describe. The house saw me at my very worst, during the darkest period of my life. At times, it felt like the walls were my only friends. But somewhere, somehow, in just 18 months – the longest 18 months of my entire life – the house got to see me at my very best.

It may be weird to speak of an inanimate object in such a sentimental way, but saying goodbye to the house is like saying goodbye to this chapter of my life – The Limbo Chapter.

The Limbo Chapter fucking sucked, but I would go through it again and again and again and again to get the same outcome.