If you don't want to hear me whine, mewl, and rant about the universe, here's your chance to stop reading. But when I started this blog, I promised that I would be honest with the writing and be myself, warts and all. Here is one of those warts.
I'm tired of holding everything together for my family, my friends, and acquaintances. Just for today, I'm tired of being cheerful, hopeful, and optimistic. I'm tired of having to go into a smoky, cold, abandoned house to scavenge and inventory the remnants of our life. I'm tired of living in a small apartment with three other humans and a dog. I'm tired of keeping meticulous records of what we need to replace and what we already have replaced so no one can accuse us of fraud. I'm tired of to do lists that keep growing and of the guilt I feel when I take any time for myself. I'm tired of being polite and being patient. I want my house back. I want my life back.
Our poor damaged house wasn't any kind of mansion. It was cluttered and often disorganized. It didn't have the big garage or acreage my husband lusted after. It was never a showplace, but it was our happy home. We *lived* in it--in every room. We had a home that welcomed us, family, friends, and weary travelers from near and far. There was a lot of laughter filling up the spaces between floor and ceiling along with nearly 20 years of memories.
People keep asking us if we're going to take advantage of the opportunity to rebuild differently. "Now's your chance to have the house you've always dreamed of," they say. But I *had* the house I dreamed of, and more. And I want it back the way it was. I'd even welcome the clutter and the chaos.