I Don't Want to Buy This House

I went to my weekly meditation group Tuesday evening online. I always keep my camera on all the time, which Howie gently encourages from time to time, to help it feel like a community, but after the second time I fell asleep during meditation, fortunately waking up before I drooled down the front of my t-shirt, I turned it off. As in the car earlier, I felt extremely sleepy.

Thus it was frustrating and eventually extremely frustrating, after I got in bed at 11:30 p.m. or so, to find myself unable to fall asleep. I lay there awake for four hours, thinking darker and darker thoughts, particularly about this house, and then I got up and canceled the trip here I had scheduled for September, and I canceled the final two weeks of this current trip. I wish I could go home tomorrow, but I have various appointments scheduled and I also want to go to a memorial for my uncle this coming weekend.

The smell is not getting better at all. My head hurts, my throat tastes foul, I am angry. I am angry at the painter for not painting when he agreed to, which might have avoided this whole thing. I am angry that I can’t think of a way not to buy this house, which should be as simple as saying, “I don’t want to buy this house,” but somehow doesn’t seem to be.

I am angry that I am going to end up owning a house that I never want to see again. I have developed a burning hatred for this house in just the past 24 hours. The bad vibes from the horrible things my other sister said are lingering, as well, making the whole thing feel miserable.

And I am sad, really sad. Sorrow permeates this house all the time. I don’t feel my parents’ presence here in any way, but I can picture them everywhere: There is Mom in the living room in her comfortable chair reading The New York Times. There is Dad asleep in his recliner in front of the TV; there is Rachel Maddow. There they both are, standing in the kitchen, one telling the other what is in the oven. There is my father, sitting on the deck holding the garden hose, watering his arbor vitae.

I am not going to do any weeding. That is over. The good part is over. I will never weed here again. I will not ever live here. The cats will not ever live here.

I am not going to unpack my suitcase with my sentimental items in it. I am going to take it back to San Francisco and unpack it there. Before I leave here, in a week and a half instead of three and a half weeks, I am going to pack up everything I want from here and ship it to San Francisco, and I am never coming here again.