"Eating cardboard can ruin your life. You could end up in the street living in a box. Then you'll eat the box, and you'll be homeless."
So.
I'm home. I've been home for almost a week, but I came down with a nasty cold... and on a weekend when Shar is visiting, too. I spent 16 hours sleeping yesterday. 16! I haven't done that since I was... 16.
So.
I’ve been avoiding talking about this for a long time, because to me it’s a big, ugly, scary thing to admit in an open space… which, naturally, means I need to vomit it all over my public website for all to see. But I feel compelled to do this not because I’m hoping that someone will tell me it’s all going to be okay and pat me on the head reassuringly. I already know it’s all going to be okay. I also know that there are millions of other people going through exactly what I’ve been going through, and if it happens that one of those might be reading my blog, maybe it’ll help.
So. Basically, it appears that – at this juncture – I will have to foreclose on my condo.
To understand how I got here, let me tell you a little bit about where I was.
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Just over two years ago feels like a lifetime ago… like I was a completely different person in a completely different body living a completely different experience. And really, I was. But I’m not so far away from that person that I don’t remember them, which is both a blessing and a detriment, depending on when you catch me. At the moment I choose to look at it as a blessing.
Anyway. I was still in my relationship. I was almost a year into turning my career back in the direction it was supposed to be going, and although my efforts were proving fruitful, it was still a bit of an uphill climb. I both made a smart and a dumb decision when I moved out of my place in Burbank. I ran to Venice and moved in with roommates, which proved to be a disaster. It wasn’t anyone’s fault – I was just in such a toxic mindset at the time. Me living with friends wasn’t a good idea, nor was it good for me with the kind of work regimen I like to keep. That said, it did afford me the opportunity to get ahead on my debts.
The ex-BF owned his own place. He encouraged me to own, too, especially with how the market was going. At the time I felt a lot of pressure to be where he was at from a financial point of view, and I told him so during more than one heated argument we’d had on the subject of finances. I was doing pretty damn good for myself when we met, and that quickly changed when I decided I was no longer suited for my former vocation. I think both of us convinced ourselves I should’ve still been in that tax bracket despite the work turnaround.
But the bottom line was I wanted him to love me. And I thought that becoming the woman I thought he wanted me to become would make him do that. Understand that I blame him for nothing – certainly he was wrong to push me when I wasn’t ready, but I also didn’t have the strength of self or the wherewithal to do more research on what I was involving myself in to stop the disaster train from pulling out of the station.
So I did it. Without completely understanding what I was signing, how it would impact me and purchasing based on money I thought I was going to have rather than what I did have, I signed on the dotted line. Closed escrow. And moved into my first purchased home. With no money down. And a stomach-turning shock when I got my first property tax bill. And an agonizing time trying to stay on top of a mortgage payment that was set to balloon in two years. And reaching the point of meltdown when it was explained to me what that meant. And an inordinate amount of time beating myself up for not asking more questions, reading more pages that I’d emblazoned with my signature, and getting a greater understanding of everything that was involved with owning a home in California. (Or anywhere else, for that matter.)
Some of you might be reading this and asking, “How could you be so stupid?” And I understand how you could say that. But here’s the thing – I believe the definition of stupidity is when you know better but do it anyway. I honestly didn’t know any better. Nobody has ever taught me how money works and what to do with it, and I think a large part of that is because they were never taught and had to learn by trial and error, which is how I’m winding up learning. Obviously, I know the basics – I pay my bills, I know what I shell out per month in expenses. But I’ve never worked out a budget, or invested, or saved much without a goal other than “buy a car” or “go on vacation.” Right now, more than 50% of what I make goes into my condo. I didn’t realize that I should allot more like 35% of my income to residential expenses until I met with a financial planner for the first time ever last week.
It’s taken me a while to accept that this is what needs to happen for me to really learn this lesson and get back on my feet. Last summer and throughout the fall, my dad was an incredible help to me. He really stepped up to the plate and saved my ass in a lot of ways, which was amazing to experience. After 11 years of no contact, I felt really weird asking him for help and felt concerned he would feel used. But his only worry was about my well-being and security, and he not only helped me out, but also started counseling me on how to deal with my finances. It’s been guidance that has been sorely needed for many years, and I know he was happy to share it with me. He’s been an invaluable support system during this whole process.
Meanwhile, those four months in which I ran around the earth travel writing were a godsend, allowing me the distance I needed and the time to get secure enough in myself to be able to make this decision. Six months ago – hell, six weeks ago – I was convinced losing my home was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Now, not so much. I realize now that keeping my condo has been an albatross, holding me back from taking care of other things that need to be taken care of and disallowing me from doing some things that I would love to do. Like see a movie every once in a while. Or go to yoga more often. It’s interesting how something that was supposed to improve my quality of life has resulted in diminishing it.
So, I’m not proud by any means. I hate the fact that this is going to stick with me for seven years and that I’m contributing to an already depressed economy. But I think in terms of life experience this has been not just the most expensive lesson I’ve had to learn, but also the most valuable.
I guess in the end I got what I paid for.
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