Nobody Sees It But You
I’m a first-time homeowner, two years into owning the house I plan on dying in. Several well-meaning people have told me congratulations on my nice little starter-home, but for me, this place is a really big deal.
I’ve lived in seventeen other places before, none of them ever felt remotely like “home.” During my teenage years when I was forced to see a Christian counselor, he got irritated with me when he tried to explain the difference between a house and a home. “A home is a place where you’re loved,” he said, but I adamantly referred to my living quarters as a house. Everything that came after was similar: I’d put my things in a dorm room, an apartment, my car, a rent-house, but never fully moved in. I used to poke fun at myself by saying that I was awful at home decor, but the truth is, I’m not. I just have my own offbeat taste and never had the freedom or courage before to unleash it.
Probably more significant to this conversation is my adoptee status. I’ve finally learned that everything ties back to what my adoptive parents portray as an event, but my experience shows is a lifelong struggle.
That’s why buying and owning a home has been a big deal for me. I am in control of my life, of this place. Other people made monstrously big decisions for me without my consent when I was an infant, but I’m an adult now who is in charge of establishing what I want my life to look like.
So, for the past two years, I have been slowly working on my house as I’ve been able. When we first moved in, there were some pretty major changes I made immediately: we needed a new garage door, we needed a new dishwasher, I wanted to rip out the raised box gardens the previous owners had put in because they were crawling with termites. Then we painted my daughter’s bathroom, painted the hallway and established our art gallery. I’ve replaced the windows, the siding of the house, added gutters, installed solar panels. My dad built a swing set for my daughter in the backyard and my mom helped clean up the front garden. And thanks to the insurance money, after the water heater flooded, we gutted the kitchen and everything there is sparkling new. I still have plans, it will take me several more years to touch every inch of this home, but I’m not worried. My house is a constant project just like me. We are both in need of attention, love, and change.
The latest project has been my bathroom. The toilet was leaking the other day and despite all my efforts at tightening the bolt that sat at the bottom of the tank, I ended up having to call a plumber. The more cost-effective plan, he told me, would be to replace the toilet altogether. “Can I keep the old one?” I asked. “Of course!” He told me that lots of his customers opted to keep old appliances to use in their garden which is exactly what I planned on doing.
I called my parents with the news and wanted to get their opinion on some other things. The cabinet and sink needed to be replaced in that bathroom, too, did they think it was worth it to take out another loan and gut the bathroom? How much would that cost, generally speaking?
“You should probably hold off on that,” they said, and at first, I agreed. For all the work I’ve already done in the house, I am pretty much at my limit for monthly loan payments. But they went on. “After all, ugly or not, it’s livable. And nobody sees it but you.”
This comment changed the entire conversation.
You have to understand that I’m the only one out of their three children who clearly remembers both houses. I was seven when we moved from Borger to Perryton. My little sister was 3. And ever since we moved in, my mom complained about the wallpaper. Or the kitchen. Or whatever else. Which, her complaining would have been fine if it had bothered her enough to do something about it. My dad made enough money to cover a weekend paint job. But years and childhoods passed by with very minor changes. Sure, they replaced the fridge when it died or took care of the damage when the water heater flooded. After much pleading, my sister got her room re-decorated with new paint and wallpaper. The middle bathroom got a minor update, the house trim got painted, but it wasn’t the things my mom complained about that changed.
That little comment, “nobody sees it but you,” brought out a fierceness I didn’t know I was capable of. Am I not important? Will I allow complacency to mirror that thought train?
No. Even if I am the only one who sees my bathroom, I am a person. And I deserve to exist in a space that feels comfortable and bright and welcoming. I own this space. It’s mine. And I am worth making happy, even if I have to do it myself. Even if nobody sees it but me.
