purplelara

Night after night I lie in bed and listen to the sounds of a rat scurrying across the floor. Each night the rat gets braver and heads closer to me. Is it better to put in earplugs and be unaware of his progress, or is it better to leave them out and hear him sneaking up on me? Then there are other sounds that make me forget the rat and the earplugs go in.

I settle in to the futon, back aching. I sleep for an hour or so at a time, waking up when my pillow slides off the futon or when the pain in my back becomes enough to invade my dreams. Or when the dog jumps on and off the bed, stalking the rat.

When I wake up in the morning, still tired, I look up at the hole in the ceiling, exposed pipes and wood, gyproc dust streaming in the sunlight. My shoulders scream at me. They say “we don’t like sleeping in a crack! support us!”

Am I down on my luck, living like this? No, I am living, rent-free, in a million dollar house with a zillion dollar view. The futon was meant to be temporary, three to six months, tops. The hole in the ceiling is new, a plumbing problem, it will be fixed soon. The rat has been living in the basement for a few months. He is not  interested in leaving - why would he be?  It’s a dream home. But living with other people means living with the sounds of their lives.

I am not sure if my black mood is a result of my surroundings or if it’s the mood causing the surroundings to get to me. I go and sit outside and look at the view, look at the pool, count my blessings, smack myself in the head, try to break out of the funk I feel guilty for being in. I am forever grateful to have had the opportunity to live here, to have somewhere to go when my world was falling apart. But it’s time to go.

On September 4, on what would have been my third wedding anniversary, and nearly two years after I walked out of the last place I called home, I will have my own home again.