Some things cannot be fixed
and that is a good thing
A few months after moving country and home, the house I lived in started leaking. Then the mould began. Despite the landlord’s attempts to address it and dismiss it, the leaks and mould remained. In fact, the latter quietly spread until it was impossible to ignore. My constant notes to the agent were readily addressed, but the core issues remained. I dealt with the inconvenience and I dealt with it almost daily without complaining. Perhaps a testament to a childhood where I not only had to deal with but embrace both less than I deserved and toxicity.
The mould spread to the edge of my frustration, and I snapped. I snapped as I sprayed and wiped down my leather bound books, my leather handbags, and my leather shoes. I snapped and snapped as I disinfected my bookshelves, my easels and my photo frames. I snapped and disinfected my camera casing. I snapped and snapped to the point of emotional defeat and mental exhaustion. My skin and sinus protested, and on a physical level, I was dealing with mould allergies coupled with sleep deprivation.
This isn’t the type of country where you contact the board, and things are resolved. This isn’t the type of country where you threaten legal action, and things fall into place. This is the type of country where you deal with the cards you are dealt or fold. I threw in my cards and asked for a redeal. I got what I asked for, was clear about the timeline and spent the weekend packing for three weeks.
The three weeks left me battered. I was constantly tired because my short mid-morning walk became my long early morning commute. My short late afternoon walk home, became my even longer early evening commute. My sleeping patterns shifted. My eating habits changed. I couldn’t cook in the temporary residence and I was relying on take-outs and sit-ins. My world shifted from leaks and mould to commutes and fatigue.
Then I returned. Within the given the given timeline. Everything looked new and clean. The mould source had been found, a cupboard had been removed, the roofing replaced. Things seemed to be on the up and up. Except. I saw fresh paint and old paint, and knew that some things were not replaced but made to look new. Had firsthand experience with mould spores so I only unpacked the necessary items and left many more in boxes. The hanging rob in the new cupboard fell but I closed the door. I convinced myself that I could eliminate the remaining mould on certain furnishings with hot soapy water, vinegar, mould retardant and a good sanding job. I am still hoping that this could be the case for me, but I am not blind to the writing on the wall.
I want to save the things I bought to make this place a home. I want to put up a fight yet be clear about my boundaries. But I no longer want this house. I don’t want the glossed over mould, or the niceties to maintain a peace I do not feel. I am going to try and save my bookshelf because it houses treasures I hold dear. I am going to try and save my easel because I want an artistic expression that isn’t writing. I am going to save the wardrobe I have worked so hard to build because it reflects my intention and growth as a person. Everything else, I am releasing even this house I intended to be a home.