I thought we were paying too much, and I had concerns about the condition of the house, particularly given the price tag.
I wasn’t crazy about the layout, or the fact that the house backed up to a parking lot for the university.
But the house was close to the Metro Rail, so my husband could take the train to work. And the neighborhood was – and still is – vibrant and diverse, with a blend of ethnicities, ages, and religions that we found appealing.
It was not a good time for me to be buying a house, emotionally. I was entering a period of serious depression due to many factors. I was struggling with the fact that I was newly declared legally disabled. I had always been so proud of my ability to support myself, but my body had other plans, and I was in a downward spiral, health-wise. There were stretches of days when it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed to get a glass of water. Eventually, I became suicidally depressed.
I had no self confidence, and – feeling that I shouldn’t have as much of a say in how we spent our money as the spouse who was making most of it – I decided that my husband should get the house he wanted.
So we bought the house. Almost immediately, I regretted it.
We had to have the house rewired, and it took forever. Everything we hired a contractor to do, they somehow bungled.
I was a constant wreck, my nerves shattered from medication, illness, constant battles with the contractors I had to deal with while my husband was at work.
Almost from the day we moved in, I hated the house. I wanted out.
About two years ago, I told my husband I didn’t like the house and probably never would. I didn’t feel that we should invest more money into a house with the location issues ours had, and wanted to move somewhere else.
Every time something good would happen to us, the house would find some way to muck things up: the air conditioner would die and need replacing, the hot water heater would break, or we would find out that the previous owner had simply covered up the tile flooring that they suspected contained asbestos, rather than getting it tested so they could disclose that information. (Spoiler: we got it tested, and it contains asbestos.)
We put an enormous amount of money and time into the house. My husband stripped every bit of millwork in the house (except for the kitchen cabinets) and repainted it. We had the floors refinished from their hideous 1970s golden oak to a beautifully mellow sandy hue. I personally installed the custom door hardware with polished brass rosettes that set off their black porcelain knobs. Custom window shades were ordered for the enormous bay window in the living room, and my husband and father installed them the same day they replaced the front door, which I’d painted a bright cheery red.
But I still hated the house, mostly for its associations with the dark time I experienced right after we moved in. At one point, my therapist jokingly promised not to tell the police if I confessed to her that I’d burned the place to the ground.
On December 21, 2020, my husband came home from work and announced that he wanted to move. He wanted to sell the house, and find somewhere else to live. He wanted it to happen as soon as possible.
He declared that he was sure the house was cursed.
He’d learned that the University was planning to build a new building directly behind our house, along with two parking garages. The Metro Rail’s nearest crossing was getting a bar that would lower and ding-ding-ding while the trains went by. And he didn’t want to put more money into a house that we were already in over our heads on.
I asked him if he wanted me to find someone to buy it, and he said, “Yes.” “When?” “As soon as possible. I want to start 2021 in a new place.”
So I found someone to buy the house from us, in cash. It was literally one of those “We Buy Ugly Houses” companies, with the billboards featuring a caveman. Their offer was less than we might have received trying to sell through a realtor, but there were no realtor fees (the buyer is a licensed realtor); the buyer paid the title fees; and there was no waiting around for potential buyers, no negotiating with them. The buyer’s offer exactly paid off our mortgage.
On January 22, 2021, we moved into an apartment. We’re spend 2021 paying less in rent, utilities, and insurance combined than we’ve been paying every month on our mortgage, and will be able to save up more money as a result. Our savings are healthy – we lived particularly frugally during the height of the pandemic – and we figure we’ll be able to buy a new house, and make a new start, six months from now.
It has been an adjustment. We moved from 1,500 square feet into about 1,100 square feet. We have to walk our dog, Ginger, multiple times every day (though the apartment complex has a large off-leash Bark Park, Ginger prefers not to share it with other pups). A lot of our things are in an off-site, climate controlled storage facility.
BUT, I no longer spend thirty minutes circling the neighborhood in ever-tightening spirals after running errands, sobbing as I drive, because I don’t want to go back to that house. To me, it was never a home, but just “that house.”
Though we still have about six months to go before we’re ready to buy a new place, we’ve begun touring neighborhoods, discussing whether we want to buy a fixer-upper or something that will just require some tweaking (for example, new kitchen tile and interior paint). We’re debating the merits of townhouses with small yards versus more “Houston traditional” houses with large yards. I’m checking every home address against the Houston flood maps to see where they lie in relation to floodplains, and scouring listings for those magic words: “NEVER FLOODED.”
My self-confidence has improved, my mental health has improved, and I am very vocal about our real estate decisions, now. And we’re communicating about our expectations and desires, which we’ve learned is absolutely crucial.
I know it’s still several months away, but I can’t wait to see what 2022 has in store for us.
