I am wracked with indecision.
My counselor told me that having too many options is far more overwhelming than having too few. He brought his hands up: one holding something invisible, the other balled into a fist with two fingers pointed outward, like scissors. Making a decision is about cutting the cord, he said, and letting an option not be an option anymore.
I’m negotiating a job offer. A job offer that, if accepted, would enable me to buy my home. To refinance it, remove him from the mortgage, and allow me to own it. Actually own it.
We have an offer on the table for this house. The other is under contract.
I stalled for as long as I could yesterday before telling our realtor why I could not make a decision. He seemed disappointed. I put a lot of work into this deal, he said. And he’s right. He has. But this is still our home–my home. And it’s the cheapest living option available to me. Hands down. And with the option of continuing the Airbnb or to let rooms as we have been, it also represents an additional stream of income.
My counselor said he’d tip his hat to me if I chose to sell both properties and move to Oregon without a job lined up, just to be closer to the kids. And trust me, it’s tempting.
In my mind’s eye, I can picture the weekends spent with the kids. Walking to breakfast on a Saturday morning, or visiting the library for a presentation about animals. Or simply hanging out. I miss sunny afternoons at Mike’s Drive-In with them, eating outside. My heart aches a bit as I type this. My heart is definitely with them, from 3,000 miles away.
Yet, I feel an unshakeable responsibility to be responsible for myself.
Let’s face it: I haven’t been.
My codependent nature makes it to tempting to be the victim, to let the responsibility fall on another. I haven’t made choices that I should have. I should not have left my marriage. I should not have given up custody of the kids. I should not have put his name on the deed. While codependency is about control, I’m not sure I want complete control over my destiny. I’m afraid of that responsibility. I’m afraid of failing.
For much of this recovery journey, I’ve held onto the idea of “righting the wrongs.”
But I’m not sure wrongs can be righted; just as the past cannot be changed, you cannot undo wrongs. You can make amends. You can make new choices. You cannot undo the impact of decisions past.
Just as if I choose to write for 15 minutes and then find myself late for work because I failed to give myself the time I needed to get ready for my day–I cannot undo that. I can only try again. But I cannot get back the time I should have spent doing something else. I think this realization is what I find most paralyzing. To me, it makes every decision extremely important and weighty. And so, I find it difficult to decide anything. I usually wait until the decision is not mine anymore. Let another decide, and then the responsibility of any consequences is on their shoulders.
But that’s not a way to live. It’s a way to die.
It’s the death of self-will, self-confidence, intention, and purpose. It’s the death of creativity and choice. It’s the death of satisfaction and contentment. It’s the death of peace and wise mind. It’s an early death.
I have until end of business today to decide what I will do about my home. If I will accept the offer on the table and sell, or if I won’t.
A part of me saddens at the thought of being left behind in the house we shared. And yet a part of me sees great freedom in that, to finally do things I’ve always wanted to do. Paint. Redecorate. Finish a few projects. Put in new flooring. Buy a new stove. Decorate the front porch for holidays.
If my income is going up, I’d like to keep my expenses down.
If my income is going up, my expenses could go up with them. Some.
Maybe a fresh start would be best. And then again, maybe that doesn’t require a new house, but maybe just a new paint color.