After a summer of 10% elation and 90% black depression, it seemed I had a reason to come out of it. In spite of the ongoing battles over selling my late mother's house, my own house-hunting had paid off: I found a house and made an offer, and after just a little back and forth, my offer was accepted.
It is close to being my dream house. It's right on a tiny lake that didn't allow motors -- quiet. The not-too-big yard already has lovely plantings by the current owner, a native plant specialist. It has a dock with a bench on the end, and a rowboat came with the house.
Euphoria
When my realtor/friend Wilma and I first walked into the house, my eyes widened and Wilma said, "Oh, Marcia!" On one side, a spacious kitchen with hunter green countertops. (Dark green is my favorite color.) To the left, a living room with a vaulted ceiling. Shallow bay windows in both kitchen and living room. Straight ahead, 7 steps going to the upper and lower levels. You couldn't tell from the outside how spacious it would be inside.
Downstairs, a family room with a double-sided fireplace and glass doors out onto the patio, yard and dock. Upstairs, three bedrooms, all with sliding doors out onto a narrow balcony, all overlooking the lake.
Okay, so it doesn't have a luxury bathroom, something I'd really wanted. The outside of the house is as blah as can be. It isn't dramatic -- the only other house I'd been considering was. But this house was comfortable.
You'd think I'd be over the rafters at this point, right? But wait, there's a hitch: I can't pay for it unless the sale of Mom's house goes through. And we still had no idea if that would happen.
Depression bordering on hysteria
The situation was unbelievable. I had already done a lot of packing of items I wouldn't need immediately, but how much else could I pack? The house was a shambles -- what if we had to put it back on the market? I couldn't arrange for movers. I couldn't even guarantee to the owner of the house I wanted to buy that she had a firm sale -- it was contingent on selling Mom's house.
Every new call from Wilma or my real estate lawyer was just a report that the troubles with my damned buyer continued. I was absolutely stuck, running up legal bills she should have been paying because she didn't care if she bought the house or not. She wasn't going to pay her lawyers to do the work that legally she was supposed to be responsible for. She didn't even seem to care if she lost her hefty earnest money by backing out of the contract. If I didn't have the work done, we'd lose the sale.
At first, the only thing that brought me out of paralyzing depression was going to see the new house. I met the seller and found her to be a wonderful person. Like me, she was a smoker, a gardener and a cat person. She had actually moved out months before and still lived in the area. I knew quickly that we could be friends.
My mortgage was approved -- one good thing. As the closing date grew closer, Wilma advised me to move ahead as if everything would go through. So I packed as much as possible. At least that shook me out of the paralyzing blackness for awhile. Still, it was difficult for me to deal with anything else. I saw my psychiatrist twice that month. He was at least encouraging, telling me that under the circumstances I was not doing as badly as I thought.
Situational depression is something most people encounter in their lifetimes. For someone with bipolar depression anyway, it can make it seem like meds aren't working anymore. But I felt they were doing their best -- under the circumstances -- just as my psychiatrist said I was. I felt, too, that it was the meds that kept me from simply staying in bed 20 hours a day and getting NOTHING done.
I could have tried more meds, different meds, for the duration, but I chose not to. There was a deadline when I would know what was going to happen, and I would revisit that decision if necessary after that deadline. We only made a very small increase in Seroquel to help me sleep better.
My life was now 10% euphoria -- when I visited the new house -- and still 90% horrible depression. This depressive episode was every bit as bad as the one I'd had in 1994 -- worse, I think, and I was unmedicated then! This time I wasn't just depressed over things that had happened to me -- this time there was daily pressure, daily turmoil, daily bad news.
Down to the wire
Closing dates were Friday October 24 on the sale and Monday October 27 on my purchase. There was no way, even if we closed on Mom's house, that I could close on the purchase and move the same day. Wilma was working on the easement issue like an avenging fury. My lawyer was doing everything possible. They had made progress, but would it be enough?
Thursday morning came. The lawyer called in the morning and said he really doubted the closing would happen. I don't remember the next several hours. And then ... his assistant called at 4 p.m. and said everything was arranged for the next day.
It was all going to happen.
