On Choosing to Buy a House & Facing my Overworking Nature

This is part 3 of a 6-part series on the Moon of Purification. [Read part 1 here] | [Part 2 here]

Sometime whilst scrubbing the baseboards of Park House, my wrist braces making cleaning even more awkward, I realized: This house represents the disillusionment of my American dream. It’s also the last symbol of my father’s attempt to support me—like these four walls could finally give me something he never did and give me a sense of home.

My dad routinely told the story that he’d done so well in his career that my sister, step-mother, and I would be set for life when he died.

The reality? $23,000—my inheritance from my father when he passed away in 2021.

Buying Into the Story

At the time, Ikenna and I were living in a roommate situation that was actively triggering to all of us. It was even worse for our cats who had to be kept in a single room for about 12 hours a day on a timed schedule to swap off with the roommates’ cat—lest the boys be murdered at the paw of the roomies’ feline terror (who I still love dearly fwiw).

Buying a home of our own was the investment all the generations before me said was the smartest thing I could do.

So I listened to the story I’d inherited, rather than renting another apartment or townhome where I’d have a fairly reasonable sense of the cost of living without much fluctuation over the course of each year. And if something broke when renting? It’d always been repaired. 

But I wanted to pursue the American dream! I wanted to make a home for my spouse and I! I wanted to do what my parents had always told me was the best thing to do!

We searched for months to find a house. We put several offers in. We even went through the inspection process with a property only to let it go when we realized it was too much to repair.

We looked at properties all over Maryland, briefly in PA and WV. I considered buying Justin’s house, but at the time, he still had roommates, too.

We were about to give up on the search for a house when Park House came back on the market after a prior respective buyer’s finances fell through. But in the time it was off the market, it had developed mold problems, so they were actively remediating it.

Then Reality Hit

The first bad winter storm hit, right around the new year, less than two months into living in Park House. 

The roof leaked and we couldn’t even get anyone to attempt a repair for over 6 months. Our home warranty wouldn’t cover it.

In spring, the gutters needed to be repaired. We needed to install a new water heater, too. Then the roof started leaking again because the first repair wasn’t sufficient. 

As winter ‘22 rolled around, we had to have an emergency radon remediation system installed as our radon levels skyrocketed dangerously high. 

More repairs. More overworking. More chronic fatigue.

My wellness started to slip more rapidly in early 2023. I knew I was veering toward total professional burnout.

Then I moved out of Park House in late summer ‘23. Ikenna’s other partner at the time moved in a month later (we’re polyamorous in case this is your first time meeting me). 

And well, away from Park House, my patterns of trauma looping became suddenly clearer than ever before.

I spent the first year away from that home trying to find myself again. I’d been spun up in codependency patterns and avoiding the truth of my chronic illness and dis-ease for a while, trying to be the perfect spouse, therapist, daughter, and citizen—all impossible standards.

I didn’t know who I was outside of certain relationship dynamics or overworking.

But I did know I wanted to return to my truth and my wild, Druidic ways.

I’d inherited not just an opportunity to build a home, but the perfect chance to try and reenact my father’s American dream and burn myself out in the process.

The Overworker and His Daughter

My relationship with my father was complicated at best, especially around money. My poetry book, Daddy’s Girl, goes into this relationship at length.

I grew up in poverty—the kind where pasta and red sauce every weeknight wasn’t a choice. I knew better than to ask for the books I desperately wanted to read, or even the ones I needed for school. And going on assistance wasn’t an option thanks to my parents’ pride.

Yet—My father was an overworker.

He worked so much I rarely saw him as a child unless it was going to work with him. My sister got more of that time with him than I did. He’d disappear through the doors of the Developmental Center where he cared for people who couldn’t care for themselves, leaving me with his clients.

Even later when I was an adult, my father had a lower mortgage than my rent and a salary greater than mine as a teacher and therapist, he never could assist me financially. 

Not that I ever actually asked.

I didn’t need to. 

He routinely told me that he was going to help me get new clothes, pay for a college class, and put a downpayment towards something like a car or rent.

In reality, he’d send me $50 in gift cards for Christmas every few years if it was a good season on his end. Otherwise, every time we’d get on the phone, he’d promise me that riches were right around the corner.

During the day, he worked at his mentally taxing job taking care of people. Then he came home to either my mother or eventually my step-mother who he played caretaker roles with. To cope, he bought drugs and random stuff—piling DVDs and video games in his room upstairs. He was deeply addicted to many vices. 

He never stopped chasing a souped-up sports car, but he only ever managed a Honda Civic.

My father pursued the capitalistic American dream like it was his day job. A job he could never finish.

Meanwhile, the promises kept coming. The pattern kept repeating.

And here I am, pushing my body past its limits to get Park House cleaned and on the market—while adjusting to a smaller house with now five merged cats and trying to juggle a small business that can actually meet the needs of my energy limits.

It’s been a lot, my friends!!! 

Because of the house situation, I find myself returning to that cycle, that sensation of working myself to the bone just like my daddy did.

What else is an eldest daughter to do? How do I break the cycle of self-depletion in my bloodline once and for all? 

That’s what I’m on a quest to find out. 

So tell me, do you find yourself in patterns of pushing yourself and overworking? It’s an easy thing to fall into in our society, for sure. 

All My Love,
A Determined Safrianna Lughna

This is part 3 of a 6-part series on the Moon of Purification. Next, I’ll share about what happened when I tried to manage my late father’s estate

Inherited Money, Stories, and Impossible Standards?

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