Generally speaking, I’m an optimist. I say generally speaking because when I’m not being an optimist, I’m a ‘worst case scenario’ type person. One extreme or the other.
When it comes to emigrating, I’ve been nothing but optimistic. But despite my best efforts, optimism was perhaps something I should have left out of the equation.
I signed a lease for a wonderful house, in a brilliant location for me. Nice and bright and open and with a cracking garden, but it was a 12 month lease. At the time I didn’t really have an option, I needed somewhere to live and it was perfect and I thought the person I was moving in with was, at the very least a friend.
As it turns out I was wrong about that, and after finding out I was to be the sole name on the lease and financially responsible for the house a few weeks before I was due to come back to Australia, I panicked and all plans of moving out officially before I left went out of the window.
I thought, best case scenario, we’d be back before the tenancy agreement was up and would at least have somewhere to crash until we could find our own place.
My foresight would have been clearer with hindsight.
I found someone to sublet my room in a matter of days, it seemed too good to be true and after finding a lovely girl to take over part of the lease I was happy that at least I wasn’t solely responsible, there would be rent paid and I could explore my options at my leisure.
Giving up the lease wasn’t financially viable, I didn’t want to leave the others in the lurch and I wanted somewhere to come back to.
As it turns out: it was too easy.
The first couple left within a week, the second chap within a month and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, my long time house mate drops the bombshell she’ll be moving out in Feb to move in with her girlfriend.
It feels like the house is cursed.
Most of my savings to come home to have been put back into the house, just to make sure rent and bills are paid and to keep the other girls from struggling money wise.
But now I’ve got nothing left.
I’ve found someone else for a month, but it’s like putting a band aid over a slit throat.
I’m haemorrhaging dollars into a house I’m not even living in, and I’ve got the added stress of having to get Zac’s Mum to move what’s left of my stuff out of the house when the tenancy is up, and put it into storage until we get back.
I know I should have just let the house go in the first place, but I didn’t think it was an option financially and couldn’t foresee the revolving door of people moving in and out.
High churn doesn’t even cover it.
And now I’m in too deep.
And no matter how much I love the house, it’s been tainted by this stress and the people who lived there before, I don’t think I’d be happy going back now, even if I could.
So I have to swallow my pride, ask for help and flounder 11 hours behind, hoping it’s being looked after and sorted and I’m not putting on people too much.
And there’s my constant worry I have too much stuff…
Sofa, bed, bookcase, map, two rugs, a single duvet and pillow, a box of misc personal items and kitchen stuff. Is that too much?
I was starting a life…
Moving house is stressful enough when you’re not on the other side of world.
So I cocked up.
I know I did, but I’ll have to deal with the mess as best I can.
At least we’ll have a new slate when we get back, fresh start, our own nest to build and fluff.
Thank God we’re blessed with such supportive friends and family over there, otherwise it really would be shit creek…