Sometimes our dreams start small. If we have been accustomed to believing that we are only worthy of just barely scraping by, then our dreams must start small if they are to start at all. For most of my life, whenever I envisioned having a place of my own, I always pictured a small studio somewhere, with just barely enough room for my things. I was always certain that I could pay my own way, but only if that way were meager. I never dreamed that I would ever own a real house, even though a house is what I've always wanted.
For ten years, I lived in a small one-bedroom condo that I bought with the money my father left me when he died. When I bought that condo, what I really wanted was a house; but I didn't feel worthy of owning a whole house, so I settled. Unfortunately, that condo recently became a casualty of what is now euphemistically known as "This Economy," and for the past year I have been staying in my boyfriend's house, with all of my stuff in storage. Although I will always be grateful to Keith for giving me a safe place to stay, rent-free, while I got back on my feet, I've really missed having my own home. And although he has been happy to be able to help me in a very significant way by graciously providing me with shelter, we are both people who have a strong need to be alone in our own space.
