Did You Really Come This Far Just to Disappear?

At the end of Unforgiven, there’s a scene where Clint Eastwood is standing over Gene Hackman, pointing a shotgun in his face.  As was often the case, the character Eastwood played was furious about something.  And this was not good for Hackman’s character.  Hackman had some choice last words for Eastwood: “I was building a house.” And then Eastwood did his thing.

If you haven’t watched this movie - you should

It was pretty apparent that the house matter was a big deal for the soon-to-be-dead Sheriff. If I were doing a character analysis – like we used to have to do in school – I’d say at that moment Hackman just wanted to be at home, the one he was building.  It symbolized the peace and serenity that he’d rather have had in the moment before being shot.  Our homes mean a lot to us – don’t they?

I’m ending a decade-long stay in a home I love.  Packing up my things – I was hoping that the experience would be the final punch in the face – penance served, maybe. If you’ve ever had to face life’s music – lost a relationship that also cost you your home – my next couple of sentences are going to get to you.  There’s a point when you’re packing stuff up that each thing that touches your hands is a memory.  If it’s a bad memory – it’s painful.  And…if it was a good memory – those can be painful, too.  Times gone by. 

You didn’t know the value of those little notches on the wall marking the heights of your kids as they aged.  A paint splotch on the floor is a reminder of what you’d hoped for – renovating the place – which would have included sanding the hardwood, making it smooth, then shiny.  If only I could have afforded it or had the time to do it myself. Over time, our houses become canvases on which the stories of our lives are painted – and we know them well because we were the artists. 

Reality check.  The divorce rate is high.  House battles go on five days a week at pick your American courthouse.  And the whole process is good for kids – just not your kids.  It works out great for the lawyer’s kids and the realtor’s kids.  Maybe there’s solace in knowing you aren’t alone – that this process happens so, so frequently.  Is there a market for divorce planning — where couples enroll when they get engaged?

C’mon, that’s funny.  But enough about stats.  This is personal. 

I was all feeling sorry for myself the other day.  Having a pity party – another pity party is more like it.  Then I wound up on a FaceTime call with someone from my real home.  She heard me out, about all of these things that have pained me of late.  Job.  Moving. Humiliation.  Tough decisions.  Then she said it.  “Sounds like you forgot where you came from.”  

It was Jedi, one of those voices you don’t ignore. 

OG Star Wars - Before they added like like 20 others

“How many Walnut Avenue kids live in neighborhoods like yours?”  “How’d you get there?”  It was as if she were Adrian, and I was Rocky – and Apollo Creed wanted me back in the ring for a second go.

It was a moment of fire and ice.  Two things that cannot exist in the same space at the same time.  Bitterness and healing – one opens the wound while the other closes it.  They cancel each other out. You can’t heal while you’re hiding.  If you get this, then you know that anxiety, frustration, and anger can truly be suffocated by compassion, love, and support. 

It sucks to realize that you’re a dollar sign to someone you loved.  Stings.

That your colleagues see you as a human doing instead of a human being.  Ouch.

Or that your home is going to belong to someone else, very soon.  More pain.

Then, in all that sorrow, while sinking in the quicksand — a flare in the fog: compassion, love, support. And just like that, the anguish lifts.

The sooner we realize that we need the good people in our lives, the better off we will be. 

Because healing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens when someone reminds you of who you are — and who you’ve always been, even before the titles and the mistakes and the fallout. It happens when a voice on the other end of the line says, “You’ve been through worse. You’re still standing.”

Yeah, I’m packing boxes. I’m leaving behind the house I thought I’d grow old in. But I’m not leaving empty-handed. I’m taking every hard lesson, every scar that taught me something, every ounce of strength I didn’t know I had. And most of all, I’m taking my story — still messy, still in progress, but still mine.

This next place won’t have those notches on the wall, but maybe my son and I will make new ones. Maybe it’ll have laughter in the kitchen, quiet mornings, and space to grow into something better. Not because everything is fixed, but because progress is being made.

I used to think a house was just where you lived. Now I know it’s also where you leave — when it’s time to become someone new.

So if you’re standing in the rubble of something you thought would last forever, I’ll say what was said to me by a Jedi Master:

Did you really come this far, just to disappear?