It had been a bad year. I had just completed my training in teachers' college and was looking forward to a future with Cassie, and then, suddenly without warning, our relationship went south.
After five years of being together through university and two months away from our planned wedding date, she called the ceremony off.
I went into a tailspin and still haven't completely come out. It was devastating and to make matters worse, I couldn't find a teaching position in Toronto and had to accept an offer in a small town called Westfield just outside the Greater Toronto Area.
My family was shocked, my friends incredulous, and although everyone tried to be supportive, nothing helped.
I was experiencing what I can only describe as a dark night of the soul and had to move to a strange town, find rental accommodation and prepare lessons for courses while in the depths of depression.
I would drive out to Westfield, spend the day searching for an available apartment and would come up empty each time.
I recall one afternoon of futile apartment searching when I came across a dead racoon on the side of the road and stopped my car and wept uncontrollably for what seemed an hour.
It was over the top. I was slowly coming apart.
It seemed the natural ties that bonded Cassie and me together had not merely frayed but totally snapped... and so had I.
I somehow made it back to my parent's house and barely had energy enough to crawl into bed at five p.m.
But already there were vestiges of hope in the midst of chaos. There was a message on my phone to call back a real estate agent in Westfield, an older woman who seemed sympathetic to my plight.
I phoned her at ten that night apologizing for the late call but she was gracious and told me she had found a two-bedroom townhouse that was available, but needed 'a little love'.
I told her I was interested and arranged to see it the following day. It seemed a perfect fit for me because I also needed a 'little love' and a project to work on.
Turned out the townhouse needed more than 'love' but the reduced price suited my budget and I signed a one-year lease figuring I could rescue it and make it liveable for the short run.
It wasn't the cool bachelor pad Greg Paulsen, my friend, encouraged me to find, but it was a start on my reclamation venture.
Renovating the house would keep my mind off my problems—at least, that was the plan, but any notion that starting my career would be an adventure, had long since died.
I was in survival mode, taking one day at a time.
