Moving to Costa Rica VII
Why I Left My Nest & Moved to Costa Rica
The bubble bursts
When I first met Dick (not his real name, but it kind of is) in 2011, I was living in a townhouse in Bellevue, WA, which also served as my office, my lab, and general HQ of my startup business, DERMagic Skin Care for Animals, Inc. Despite the 2008 recession—an unfortunate time to start a new biz—I survived and eventually moved from my garage shop to a larger warehouse/office space in the south of Seattle as my business continued to grow.
As Dick and I became more deeply involved, I sold my townhouse (unfortunately at the bottom of the market due to the recession, losing thousands), moved into his place in Burien, and soon after to a rented house in Kingston, WA, across the Puget Sound from Seattle.
Several years prior, Dick had purchased a 12-acre parcel in Hansville, WA, a rural village that juts into icy, turbulent waters where the Strait of Juan de Fuca collides with the Puget Sound. This farm was Dick’s retirement plan, with plenty of barns and stables and some other dilapidated structures that had no future of their own.
When Dick invited me to join in this farm adventure, I jumped at the chance to create something new, have a garden, and live in nature again—a sharp contrast to the San Francisco/Portland/Bellevue cityscapes of my previous several years.
When I met Dick, I was eager to settle down, perhaps too keen in retrospect. Still, I was exhausted from worrying about the economy and my business and working two additional jobs to keep my fledgling company (and my mortgage!) afloat. And I had been deeply disappointed and saddened by my recent failure to secure the attention of the one man I had ever truly loved—mind, body, and soul. I had finally had to give up on him, but I could never forget him. Would never.
Meanwhile, my friend Jay, a prominent Kirkland, WA, architect, agreed to design our new house on the farm, and I got to work selecting colors, flooring, and countertops, reveling in this creative distraction. This distraction allowed me NOT to consider deeply enough whether this Dick was the right one for me. I was focused on creating a lovely space for us, believing everything would be alright. How could farm life not be okay?
It was never alright.
I could teach him how to kiss, for starters, and did have some success with that, but the rest of his lovemaking was boring at best, incompetent and clumsy at worst, selfish and inconsiderate at the very worst.
Ignoring all that, moving into the new house was another happy distraction for me—decorating, hanging art, organizing and merging two sets of everything, planning a garden, cleaning up the acreage, and planting fruit trees.
And my business was growing! I was selling wholesale products worldwide, and my direct-to-consumer business was booming. Pet shops and groomers were ecstatic to offer DERMagic to itchy, suffering dogs. My biz turned a nice profit, paid off some loans, and I was looking to expand again, hiring a fulfillment center in Seattle to pack and ship our goods around the planet. Dick was never involved, nor interested in, the business.
Meanwhile, I had a nice life there on the farm, a beautiful new home with chickens and an enormous vegetable garden, and plenty of work and other distractions to keep me fully occupied and happy, even without the warmth and closeness I craved from my partner.
My Forever Home
Believing the farm to be my “forever home,” I invested heavily in the property, building a beautiful greenhouse to support my gardening habit and a lovely cottage atop the footprint of a torn-down shack at the edge of the property. My cottage (aka “she shed”) became my office and studio, fully equipped with a functioning kitchen, a full bathroom, and a sleeper sofa where our guests could enjoy cozy, comfortable privacy when visiting.
This was all mine—designed, built, and paid for by me. No men allowed!
I had created a little slice of heaven for myself.
Then, about three years into farm life, everything changed when Dick decided to retire from his work-from-home tech job with ATT. As he left his job, we decided that I should sell my business and retire so we could go on adventures together and have more time to chill and enjoy life.
I had been paying “rent” up to that point—a significant portion of the mortgage—but once I sold the business, I would have no income other than social security and small change from annuities. We discussed this in advance: I could no longer pay rent but would continue to buy groceries and things for the house and pay for half of our vacation costs. All agreed. It seemed fair to me at the time. I have always paid my way. But to him, I was freeloading. I had never understood this until the light came on at the very end.
To me, “adventure” means getting out into the world to explore new places, taste new tastes, meet new people, dive into new cultures—to see new things and get excited about new discoveries.
To him, “adventure” meant taking motorcycle trips with his friends to the same places we had already been visiting yearly. To him, “adventure” meant having the boys over for football parties. To him, “adventure” meant shopping for new tractors and farm equipment.
“Not alright” becomes hostility.
It dawned on me that he and I had never had an honest conversation about anything other than the day-to-day business of moving through life. I began to notice that he never reached for me, not for a hug or a loving touch. I began to see that whenever I spoke, I was “interrupting” him or forcing him to engage with me, which took effort he wasn’t willing to expend.
After watching this hilarious—but too-close-to-the bone—video, I finally understood (don’t miss this!):
It dawned on me that he considered my business, my hobbies, my garden, my ideas, or anything else to do with me irrelevant or a waste of time. To him, I was a nuisance and a freeloader for whom he had to prepare meals.
It’s clear to me now the direction this had been going, but I continued to ignore the signs, not wanting to give up on the relationship or the life I had built.
I exhausted myself in the garden, in my painting, in my writing, with my girlfriends, spending evenings cleaning up the kitchen and settling down to watch TV, our only “together” activity.
It was worse than living alone.
It should have been no surprise to me when one evening he said, “We’ve got a problem,” followed by, “You need to leave.”
I ignored this again the following year and several more in subsequent months.
I had no place to go. After the Great Recession, I had invested most of what little I had left into his farm, house, and property. The greenhouse, the cottage, the closets, Murphy bed in the guest room cum temporary office, landscaping… close to $200k over 10 years I had spent on my forever home. Everywhere one’s eye would fall around the property would be where I had spent my funds.
Now a pensioner, I could neither qualify for a mortgage nor come up with a downpayment, nor could I afford to rent any decent apartment on my retirement income. One of my friends tried to help by offering her basement apartment at a discounted $1200 plus utilities, which amounted to 85% of my retirement check.
This meant that if I were going to leave the farm, I would have to move to another country. Since I had visited Costa Rica annually over the past 15 years, had friends there, and it was a very affordable place to live, I started the process of becoming an ex-pat.
Because we had been together in a partnership for more than ten years, Washington state laws offered some protections for me, similar to common law or spousal rights in the dissolution of marriage. I had little money and only wanted Dick to reimburse me for my investments in his property, including purchasing some of my furniture and art that I couldn’t take with me.
Dick had inherited several million from his parents and had accumulated a few on his own, so it never occurred to me that he would object to my request for a $150K reimbursement.
But he went ballistic, accusing me of having lived under his roof “for free” all those years. I then hired a lawyer who wrote a demand letter, quoting the law and stating that I was entitled to considerably more but only wanted my investment back.
In response, Dick told me to “get out now,” and he shut off internet access to all my devices. With no cell coverage at the farm, I could not make a simple phone call, much less manage or make arrangements to move.
Further, he told me he would fight me in court until every cent I owned was spent on court costs, and I “would be financially ruined.”
A molten black panic rose from the pit of my stomach. But still, I refused to leave the house… my house. He was brute-forcing me to back down from a very legitimate request, offering a mere $25k to get me out of the house, an amount not sufficient even to pay my moving costs. The law was on my side in that it was my right to stay in our home as long as I wanted to—or forever if I chose—but why would I want to stay in an environment so toxic that it would consume me?
I had no choice but to accept his paltry offer, pack my bags, sell my car, get on that plane, and abandon my country, my friends, my life, my investments—and start anew as an immigrant at 75 years of age.
Hatching a new plan
Life in Costa Rica is good. Different, but pleasant and sweet. And, most of all, affordable. I will be fine living out my life in this beautiful country, but my preference will always be to have a loving partner beside me, wherever or whenever possible. Until that happy event, I will continue enjoying the new life I am creating.
I will paint, I will write, I will garden, I will live. Pura vida!
Author’s note: the adventure continues. This is how and why it began. For the rest of the story, check out these below:
