Hello. My name is Phyllis and I am a home improvement junkie. I have been one for the past 15 years. My husband is my enabler but I believe he leans towards addictive tendencies himself.

There was a great article in The Times on Friday about the history of a house. It shed light upon my own situation. I now understand why I do the things I do and I know I’m not alone. The saga of the author’s Bed Stuy home is fascinating. The house went from sheltering Hugo Tollner of the Gage & Tollner family to becoming crack den.  “We buy a house believing it’s ours, but in fact it’s an ever-shifting palimpsest and we are merely the latest to write over it.”

My weakness? I look at a sad old decrepit house, with chippy paint and overgrown weeds and I want to resurrect her. I want to know her history and how she ended up so lonely and forgotten, even while people are living within her walls. The chase is always more exciting than the catch, though. Once she’s back on her feet, it’s time to move on.

Is the home a living entity? No, come on, I’m not that nuts! But I do pick up vibes. Call it ghosts of inhabitants past or ambiance, but I do believe that there’s karma in them walls. Think about it. Each of us leave traces of our energy behind.

Is that why I’m addicted? Am I being possessed? Or am I a closeted history buff? I’ve always thought of rejuvenating old houses as a major creative outlet, but maybe there’s something more to it. In any case, with housing and the economy the way it is, I’m gonna have to go cold turkey on this addiction.