One theme that recurs in my life is not being nearly as smart as I like to think I am. In fact one might argue I’m stupid. It wasn’t enough of a lesson that I fell through my ceiling and landed on my crotch. No, no, I needed to hurt myself further before I realized something important: asking for help is good.
But before learning that lesson, I plowed deeper into the misadventures of stubbornly doing it all by myself because screw it I can do whatever I want solo and there’s no way I’m asking anyone to help fix a problem created by this crippling need to be independent.
First step, tearing down the broken drywall to create a crisp starting point.
Second step was going to the Do It Yourselfers number one resource: YouTube. I searched for solutions on how to secure a full sheet of drywall onto a ceiling without the aid of another set of hands. Why did I think I could do such a thing? Because I’d easily put the weight equivalent of drywall up and over my head many times. Important thing to remember here that will come in later: drywall and barbells are shaped differently. I know, right? A barbell fits easily in the hands, has a much smaller surface area, and is thus better able to be moved through space. A sheet of drywall is an unbending rectangle with the strength integrity of a towel taken out of the washer and allowed to air dry indoors.
A man on YouTube had a handy hack for using well-placed 2x4s on a ceiling so one could install drywall by themselves. I thought, great, finally someone who understands my circumstances, unlike all the Ikea instruction manuals shaming me for building furniture alone.
The hack had me position a full 2×4 on one side to allow a resting place for the sheet, and smaller boards on the opposite side screwed in just enough to allow them to swivel in place and secure the drywall once I had the sheet resting on the long piece. It looked simple. Humans and their tools, right? Genius. I could do that, of course. Noooooo problem at all!
Securing the 2x4s was easy. Look at me, getting it done. Fixing my mistakes. It was happening. But then came the hard part I didn’t get a picture or video of. Taking a giant sheet of drywall and putting it up above the world so high. As mentioned previously, a sheet of drywall is a sheet of drywall. It is not a compacted barbell meant for raising and lowering in order to strengthen the body. For people who have only experienced drywall by looking at it as it lives under layers of paint, primer and compound, let me give you a quick lesson. Sheets are 4 by 8 feet, about the size that a beach towel should be, but without the convenience of roll-ability. Drywall is heavy, yes, but like when you move furniture, it’s not the weight, it’s the awkwardness.
If there is a graceful way to move what is basically a crumbly tabletop up and over the head to position on a ceiling, I never found it. I instead did a kind of break dance with the sheet, going up my ladder backwards and attempting some moves not yet executed by humans, trying to heave ho the mother effer up onto my conveniently placed 2×4 beam. The guy made it look so much easier in the video. So what if he was a guy, I had muscles. I could do this. Girl power!
But then something predictable happened. As I was halfway up the ladder, backwards (as in my front was facing away from the ladder, my buttocks kissing the steps), trying to snatch the drywall sheet up and over my head, I lost my balance. With the ladder behind me, there was only one direction gravity could take me. I stumbled forward, and wanting to save my new face, I tried to land foot first, then knee, then hands. I heard a snap that wasn’t the gypsum board (but that was also punched through), and felt what I can only describe as “that fucking hurts” pain in my ankle. Yes, that’s what snap. But since the drywall was under me as I came in like a wrecking ball, it also got a little bit damaged.
For those keeping score, I had now hurt my ankle in trying to fix a problem caused by my feet slip sliding down through the ceiling and landing crotch-side on a sturdy beam. I love being a homeowner.
Did I, at this point, give up and say “Courtney, enough”? Please. I’m not sure how adrenaline works with most people, but mine flows with stubbornness. Now I was just mad. Injured and mad. I WAS going to get that board up there, gosh darn it. And so, flipping two middle fingers to my ancestors who’d survived dangerous times using their wits, I went back up the ladder, backwards, with a no longer completely intact gypsum board (because I wasn’t sure I could walk down the stairs to get another board back up the stairs) and one wobbly leg, to mount that piece of shit on my ceiling so I wouldn’t have to stare at a massive gap up into the rafters.
Take that, gravity!
Looking at those photos over two years later, I recall the cheap white Wayfair chairs in the lower left corner were part of my plan to work the drywall up a little higher so I wouldn’t have to hoist it all at once. So see, I am less dumb than I thought.
Once screwing the drywall in place and removing the 2x4s, the adrenaline wore off (with the stubbornness) and the ankle pain kicked in. You’ll see there’s still a gap that needs filling. I decided in the moment that I couldn’t go back downstairs to cut a piece and put it up there, that I would do something I should’ve done to start: seek help.
At the time, my architect uncle lived in Dallas. When I told him about my feats of renovation catastrophe, he insisted he could help me if I promised not to continue hurting myself in trying to do it alone. I promised I would resist the call in my heart. I instead iced my ankle because none of my animals care about my pain when they’re hungry, and read about my diagnoses from Dr. Google. An ankle sprain.
Probably weeks later, we got to the taping, compounding fun.
It felt so much better not to have a gap in my ceiling. After mudding and allowing it plenty of time to dry, then I got to the part never seen on HGTV shows because it is really the worst aspect of living on planet Earth. I’m talking about drywall sanding.
Joint compound, once sanded, is powder. It gets everywhere. Between the gaps in my wood floor, on surfaces three blocks away, and into every cell in my lungs (yes, I wore a mask).
I tried to limit just how far the powder could go by taping up plastic sheets like I was about to give a serial killer the Dexter treatment, but nothing can fully impede the travel of drywall sand once the spirit moves it (everywhere).
If you think that looks like loads of fun to live in, yes. So much fun. Reminder, there was nothing wrong with my dining room ceiling. I did this all by myself.
Here’s a fun fact about joint compound being applied by someone who’s never done it before: it’s harder than it looks and you have to wait for it to dry before sanding and then applying more to make it smooth. Since I am not a level five expert here, I got to the point of just saying “you know what, fuck this, good enough, who cares.” It came sooner than I thought it would, honestly.
I would like to say that in the two years since I frog-kicked my ceiling down, that I’d primed and painted over my mistakes. No. In fact you can still see the drywall compound exposed ceiling in my dining photos here. What happened, besides my laziness, was I actually preferred the look of the smooth, albeit not perfectly applied, compound. The texture on most of my walls in this house is crap. As I discussed here, I liken the texture to teenage acne or dad sneeze.
My plan, at least what I tell myself as I stare at my dining ceiling with self-loathing, is to drywall compound the rest of the dining room to get smoother, plaster-looking walls. I have since skim coated three other rooms in my house after the ceiling incident, getting a more plaster appearance rather than pimples in need of popping.
I guess that means something good came from something bad. The life lesson here is obviously to ask for help when you need it. It would be two more years before I sought actual therapy, but if you, like me, break out in hives at the thought of asking for aid, save yourself your crotch and ankle: talk to a professional. Or at least hire some professionals to save your body and mind.
I won’t do it, but you should.
