I lived with a man for over a decade. This was ill-advised for many reasons. Large among them was that I knew what a terrible housekeeper he was. He had been living in a communal situation when I met him, and they had a chores chart on the wall, and his roommates had to constantly remind him to do his share, which of course he might have managed about half the time, if they were lucky. He wasn’t the only offender in this regard; the house was never strictly clean, but it got much worse when the most responsible adult moved out. So I knew, going in, that I’d be in for a wild ride when it came to household cleanliness. It was only being convinced I was required to move in with him that led me to do it.
One of his quirks was that he would completely trash a room and then give up on it and close the door. The entire second floor of the house, which was one big bedroom, was one of the rooms he so treated; the second-largest basement room was another. In the latter there was a literal aisle cutting through the waist-to-shoulder-high piles of mess going from the front of the room to the back.
The problem is that a house has a finite number of rooms. Sooner or later he will have to clean up his mess or he will run out of living space. And he owns the house, so he can’t just pick up and move.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that with relationships. Unfortunately, there are three and a half billion women on this planet which, for all intents and purposes, is an endless supply of potential future relationships he can mishandle, fill with trash, close the door on and lock it. And he never has to come back, because there will always be one more room.
I am in the end stage of being thusly trashed.
He wonders why I am so often enraged.
I would say “if he had to live in his own garbage, maybe he would understand,” but he does, and he doesn’t. I don’t think he ever will.