quirkytizzy: (Default)
I went to the lupus meeting, felt overwhelming gratitude, came home, and became the most depressed I'd been in ages and ages. So I took all my sedatatives, thinking fuck it, at least if I'm groggy and miserable tomorrow, maybe I'll be lucky and groggy and miiserable in a different way.

So it's like 5:30 AM and I am hours and hours away from actually "getting up" and I woke up to go pee and am find myself so irrationally angry and upset that I if I don't write this out, fucked up on meds if as I am, I won't sleep. Why? Why am I finally actually getting sorta good, up every 2 hours to go pee but whatever sleep and I am interrupted by this need to rage?

Cuz I hate myself, my life, my friends, or sleep just that badly. Something.

So expect verbal vomits, rage spits, and badly typed bullshit because this is what they all want. I'm just less bitchy less this way. Eaiser to control. What the fuck ever.

I am still SO RESENTFUL at the way my house was left when I got out of the hospital. I'd been in there hooked to machines for a fucking month, a fucking month, and I've been out for ANOTHER MONTH, and I'm STILL finding patches of cat pee to scrub out of things. I'd been trying to coordinate but everyone was so busy so I kept trying to make it convienent for others, which it never was, because why could you give a total of TWO HOURS to a friend who hasn't been able to vacuum?

So three weeks into, I finally broke down and gave Jesse and Willow (my bestest girlfriend) a cleaning list. I need help, I said. The place has to be clean for my mental health and oh yeah for the reduction of fucking infection.

All of it - ALL OF IT - so soaked in cat pee that I could literally smell it OUTSIDE OF MY APARTMENT DOOR. MY LOCKED APARTMENT DOOR. MY LOCKED APARTMENT DOOR WITH ONE OF THOSE BUTTOM SWISHY THINGS AT THE FOOT OF THE DOOR TO KEEP SMELLS OUT OF THE APARTMENT HALLWAYS.

Because both of them felt no need to scoop out the two lone litterboxes I have in a 500 square foot studio once than once a week. With Jesse it's even worse. He refused to do it, even when they started peeing on his sheets. The man changed baby diapers for 20 years, but just could not POSSIBLY FATHOM why scooping out litterboxes was a priority and GOT ANGRY AT THE CATS.

I'm serious. Both Jesse and Amanda were baffled as to why the cats decided to start using the bathroom everywhere but the litterboxes. THREE CATS. THREE HUNDRED FOOT LIVING SPACE. I clean those boxes out everyday and on the rare day it's every other day, it's because I'm feeling like dying. That's what normal people do. That's what HEALTHY people do.

And they were just plum confused and couldn't figure the darn thing out.

Three weeks into the stay, I was worried about my house. So I asked for help. I wrote a list to Jesse and Willow, my bestsest girlfriend in the world, who I know would move heaven and hell for me. This was my list. Pretty reasonable, considering the house was NOT left in this state. http://quirkytizzy.livejournal.com/1012724.html

THIS is what I got:See more )

And it took Brillo pads to scrub what was underneath all that bathroom space, too. Just as my nails had FINALLY gained a tiny bit of length. I was so depressed.

Oh yeah? And the sheets that needed to be changed because of my FRESHLY NEW BURSTED WOUNDS? Guess who begged out of doing that because his back hurt? Yeah. First night back. I flung back 20 pounds of pillows, blankets, and sheets and remade EVERYTHING, because while I was willing to shove my face in a slightly damp cat pee pillow, I thought cat pee and WEEPING AND OOZING SORES would be bad.

So I did that, too, about two hours after having to be wheeled out of the hospital. I couldn't walk properly at that point.

What's worse is that both of them managed to not only convince themselves that it was just tooooo much work to do for someone who had needles in her arm for WEEKS STRAIGHT, but HAD THE BALLS TO TELL ME that that they were also just trying to make sure I had something to do with myself when I got home. Sometime empowering. Something I could do and be proud of."

I DIDN'T ASK FOR YOUR HELP TO BE EMPOWERED. I ASKED FOR YOUR HELP BECAUSE I COULD BARELY WIPE MY OWN ASS, YOU JERKS. THAT'S WHY PEOPLE ASK FOR HELP, BECAUSE THEY CANNOT DO IT THEMSELVES.

So I got home. I went into my bathroom and cried for a good hour. I spent the next 2 days, about 15 hours, scootching about in a lawn chair (couldn't sit up, couldn't sit down) cleaning that shit. And here's Jesse, the whole time, telling me over and over to just RELAX, STOP CLEANING, IT'LL GET GONE, YOU HAVE TO RELAX, YOU HAVE TO REST. That just pissed me off more because no, inside a month it didn't occur to you to wipe down the bathroom sink and change the cat peed pillows, so I was raging and raging and raging the whole time. Silently, mostly because I was supposed to be grateful for even that. But the most rageful silence one can imagine.

And I'm still raging about it, months later.

The cleaning thing still pops up, because while Jesse nearly exclusively handles the kitchen clean up and all of the cooking, he resents that the rest of the cleaning I do comes at time when he is asleep. Y'know, time and energy and spoons I could be using to spend time with him.

Just yesterday, after a round of nightmares that I'd just told him of, and he finally got up, I said Oh good, you're awake. Maybe now I can sleep safely. They almost never come when you're awake and I know you can wake me up and protect me from them."" he intoned "Oh good, more time you'll be doing something other than being with me."

Well, sorry motherfucker, but it's obvious I can't trust you to do the most basic of cleaning tasks when you have hours and hours a day by yourself at home while I'm working or working on not dying, so I do that shit right when I can do that shit. And considering my days, thanks to insomnia, run 18-22 hours a time, it means I get it when I have the most energy. That's right when that 22 hour day starts.

He argues it's because I just want something to do. I tell him its because it just won't get done otherwise and I already saw what came of that. Try to relax, he says. Relax in what, I say? What I came home with?

"Do you want to crucify me for that?" he asked last night. "You said those were David level messes and I felt so bad and then I saw pics of David level messes and it wasn't anywhere near as bad."

I'd also never been in the hospital with David debating just how many blisters I'm willing to bust open on my abdomen in order to get my Code Brown under control, you dickwad. Get some fucking perspective on the deal.

These next few rants are really questions of balance and control, which god I hope is a step in the right direction, even if it makes me insane. For the most part, Jesse has backed up in the want to control everything I do, be it for worry or whatever. He lets me do my cleaning when I want, overall lets me sleep when I can, (with minimal but always overwhelmingly annoying sighs), etc. I ask his input on food all time time.

But it seems as if he's swung the other direction and now it never comes up, except when we talk about how I've either got to learn more, or else rest more. The WAY he talks about lupus and CDK drives me insane. Half the time it's no big deal, just diet and doctors, and the other half of the time its going to kill me if I eat a Big Mac.

He's becoming so pathological chill about the whole thing that I'm starting to wonder if ****I'M**** the crazy one for getting upset about being sick. Just last night, on the way to lupus meeting, I said I don't know why I put on my makeup when I when I just know I'm going to cry it off.

"Why?" he asked, sincerely confused.

I, irritated because I'd literally told him seconds ago that I'd already had an up and down crying-sort-of-day, went "Uhm, because I have an incurable disease that no one really knows about and it might be total fatal and I'm scared?"

"But...WHY?"

"Because I'm tired and the sand levees just aren't as strong and I'm feeling weak and vulnerable," was what I ended up saying. He nodded. He seemed to understand that.

Maybe he thought that finding a support group would cure me of my sadness, or maybe his oxygen mask isn't working and there's a crimp in the wire that's making him forget there's someone next to him who needs help HER mask, too. I straight up told him that the question of WHY made him sound like a psychopath. It was so damn creepy.

There's a goddamn middle with this disease. A fucked up, constantly shifting middle, mind you, but a fucking middle. Give me some fucking hope that I can FIND IT. Hell, he's even gone so far as to talk about how lupus and all that shit could be a freaking evolutionary advantage because look how aware of my body it makes me!

Yeah, let me just don a mask and a cape and go give people who look cold my kidney's doctor's business cards. I'll make Fox 4 news real quick.

He also likes to turn it into this wierd competition, mentally and emotionally, which is even wierder because normally I LOVE these competitions. I always win the "who has it worse" game. Always. I kinda feel like I win THIS ONE, too. He has debilitating pain, which I do not have.

Yet. But he always seems to match every anxiety attack I have with another one of his, clutching his chest, moaning. I talk about how I want to go out but am so tired, and the next thing we know we're talking about how to get HIS ass out of the house when he knows he needs social contact. I start talking about feelings of powerlessness over this disease and the next thing we know we're talking about ways for HIM to reach out to be empowered about self-care. It's maddening and making me want to open up less and less to him.

But morever, I'M TOO TIRED TO PLAY THAT GAME. I DON'T CARE. I DON'T REALLY GIVE A FUCK WHO HAS IT WORSE. Some days I can carry 20 pounds up the stairs, no problems. Some days you can't pull anything but your cane up the stairs. That's cool. It's less cool when it's BOTH of us having these issues, but we figure it out somehow.

So I come home, or he wakes up, and his anxiety attacks start spiraling, and I'm thinking that I if I shower, will I have to sit on the toilet to dry off because I'm too tired to stand on my feet, and I finally get out of the bathroom and he's moaning on his computer chair with a fucking anxiety attack and he says "It's hard to work through being this anxious and taking care of you, too."

Last night on the way to the Lupus meeting, Jesse said "I'm just trying to teach you-". I cut his ass off RIGHTTHERE and said "Jesse, I DON'T WANT YOU TO TEACH ME. I DON'T WANT TO BE TAUGHT. I WANT YOUR HELP. I WANT YOUR FUCKING HELP. NOT TO BE TAUGHT. I WANT YOUR HELP. There is a big difference. You're not an idiot, I know you know the difference.

I think it's the clearest possible way I could have ever said anything in my life. I have no idea if he understood it.

That's what I want. His fucking HELP. I've never been in his position and I can so very easily see where this would not be easy on him. I get snappy. I get so irritated. I get so tired.

But you know what? THIS IS REALLY FUCKING HARD FOR ME TOO. And I'm sorry you have to listen to me complain about it. I'm sorry that you have to listen to my feelings of self-loathing and confusion, over and over again. I'm sorry for all of this.

But I'm not sorry for me. One thing I'm damn not sorry for is for me.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
NOTES: If there is not enough cleaning solution, such as Windex, just use a bit of soapy water. If there is not enough paper towels, just lightly soak some somewhat clean socks with water and soap.

BATHROOM:

1) Bathroom floor swept out onto carpet, so dirt can be vacuumed.

2) Bathroom counters and toilet wiped down.

3) Bathroom rugs shook out (or swept out).

4) Bathroom counter straightened, such as make up items in white drawers, hair ties in small dresser drawer, etc.

KITCHEN:

1) Counters wiped down.

2) Floor swept and wiped down. **SPECIFIC SWEEPING OF AREA NEAR CAT FOOD PLEASE* It just gets extra grimy.

3) Can simply throw a wet washcloth on the floor and use your foot to scrub/squish dirt out of the way. Does not have to sparkle. I would just like it to not be sticky.

4) Food items, etc shoved in standing piles. Doesn't have to be in any order. Just stack shit along the counters.

LIVING ROOM:

1) Pile dirty clothes in any single one spot. I don't care where. If possible, bag them, but don't worry about doing anything with them.

2) STACK every small piece of paper, no matter what. There is a check floating somewhere in the floor mess and I don't want it thrown out. Every tiny piece of paper, even if it's wrapping paper, is to be piled together on top of the counter. Can put the stack of papers anywhere on the counter.

* Behind the clock would be a good place, it'd keep them from falling over.

3) Clear off and wipe down black table. If there's books or anything, put those back on the bookshelves. If there are bathroom items, neatly stack those items on the bathroom counter for me to put away (if they are not makeup or hair related).

4) Stack all of my pill bottles on top of the counter. No particular order. Just get them all standing in one place.

5) Replace bedsheets on the bed. Switch out as many pillowcases as you can too.

5) Shake out the blankets on the couch and place a new sheet on the couch. Refold the blankets on the couch and place them back on there.

6) If possible, please restack my fallen shoes onto my shoe shelf. Doesn't have to be fancy. Just shove 'em in on it.

THE CAT BOXES: If all you can do is scoop and refill, that's fine. They are heavy and I don't want to tax you. Whichever you feel you can do.

VACUUM: Please sweep the area AROUND the catboxes (like the rubber mats and right around the box) previous to vacuuming. If you sweep it out onto the regular carpet, you will get SO MUCH MORE of the smell out.

As far as "organizing", don't. Just stacking things in a semi related order will do just fine!!!!

DO NOT WORRY ABOUT: Dusting. Cleaning fans. Organizing things. Cleaning the AC. Scrubbing kitchen appliances. Scrubbing anything. I just need the basic wipe-down assist.

AND/ OR anything else that either of you feel you truly cannot do. The fact that you are doing this for me is amazing and I love you. Anything helps. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!!!!!

Your job

May. 22nd, 2016 10:12 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
* This is why the "I don't see the mess!" argument doesn't work.

Think of the working world – we would never nod understandingly at an employee who constantly refuses to keep up with their workload, or who wanders off to play with their phone while others are working if they said “Well, I wasn’t raised to do [tasks] because my mom always did that for me, so I don’t notice when it needs to be done.” We expect grown adults to be responsible, to learn how to do things, and to find some way to manage reminders and obligations. - Capt Awkward commenter

Cleaning is part of your job as an adult. If you do not ever notice the fact that you have no counterspace in which to cook on, or can't seem to plant your foot on the floor near the bed without hearing trash crunching, or just plain don't mind that when you stick your ass on the toilet seat it comes away with black, moldy smears on your butt - then it is still your job to find a way to remind yourself to clean these things.

I'll accept, on a very thin level, that there might be people out there who truly do not notice it when they are eating off plates that haven't been washed in two weeks.

I do not accept, on ANY level, that this excuses those two week old dirty dishes.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
One thing I heard regularly from Pat and David concerning housework was "Well, I'm not the one making the mess, so of course you're the one picking it up."

Even though with David that was really, REALLY, and I mean REALLY not the case at all. And even Pat, whose shower devolved into this after I moved out, would occasionally pull the "well, I'm not the one making the mess, so of course you're the one always cleaning" argument.

But let's say that both of those men were, in some alternate dimension, fastidious. That they were not people who were comfortable living in squalor but were average sorts of people who occasionally leave socks on the floor by the hamper and forget to take the trash out once in a while.

The whole "It's your mess" thing still don't fly.

We both walk on the carpet. We both eat off the dishes. We both cuddle the cats and use the toilet and fill up ashtrays. That is not "my" mess or "your" mess. This was impossible to convey to either David or Pat.

I remember, more than once saying "Y'know, if we were college dorm-mates, labeling our food with our names and splitting the long distance call charges down the middle, that argument would work. We are not roommates." I, for one, don't find myself having sex with my roommates or planning weddings with my roommates or otherwise building plans that stretch out over the next decade with my roommates.

So giving me arguments that make it sound like what you really want is a roommate-with-the-option-to-fuck aggravates the hell out of me. I tried everything with both of those men. Making lists (because that's what you do with middle schoolers and apparently 30+ year old men, too), crying, begging, screaming, asking nicely, and promising to have more sex if they'd just do the damn dishes once in a while. Whoring yourself out for money is one thing.

Whoring yourself out for the romantic trade of not contracting botulism is another.

I can't believe I put up with that for so long.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Something that baffled me about David's family was their habit of taking dumps, starting wiping their butts with baby wipes and then they'd FINISH wiping their asses with paper towels. Then they'd throw those paper towels into the bathroom trash can. Being as they do not like to take out the trash, the smell would get tremendous. Not to mention, the sight of brown encrusted paper towels every time someone wanted to take a shower.

Cholula, doesn't Dennis do that?

I mean, like, WHY. Just WHY. I never bothered to ask David why his family had the habit of half-wiping their shit-covered butts with paper towels and then throwing those paper towels into the trash can directly across from the toilet. Those paper towels would pile up (there were four people in the house doing this daily) and then would dry into crusty and smelly bits. And then sit in there for, like, weeks.

WHY. WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO THAT. LET ALONE A WHOLE FAMILY. IT MAKES NO SENSE. To this day I still cannot figure it out. I mean, that has nothing to do with their hoarding, so I can't point to that. Just....WHY. WHY OMG WHY. I DO remember it took about a month of reminding David to use regular toilet paper and to flush that before he finally made it a habit. Thankfully, after that, he had it down like a pro. Like someone who had been wiping with TP and flushing normally for their whole life.

Like, seriously, WHY. I kinda wish I'd asked David about that, now that I think about it. His family had many baffling habits but most of those could be traced to either their hoarding/terrible impulse buys or religion. This one? I HAVE NO CLUE.

Once I'd asked David's mom if he had always been the filthy hoarder that he is now. (Didn't use those words, of course. It was his mom, after all.) She shrugged and said "He's always been like that. He'd sit down and it's just like piles fell off of him."

But in talking to HER sister once, she said that she used a strip of masking tape to divide the childhood room they shared. Otherwise, she said, David's mom's mess would literally blanket HER side of the room, too. I never got to talking to any of David's father's family, but I imagine the story is also the same. David himself does not recall the mess and clutter being so bad as a child.

But considering how bad it is NOW, I'm not sure if that says anything particularly noteworthy about their hoarding. The last time I was over, maybe four or five months ago, to help David clean his room (I got compensated handsomely for it, though, as we combed through his sister's Extreme Hoarding room for something like 70 dollars of toiletries.) The mess was as it was the last time I'd been there, which is to say two-foot-wide pathways through each room, no couches or chairs available due to being piled on, and trash covering an inch of most every floor in every room.

Ew. Just ew.

I remember David trying to convince me that his room was cleaner. The spare bedroom, which has less than foot walkway around the bed due to the family's hoarding. But what floor was available was carpeted with Magic Cards, candy bar wrappers, dice, and unpainted miniatures. The same as it was at my place when he lived here. BUT he does not live here, and he lives THERE, and so I didn't really care about how filthy he was.

I remember saying shortly after the breakup that if he wanted to live like them, he could go live WITH them. So he did and he does, indeed, still live like them. If he's insistent on becoming Girl Extraordinaire, maybe he'll finally learn how to fucking clean once in a while.

Though I can't imagine him falling into a relationship where he takes up the societal mantle of being the housemaid. That's girly as shit, but it also requires effort. That's a no-can-do for David, no matter what skirt he's wearing that day.

Bancroft, in speaking about how his abusive male clients are wizards at avoiding housework, childcare, jobs, etc, says "Yet on a deeper level the abuser seems to realize how hard his partner works, because he fights like hell to not have to share that burden. He is accustomed to his luxury and often talks exaggeratedly about his exhaustion to excuse staying on his rear end."

Exhaustion = depression, and depression = exhaustion, which all equals David not doing a goddamn thing. He never outright said anything like "Oh, what you're doing isn't really that hard at all." (Concerning housework, work, family obligations, etc). But what he DID do, when he threw fits about me not being able or willing to spend hours upon hours hanging out at his friend's house, or staying up till midnight watching tv, or having sex with him, was completely ignoring just how much work what I was doing WAS.

He always acted like I should have all the free time and energy in the world. (Y'know, like him.) As if working the hours I did and babysitting Cassie's children and going to school shouldn't have worn me out. He always acted as if those things were easy....BUT -

if he really thought it was easy, he'd have taken up some of the reigns. He could see the toll all of this work was taking on me - and even if he didn't see it, I TOLD HIM IN DIRECT WORDS ALL THE FREAKING TIME - just how hard it all was for me.

And he would do anything to avoid having to help out and shoulder some of that work, even if it meant claiming that the work should not have been work at all. David went to incredible lengths to avoid work of any kind, so much that occasionally it took MORE work than what would otherwise have been TO work.

It's all so ridiculously contradictory that I'm not even sure if what I'm writing right here, right now, makes any sense at all. It sure as hell doesn't to me. But that's the way I lived, that's the way I lived with him, for years.

Working my way through that book now, "Why Did He Do That", I feel like I've got five million David entries to write. I guess that's okay. At least I didn't have to toilet train Jesse when he moved in here. He's been wiping his butt normally for over 40 years now.

I dig that.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I always wonder what technology I will end up resisting, out of sheer age if nothing else. I remember thinking cell phones were stupid. Then I got a cell phone. I remember thinking that texting was stupid. Now I text far, far more than I call people. I remember thinking that cameras on phones were stupid. Now I never carry a camera, only my phone. That sort of thing.

Hell, I was the last person I knew to give up cassette tapes and move onto CD's. Except for Elizabeth, who not only refuses to give up her cassettes and her VHS tapes, but who refuses to give up her reel-to-reels and 8 track tapes, despite the fact that she no longer owns any of the devices to PLAY those items.

But she's 85 years old. One expects a stubbornness in letting go of old technology at that age.Old tech, old people, and old habits )

I think breaking up with him was a great shock to him. I can understand why, though. After years and years of him continuing to screw up, to treat me badly, all without him facing any real consequences, me up and deciding to DO something about it must have been a terrible shock to him. It's funny - for all the years he begged me not to leave him, by the time I DID leave him, it was not something he had been concerned about. Old habits die hard - and staying with David had become a habit.

Good thing we can break habits.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
6/25/2015

You know what I'm sick of? Underboob sweat. My tits sweat in a bra. My tits sweat out of a bra. My tits sweat when I'm sitting. My tits sweat when I'm walking around. My tits sweat when it's hot. My tits sweat when it's cold. My tits sweat when I take a shower, when I don't take a shower, when I put deodorant on them, when I don't put deodorant on them, when I wear silk, when I wear cotton, when I don't wear anything at all...

In other words, my boobs are always, regardless of temperature, activity, or dress, sweating. It is so gross and I am so sick of it. But outside of 1) taking my very dull butcher knife to them or 2) knocking off a bank to pay for a breast reduction, I am stuck.

Fuck you, tits.

Tagging this shit's gonna be a bitch )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
This is one of my favorite things about living alone:



Yes indeedie folks, I like my house to smell like one great big Bath and Body Works store. Or a Yankee Candles store. Or the laundry detergent aisle in a grocery store.

Luckily for visitors (who are generally non-smokers and haven't destroyed their sense of smell), I often don't have the resources to do much more than sprinkle some carpet deodorizer and vacuum it back up. I've run into a startling number of people who say they prefer the smell of cigarette smoke to perfumed scents.

I dislike inflicting the smell of cigarettes on other people, so when I can, I try to make sure my house is as aired out as possible. This is another reason why I'm so hell-bent on controlling who and when a person is allowed to cross my threshold.

The cats rarely smell at all, outside of the lightly deodorized scent of loose cat litter. I keep on up that shit. (Like, literally). It baffles but pleases me when people are surprised that I have four cats, since they say they can hardly smell them. It's amazing what daily scooping and weekly scrubbing of the litterboxes will do for ammonia-free house.

So in terms of ranked smells, the only one I have to contend with is the cigarette smell. Along with my small army of scented household soldiers, I try to leave my window open as much as I can during the amenable year. That helps a great deal.

What brings this to my mind today is a comment that Radium left last night, which is that I can be sure he won't show up on my doorstep. That made me giggle, because outside of bafflement and a worry of anyone finding my particular address, I think what I'd immediately be worried about is how my apartment smells.

Well, that and a desperate wish that I'd been wearing makeup. I'm just vain that way.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I want to talk about slobs. The aggressive ones. The people who actually have to put effort into ignoring the words you are saying about how the mess fucks up your mental health.

I want to talk about people who use their diagnosis as an excuse to get out of all Adult Living, especially cleaning.

I want to talk about people who willfully refuse to learn that living in a home means taking care of it, NOT waiting for someone else to take care of it.

I want to talk about people who feel they are owed sex, even ignoring the fact that IF sex is a barter system, then I'm supposed to get something out of it, too. (A clean home, at the bare minimum.)

But we all know when I say I want to talk about those things, I'm really only talking about one person.

(Okay, so Pat was a very frustrating slob the entire ten years we were together, and we fought about that. But I never really said My Words about how it affects me with him, because I didn't figure it out until slob number #2. So Pat's got a little leeway there. Besides, I haven't lived with Pat for years.)

I want to talk about all this because there are currently two bowls, two plates, two cups, and four pieces of silverware in my kitchen sink, as well as my griddle sitting on the stove. I haven't washed them yet. Haven't done dishes yet today.

I want to talk about all this because the towel I'd tossed on my floor bugged the hell out of me until I hung it back in the bathroom.

I want to talk about all this because there is literally not a single other item outside of furniture on the floor nor not in its exact, designated space and yet the dishes are still there.

And I want to talk about how all the previous years of messes might have influenced the fact that I am exhausted and probably just need to sleep and yet, those dishes are there.

Except if I say that, then David - or other people - can cackle triumphantly. SEE?! I told you were neurotic about it! It's not just me!

Except I call bullshit on that. I'm not a neat freak, you're just disgusting. And now I get to LIVE with the difference between the two. It's such a clear difference.

And it's not just about the cleaning. It's about the maturity and willingness to get over your lazy bullshit and stop using your diagnosis as an excuse to be a selfish slob, and if you can't display that -

that's not me being neurotic. That's you being a jerk.

God, I feel like I'm saying the same thing over and over again. But just yesterday I was telling Gonzo that it's OKAY to do that, because otherwise the room never gets cleared away. It just builds.

Yeah, this is definitely one of those periods where I'm just writing to write and having a hard time getting to anything else others write. I'm reading. I'm always reading, though.

I will do the dishes. But I'm going to rest first.

I just can't figure out why THIS is such a sticking point for me. The cleaning thing.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Sleep was a Thing That Did Not Happen.

My pill splitter broke, so until I can leave the house and get a new one, I'll just be taking my Lithium whole as opposed to split into two doses. Here's hoping that doesn't go badly. I'm housebound today, as the apartments are doing "inspections" between the very specific hours of 9-5. It's not feasible to lock all three cats in the bathroom, so home I stay.

I used to dread these. I could never convince David to pick up his mess and I could never get it picked up myself in time. It was especially problematic, as the inspectors literally had to step on his piles to inspect the AC.

Honest to god, a few times I was worried about eviction simply from them seeing the squalor.

As time goes on, I'm finding I'm angry at the last fifteen years of squalor and filth between Pat and David. ANGRY. Angry that they refused to learn how to clean, angry that they forced me to live in that filth, angry that there was only so much I could do to keep my home from falling into disrepair.

Angry that they were so willfully lazy. Angry that they expected ME to do all the cleaning. Angry that all of my efforts were for nothing. Angry that they didn't mature past the teenage stage. Angry that they were not adults. Angry that they never believed me when I told them how badly it affected my mental health.

And angry at MYSELF for putting up with such squalor and hoarding for what is now nearly half my life. There was no reason for me to do that. But I did.

I guess part of the problem is that I kept hoping they'd grow up and I clung to that hope well past its time. While Pat exceeds David's maturity in nearly every level but one (the squalor), it is still a matter of resentment for me.

Though, with David, there is an added resentment. Patrick would simply admit that he was lazy. David made excuses about his depression. Considering how he used his depression as an excuse to get out of ALL adult living, I am extra angry at David.

So much anger at David for how he used his diagnosis.

The funny thing is? When I'd written THIS entry last year....he'd already pissed his loan money away. That entry was just a few days before it came out that he'd been lying - AGAIN - about having saved his money for rent.

http://quirkytizzy.livejournal.com/549784.html

Hindsight and 20/20 and all that bullshit.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Okay, I want to put this to rest. I'd said I wasn't a neat freak....but maybe I am???

It must be noted that: 1) I do not work a full time job. 2) I do not have children and 3) It is just me. This allows me to do a lot more cleaning a lot more regular than most people.

I tried to keep up on some variation of this while living with David, but with his squalor tendencies, it was difficult. It must also be noted that THAT is part of why I stick so strictly to a cleaning regimen NOW.

So even if I am a neat freak, I will not apologize for it.

Things I do:My chore list )

BUT: Let's put this into perspective. And yeah - sometimes I'm actually ANGRY about being forced (or at least, forced until I chose to leave) to live like this for years. It seems it would be an IRRATIONAL anger, but anger there is. This is why I'm like this.

Two pictures )

Can you really blame me????

Rotations

May. 13th, 2014 05:43 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Did I particularly want to be up at 4:30 AM? No. Was I up at 4:30 AM? Yes. I'd gone to bed around 8:30, but tossed and turned until almost midnight. Lack of sleep is never very good for Bipolars, so we will see how today goes.

I got a lot of comments yesterday, especially concerning the geek-collections. I guess I should clarify, at least for me. I don't mind geek collections. I LIKE geek collections. Hell, I've got the ENTIRE Babylon 5 cast in action figures (still in the boxes, even) just waiting for the proper display shelf to come into my life.

But for me, I would want there to be some indication of interests other than cloistered, obsessive nerd displays. Or at least something other than TOYS. Have an awesome sword display? Lay that out. A glass chess set? By all means, pop that baby out.

Frames are important. I don't like seeing random posters and wall scrolls. Grown ups have more framed things than not. Doesn't have to be all of them - hell, I have a HYUGE The Crow poster I haven't yet found a cheap frame for. But most of the stuff on my walls is framed.

I know a few nerds who have SO MANY things that they have to "rotate" things.

And call me a neat freak, (actually, don't, because I'm really NOT a neat freak) but my first reaction is "If you have so much stuff you have to rotate the displays - YOU HAVE TOO MUCH SHIT. GET RID OF SOME OF IT."

But then, I'm big on not having a lot of shit to begin with. So that may just be me and my now-cemented stance against anything that even FLIRTS with hoarding behavior.

So many good things said by ya'll yesterday - and so many good posts for me to get to of ya'lls today. I think I'm going to go hunting through Issendai's tags today and talk about clutter - she has some amazing stuff about that topic.

So here's hoping I stay somewhat sane today. I love you guys. All of you - so much.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Because I want to remind myself of what I'm no longer living with:

This was David's side of the apartment. The entire half of his apartment. Wall to wall. I'd begged, screamed, cried, cajoled, etc for years - even once booting him out in part because of this - to no avail.

By the time I broke up with him last month, it had gotten back to being this bad again. (Also I can never seem to get pictures to not come out gigantic. Oi.)Pic Heavy of Hoarding and Squalor )

NEVER. EVER. AGAIN. GOING BACK TO THAT FIRST ROUND OF PICTURES.

Thank you, Kid_Lit, for reminding me about getting out of that squalor. It really, really turned out to be a HYYUGE thing. It really did.

And I'm reposting to remind myself because you know, I may get lonely or miss his voice or something.

But I Sure. As. Fuck. Don't. Miss. THAT.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So after coming home severely agitated last night I rage-cleaned and then finished off a few loyalty missions in Mass Effect. Sleep was a surprisingly good venture, considering how foul of a mood I was in when I came home.

I just. can't. handle. that kind of mess at his parent's house. I just can't. I told David that I wasn't coming over there anymore. I've even lost interest in trying to help them. A couple of times a year they manage to get the house "clean" for a holiday party, which involves shoving things into rooms. But as you can see, there is no more room to shove anything - and they just keep hauling in more and more things.

It's all of them. Not just his parents but his sister (whose extreme couponing hauls and mass-collecting of papers fills entire rooms and floors) and his brother, whom says he doesn't contribute to the mess but does. I just....can't. I just can't be in that anymore.

They argue and scream and shout at each other for the mess, never taking responsibility for their own contributions to the horrors. All the while it just gets worse and worse.

The scary thing is Pat is just as bad, if not worse in many ways. That's what I found at his place when I started cleaning for him. That and worse.

David has since told me he understands my near brutality at keeping a clean and clutter-free home of my own. He was heading towards that - and had already in part reached it with a couple of areas of the apartment.

Case in point. There had been a dresser top filled with mini's that he wanted to paint. It'd been sitting there for three years, collecting dust so thick that I had to SCRUB it off. I'd been asking him to clean it for years with no luck. So I just scooped everything into a box and set it up. Everytime I'd brought up cleaning it myself he'd pitched a fit, saying that it was VERY important stuff and that he'd get to it.

Obviously it wasn't that important as it had become piled with papers and grime. And it turns out it wasn't very important, as that box that I put everything in has been sitting there for two weeks without him even glancing into it.

It is the exact same thing at his parent's.

I don't understand how adults could live that way.

Part of my new refusal to come over is that I've lost the ability to not comment on it, so overwhelming is the mess there. Every time I go in there, I find myself launching into horrified monologues about it. I try to keep it away from his parents to be polite, but it's starting to show.

And as much as the mess bothers me, my being a bitch about it won't help.

I don't even want to help them anymore because it won't do any good. They will simply refill it with the clutter and the filth. They always talk about throwing it all away. They never do. They need help, likely some kind of professional cleaning and maybe psychological. But I'm done dealing with it.

I always talk about it here. But pictures really do speak a thousand words.

Saddest thing is? After all the hauling of crap out of one room to put the couch in, they hauled it all back into the same room. Most of it, anyways.

What's left was piled into the rooms I showed you guys yesterday.

So NOW it's even worse than when I took the pictures.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
7 hours into cleaning his sister's kitchen....and we're not done yet. I imagine it'll be several more hours - which we are going back for today - to finish it.

I don't have a clue how much time the rest of the house will take. More than I generally think, I'm sure.

It wasn't that grimey, save the for the fridge (which required an hour's worth of scrubbing). They haven't lived in the house in the last year since the car accident (David's sister is permanently attached to his parents, thus she rarely leaves their couch), but the amount of stuff was just phenomenal. I'd misquoted the time estimate, thinking that the lack of even an inch of counter-space meant that she'd already cleared out the cabinets.The resulting grind )

ARRRRGHHHH

May. 6th, 2013 06:31 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So in text with David, he reveals that he is still not feeling better, mentally. That he can't clean because, while his meds have helped some, he still feels depressed.

I told him to call Jeremy, his therapist. He missed an appointment months ago and has not been back. I called to rescheduled, but they would not set another one up with me. He needed to call him to set it up. I told him this. He has not done so.

He had a doctor's appointment to check his meds. He slept through it. I told him to call them, reschedule, set an alarm. He has also not done this.

I've been making his appointments, driving him there, sitting with him and he won't do any of it himself.

He says he does not feel good enough to do it. The depression is overwhelming. That none of it helps.

Well, I don't fucking know what to say about it anymore. We are running out of options. And if he will not step up and be an active part of his own mental health - well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

Getting so fed up with this. Unfortunately, thanks to failing out of school, I need the (few months) he managed to save for rent. Booting him out is not an option. I'm not even sure I'd want to do that, but I am getting so frustrated.

But he dropped out this semester, which will inevitably lead to panic and begging me to pay for his next semester. I won't do it. As it stands, I'm going to have to beg Pat to pay what I owe the school just to qualify for loans next semester.

You know, I get being crazy. But for fucks sake, at some point you have to step up, no matter how awful you feel, and fucking do something.

At the very least, attempt to be an active part of your own mental health advocacy.

He will call and make another doctor's appointment. We will try a different medication. He will be responsible for making sure he is awake and ready to go.

I'm way past frustrated at this point.

So way past it.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
After giving David four days, the cleaning he has done amounted to folding half a pile of clothes and setting the other half back down on the floor. The two inch thick layer of trash carpeting the floor, the dusty stacks, the notebooks scattered everywhere - still there, untouched.

I intend to make a full perimeter sweep of the apartment today. I will bag his stuff - trash and all - and set it in the closet. If he is to go through it, I will insist it be put back neatly. That day. None of this "dump it on the floor and then oh-i'll-get-to-it-tomorrow-and-a-year-fucking-passes" crap.

I am making the closet a two person venture. We will go through it his next day off.

Tomorrow I will go through the bathroom cupboards. This week I will dust out the apartment, straighten bookshelves.

I want this place fucking clean.

Help

May. 2nd, 2013 08:59 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I've long since learned the futility of screaming, since I went through this with Pat. This is part of why the marriage ended.

I am almost at my wits end. I've asked. I've been nice. I've talked sternly.

VIDEO (gives a better idea of the mess, please forgive the black bars on the side of video). It's about 3 minutes long: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfxYEUImAbs&feature=player_embedded#!

PICS: http://s1334.photobucket.com/user/Tizzy1981/media/The%20Mess/IMAG0076_zpsa120c2e0.jpg.html?sort=3&o=0

(That's the first pic. Click through the arrows on the side of the pics to flip through them. I'm trying to get a video uploaded of it, but it's being a bitch.)

The cleaner pictures are my side, which gets to looking like the pictures every two or three days. Those were uploaded last.

The messier pics are David's mess.

For years now.

This is not the way an adult should live.

What do I do?

EDIT: I've often described David's family as hoarders, but reading up and seeing photos and videos of hoarders disturbs me.

Because it's true.

Hoarding gets serious when areas of the house are unable to be used for their intended purpose.

David's family cannot cook in the kitchen. The trash, dishes, food stains, left out food is too much. The floor of the kitchen is covered in papers, ziploc bags, receipts, all left for people to slip on.

David's family cannot use a single table in the house. It is piled half a foot or higher full of papers, trash, and food. Every table.

David's family cannot use most of the chairs and sofas in the house, as they are also piled.

David's family cannot walk around their beds without having to crawl over piles.

Some of the doors in the house cannot be shut because the rooms are overflowing.

The garage and basement stairs have "paths" about a foot wide through them, towered over by items piled six feet high. The inner house has paths about a foot, maybe two, with three or four foot high stacks around it.

They freak - absolutely freak - if you try to move anything. David used to flip out when I tried cleaning his stuff. This has mellowed but is still there.

So this might be an issue in which I cannot simply gather all his shit and shove it in the closet. It might be a real mental health thing.

Patrick himself was this same way. His family was not.

I'm so frustrated.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There are simply not enough italics to convey the frustration of the following entry. So please excuse my abundantly overused text emphasis.

My bedside table is a study in crumpled tissues, unopened cigarette packs, jewelry carelessly tossed off after the school day. Various bottles of pills also litter the surface - and underneath, constantly at risk of being kicked and sliding under the bed. I clean it up and organize every few days while David, cleaning his side of the bed perhaps twice a year (at my insistence), is forever losing things. He stomps about, cursing and growling, and gets upset when I mention maybe cleaning would help with that.

He also leaves expensive electronics on the floor - which is problematic as I have to step onto his side to adjust the AC. I simply try to mince about very carefully. I've long since let go of nagging him about it.

I pretend that my apartment ends where his side begins. David trips out if I try to clean his area (which I do roughly once a year, when I can no longer stand it. The hissy fit is usually worth it.) Patrick appreciates my diving into his mess, which is nice.

Both he and Patrick are terrifically messy. David does not leave used dishes about the apartment, which is an improvement over Pat. Patrick will leave plates and silverware cast about until they mold. But both of them have entire areas of their carpets that never see the light of day. The trash and clutter can build up to two inches or more off the carpet and can, if it were not for me, stretch on for years.

That's not hyperbole. Before I started cleaning Pat's house, he had not vacuumed in a year and a half. David had not cleaned his room at his parent's house for nearly three years. (How do I know this? We had gone through his room once and he marveled at the trash that was years old.)

It absolutely astounds me - and on no small level, grosses me out.

I wonder what it is about me that attracts slobs. Patrick's own family is fastidious so I've no idea where he gets it from. David's family never cleans, so I know why David is this way. Both of them have called me a neat freak, to which I am far from. I sometimes go an entire week without picking up, doing the dishes, or wiping down the bathroom.

It makes sense that if you're only compelled to clean once every few years, your partner cleaning on a weekly basis WOULD seem neat-freakish. But it's only relative to their insane lack of cleanliness that I seem at all organized. It's very frustrating. I sometimes think about taking and posting pictures, but that would only cause drama. Perhaps justifiably so.

David digs out reams of coupons we never use. They languish, cluttering up the precious counter space we have, until I throw them away. It drives me up the wall. Two years ago I had to make a rule for David - anytime he brings something from his parent's house into the apartment, something else has to go back. It took the longest time to drill into his head just how small this apartment is. Obviously, given the clutter, he still has difficulty with the concept. Mad frustrating.

He also has what I call the "Princess and the Pea Syndrome", though. Even a half inch slip on the fitted sheets sends him into a frustrated, flailing mess of tossing back all of the bed dressings until he fixes it. I don't get it.

It is raining outside. Maybe a day for a hat - a girlish fedora. Maybe some gloves or a tie. Make the fashion work for the weather.

I see these girls at school running around in skirts and thin leggings on days when the temperature drops below freezing. They often don't carry a coat or else wear very thin hoodies. It baffles me. Fashion is not worth shivering all day. But youth is youth and I just shake my head.

There was a day recently that dawned at and stayed in the single digits. David forgot his coat. I've met plenty of native Midwesterner's who do this. Those of us from the south NEVER do that.

It's not even 6:30 AM. I've picked up the apartment. It is still too early to vacuum. Showered and gave my hair a quick trim (very basic, as years of mangling my own hair has taught me less is more). There are few dishes to do, laundry to pick through, and the kitchen counter where we leave our keys is a disaster. I don't particularly want to do these things, but probably will out of boredom.

We'll see what the day brings. Hopefully it will end with me feeling better. Unlikely, but a girl can dream.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So, yesterday at work (housecleaning, mind you) I put in 9 hours busting my ass, scrubbing floors, doing laundry. Today, I put in 7 hours, but cleaned 28 rooms. (The norm is 16). So, I'm tired. And I know when I get home, there will be more housework.

There is always housework. This morning, because the trash hadn't been taken out in a week and a half, when I pulled the trash up, I found an army of ants happily carving out an existance out of week old food and plastic bags. I cleaned it, thinking to myself "Ant corpses are not fun."

I wrote a letter to the hubby Sunday, and gave it to him. It was concerning housework. We have been over this time and time again for YEARS now, and SPEECH never seemed to work. So I decided maybe print was the way to go.

Here is the letter. Following the letter is me losing my mind, if you are interested in reading about that.

"Dearest Patrick,
It has come to my attention that we are in need of a refresher course in 'Sharing Household Duties - 101.' On the next page, there is a list of things that need to be done to keep a household running smoothly and of how it is currently divided up. As you will see, the responsibility is askew.

PATRICK:
1)works a job, contributes to bills
2)prepares ALL the meals
3)cooks ALL the meals
4)does ALL of the driving
5)keeps the computer running
6)usually does the grocery shopping

TERESSA:
1)works a job, contributes to bills
2)does ALL of the actual bill-paying
3)does ALL of the dishes
4)does ALL of the scrubbing and cleaning of kitchen counters and floors
5)picks up ALL of the household trash
6)usually takes out the trash
7)does ALL of the household picking up of clutter and reorganizing (including kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom)
8)does ALL of the vaccuming
9)does ALL of the laundry
10)does ALL of the cat feeding
11)does ALL of the changing cat litter
12)does ALL of the toliet scrubbing and of bathroom counters/floor
13)usually puts cooked food away

As you can see, the balance of responsibility is slightly askew.

There are two functional, grown adults living in this household and as such, it should take TWO to run a household. Let me reiterate that there are TWO people living here that make messes, so there should be TWO people sharing the responsibility in cleaning those messes. As it stands, there is ONE person out of two doing the cleaning, and she, too, goes to work everyday and pays bills.

The reasoning of "I didn't notice the mess" will no longer be an acceptable excuse for living in continual clutter and filth. I find it very hard to believe that you "don't notice" when there are no more clean dishes, or that you "don't notice" when that there isn't an inch of available, grease-free counterspace on which to cook your food. I also find it very hard to believe that you "don't notice" that there is no space to put your soda on the computer desk or that you "don't notice" that you are walking on an inch's worth of clothing in the bedroom, or that you "don't notice" when you can't close the garbage lid because it is overflowing.

I am not asking for a pristine household. But it is very upsetting to see that you will drop your clothes, dishes, trash, computer games, books, drinks, wherever you see fit and not EVER pick them up, or clean the surfaces they dirty. It shows a blatant disreguard for your enviroment and for the people sharing that enviroment with you.

I am your fiance, not your maid. While I know you don't expect me to clean up after you, I also know that you are a grown man, fully capable of tending to your own household. The level of filth and clutter that you are comfertable with is no longer acceptable to me. Part of maturing as an adult is being willing to accept responsibility for your daily doings, and I am extremely frustrated by the fact that you do not seem to think this is important at all.

It bothers me greatly that you are comfertable with filthy clothes, overflowing trashcans, grease encrusted counters, food encrusted dishes on every inch of counterspace, mounds of trash and dirty dishes on every household surface AND on the floor surrounding the seating areas, dirty litterboxes and cooked food that has sat at room temperture for days.

This is becoming an extreme source of aggravation for me and it doesn't have to be. I know that you are quite capable of changing your behaviors.
*break* (here I complimented him on some of the positive changes he has made in the last year, knowing that it is no fair to soley bitch.)

So please, let's talk and work something out. I should not have to continue bringing this up every six months, nor do I want to. This is a problem, which means there is a solution.

Love,
Teressa

*END LETTER: BEGIN RANT:*

So, we had a little talk. Nice, polite, we were both in good moods.
He asked if I was mad because he didn't pick up after himself, or if because he did not do daily chores.

I said I didn't like the idea of writing up a "chore" list because I AM NOT HIS MOTHER!!!! I do not feel it is MY responsibility as his fiance, as his roomate, to dictate to him what he should be cleaning. So, we settled on "cleaning up after yourself."

That was 4 days ago. In those four days he has.....*drum roll please* picked up three or four soda cans and put them in the trash. Mind you, the garbage can is STILL OVERFLOWING, the computer desk has not one inch of space on it, and neither does the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes litter the foot of his recliner. Books are strewn all over the place. There are broken chip bits littering the floor.

So, I get home. I clean. And I'm annoyed.

Should I be willing to "make a chore-list"? I feel like that is stupid, one because it feeds into the whole "men are useless around the house without a woman telling them what to do" myth (something I refuse to believe despite the evidence before me) and two, that is just one more responsibility that I don't WANT! I don't want another chore to figure out, I don't want to be his mother and baby him and tell him what to do. I have enough fucking stuff on my plate (and in the bathroom, kitchen, living room etc) to do as it is.

But is it fair? Are men really that clueless? Or is it just this one is?

WHAT?! THE?! FUCK?! DO?! I?! DO?! TO?! GET?! SOME?! GODDAMN?! HELP?! AROUND?! HERE?!

And can I do it without comprimising my morals and his dignity? Do I treat him like a child and make up a chore list, thus making ME feel like I'm not so much in love as a parent, even if it might get the household work done?

We've been together almost 6 years. In six years, this is the only problem I have with him. I know, I'm lucky that this it. But goddamn, I'm about to freakin lose my mind over this. PLEASE HELP! FEEDBACK! EXPERIENCE! SIMILIAR RANTINGS!

All forms of communication about this would be greatly appreciated....

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