Boundaries and limits

It's 7.16am and the stalker has already called this morning, circa 6.33am.

It's fair to say he has issues. Indeed, my dalliance with mental illness over the last two years has increased my ability to sense similar symptoms in others. I clocked depression in my landlord/housemate quite some time ago, and took him through the Goldberg depression questionnaire to check whether my suspicions were correct. He scored higher than I did at the time but despite my gentle suggestion that it wouldn't be inconvenient for him to go check himself out with his family doctor, he insisted that he, "Always scores highly on those things." So one year down the road he still seems pretty miserable with his life, still has zero motivation, and still lives like a slob unless his girlfriend is on her way over. Her visits stimulate a hectic, blind panic in him that cause him to try to catch up on everything he hasn't done in the last few months housekeeping-wise. The first time he did it I felt bad for him so I cleansed the kitchen while he attempted to familiarise himself with the world of personal hygiene by cleaning the bathroom.

However, any goodwill I felt for him quickly dissipated as I observed him purposefully doing the dishes in front of her as if to suggest it was something he did all the time. He couldn't even do that in a considerate way, and washed only those pots and pans that he'd dirtied himself, and nothing else. He ignored the dirty plates on which one of our neighbours had kindly brought over food. He ignored any dishes that I'd used. And he ignored the not insignificant quantity of plates, cutlery, and glassware that was still dotted all over the house where he'd left it. By the time I'd collected all those up there was another full sink of washing-up to do.

So I've been on silent strike since then. Besides, now I'm working I have significantly less time for housework.

I no longer take out the garbage and the recycling. Partially this is because he seems to have lost or at least misplaced the calendar that every house on the street received from the council telling tenants which of the three bins are emptied each Tuesday morning. And partially it's because I want him to notice what happens to the house when I stop looking after it for him. As a result, the vacuum cleaner hasn't moved in weeks. Dust bunnies roll around the lounge unchallenged like tumbleweed. The recycling bin out front, that I put there to accomodate junk mail, is overflowing. Similarly, in the pantry the other recycling bin slowly but surely has become a towering modern art sculpture. Because it's in the corner of that room, it is possible to stack the glass bottles and jars, cardboard boxes and other items all the way up to the windowsill. Unfortunately, neither of us are architects, so at some point that eight wonder of the world toppled over in the night and there is now a proverbial lake of recyclable packaging covering the entire floor of the pantry from wall to wall. If you've seen Star Wars, then think about the scene where Han, Leia, Luke and Chewbacca end up in a garbage masher beneath the detention block of the Death Star and you'll understand what I mean. Meanwhile, the kitchen garbage bin is overflowing, and there are an additional three or four bags dotted around it, mostly full of fast-food packaging that I've moved from the lounge where he left it. Under the kitchen sink, bananas and oranges have formed a temporary strategic alliance and are attempting a coup d'etat of the cupboard with their discoloured, rotting peel. It's ironic that the soft fruits' attempt at global domination blocks the way to the household cleaning products in the same cupboard, which are slowly disappearing from sight. There isn't enough room to swing a cat in the bathroom, and yet despite his tall frame and long reach, he can's seem to get his soap bar wrappers the mammoth distance of two metres from beside the sink to the trash can I put in there.

I'm pleased to say that it doesn't irritate me nearly as much as before because I know I won't have to live with it much longer.

And talking of living with irritation, I have only another 3,900 minutes or so to survive without losing my mind before the stalker disappears to Alberta for good. I do need to have a conversation with him though.

Knowing everything I know about the effect of mental illness on a person, I cannot ignore the fact that the stalker is almost certainly suffering from something, and just shout at him for being an annoying, immature, persistent, ignorant, clingy invader of privacy. Whilst it is not my responsibility to look after him (if I signed adoption papers, I don't remember doing so) my sense is that few people will be considerate enough to be honest with him and let him know the effect his behaviour has on people around him. My landlord/housemate has already stated that if he catches the stalker taking liberties again he's going to tell him to fuck off. Whilst I can easily understand why that's tempting (I'm close to it myself), if the stalker is as immature and sensitive as I suspect then such treatment isn't going to do him any good at all. Indeed, I suspect the stalker is suffering abandonment issues from something that happened in the past and somehow I'm going to try to advise him that such issues do not cure themselves.

I'll let you know how I get on.