Regrettable

Today, I deliver bad news to you. I have no idea how to do it.

I'm going to end our arrangement. I'm going to give you two weeks to move out of my house. I'm going to listen to you either rage at me or explain why my decision is all wrong, or maybe something in between that I can't predict. But it must be done.

It's silly this all came crashing down over a bag of frozen bananas. But also fitting, given the nature of our disagreements. 

Why do you need to leave me to live in peace in my own home? Unfortunately, it's because you don't fit in. Maybe you can't; maybe your ways are just too set in stone. Maybe your expectations for cohabitation are just too far away from mine. Maybe I simply don't live up to your standard of a housemate. 

I'm willing to accept all these perspectives. It's only fair you'd be upset, maybe even angry. You'll now have to scramble to find a new place to live. I'm not sure that can be done effectively in two weeks. But to be fair, you might have seen this coming. And to be more fair, I'm not sure what other response from me you might have expected.

Let me clarify: my sympathy for your perspective is not the equivalent of "it's not you, it's me". Because it definitely IS you. You knew you were moving into MY house when we made this plan. We established fairly quickly your influence on the household would be minimal: that I would make some concessions for storage space, shopping preferences, and how to live with the animals, but for all intents and purposes, you were expected to assimilate into the way I lived, not the other way around, and not even some kind of compromise. This should not surprise you, and I'm not sure why it surprised me to have discovered this expectation to have been unreasonable in your eyes. 

I extended this invitation to you as a gesture of love. I've watched you struggle in your previous 'home' environments the last few years and wondered how you could possibly have survived. I am also a survivor, so I know that's just what we do, no matter what. I broke out of my family's dysfunctional cycle because I had school, and my eyes opened, and I was set free. My ideal three months ago was that your eyes would open: you'd get into a supportive emotional space, somewhere nobody would steal your stuff or demean you every time something went "wrong" (whatever that meant on any particular day). My ideal was to give you space to catch your breath and let a productive adult life take seed: you'd get (and keep) a job, you'd set goals to finish your GED and get a driver's license, you'd save money and get your finances on a sound path. 

To your credit, those things started to happen. I'm not exactly sure why they stopped happening, but they did. But that's not why you now have to leave. The only conditions for living in my house were that you pay the modest rent and live with us peaceably, though only the former was specifically outlined in our Agreement. I suppose I'll come to regret that now, but whatever. In all my sparkly-eyed idealism, we both know what I offered you was more than just a place to live: it was a place in my home, in my family. But now I think you either weren't ready for such an offer, or had no intention of accepting anything but the physical space reserved for you in the floorplan.

Our conflicts were varied, from the dogs to dishes to the air conditioning. It became clear early that we're both quite stubborn. You came across as demanding and pushy. Maybe I came across as a dick. The difference between us is that you have been living with me, not the other way around, so when we don't agree on a thing, it's my preference that stands. Maybe at your age it's too much for me to expect that you'll just keep quiet and live with the things you don't like until you can get on your own feet, but for $100/month and all ways I've changed my daily life to accommodate you,  I don't mind telling you that I don't care. I've held up my end of the bargain and more, and you've continued to express your dissatisfaction with what I've provided.

You've been demanding, disrespectful, defiant, manipulative, and dishonest. You've yelled at and threatened my pets. You've attempted to use my uncertainties and doubts to your advantage. You've tried (and failed, btw) to fuel conflict between me and my ex to get your way. You've manipulated and abused the relationships I have with my kids so you can win small, temporary victories. You've attempted to gaslight me into believing past conversations meant something entirely different than when we had them. You've outright lied to me. You goad me into confrontations and bait me with conflict to try to make a point. You may even steal from my daughter before this is over.

I'm trying to imagine your expectation of it working, as if I'll somehow have the "Aha!" moment and the lightbulb will come on, and I'll suddenly let you run the dog grooming business out of my living room, clippering and trimming poodle puppies on my living room table while sitting on my couch; or consent to you constantly throwing my food away whenever you decide it's time, without talking to me or considering how much it costs to shop; or that I'll force my dog to always make room for yours because you aren't interested in teaching them to get along, only to fear conflict.

Here's the newsflash, honey: this is my house; this is my dog's house; this is my daughter's house. This is not your house, or your dog's. You were brought here to adjust to the way I live, not the other way around. I've been patient, I've tried to be as loving as I can, and I've done my very best to understand where you're coming from at any given time during our arguments.

Because I know you're angry all the time. I know you've been through emotional abuse, and other kinds. I know you have anxiety, and attention problems, and diagnosed mental health issues. I know you have PTSD as a result of childhood trauma. I know you need help, and time, and space. I know this because at your age I wasn't much better off. I'm not holding any of this against you. However, I can no longer offer you any help, or any of my time, or any of my space. You've taken every last bit of compassion and sympathy I could offer and wasted it because I wouldn't let you smoke weed while my daughter was in the house (or whatever else I did to make you unhappy on any given day).

You'll never know what this almost cost me, or what it has actually cost me. You'll never see that side of me. And you've given up any right to seeing me vulnerable again, or having me open up to you emotionally, for a long time. You'll eventually learn that these things are gifts people give you, and when you don't acknowledge those gifts by respecting what you see, or hear, or learn about a person in those moments, you forfeit your right to them. For years to come, I expect my name to escape your lips with only venom, regardless of the love I've tried to give you, all the times I've had to remind you to eat, all the rides to work, the many days caring for your pets while you went on days-long trips to visit friends, or meals we've shared. Those gestures didn't mean enough to you to return them with kindness, or acceptance of house rules, or even a vague understanding that I'm trying to build my home with love and light, and maybe you should just take what's offered and leave it at that. So you'll insult me, and tell my family how awful I am, and call me names to all your friends, and describe your time here as truly awful.

And I've come to accept this. Because you don't know how the disruption in my home might have cost me my job, my livelihood, my ability to feed my family and have a roof over my head. You don't know how your negativity and constant complaining and foul language soured my relationship with my life partner for a time. You don't know how close I came to the worst depression in a decade because I felt in over my head trying to make our arrangement work for both of us and wanting to avoid conflict. You don't know the emotional sacrifices I made, knowingly and otherwise, to accommodate you.

You don't know because it's not your business; those decisions were mine to make. I'm not writing this to call you to account for them, but to remind myself that they occurred, and to make an honest ledger of what I've been through. I maintain that whatever I paid to make this work, it was worth the trouble, worth the love, worth the effort. I hope that your time in my home has made a difference, and if it doesn't, that's not on me. If your three months here has done you no good, you've wasted three months of your life. Either way, it's now time for me to reclaim what's mine as just my own, because you have shown no interest or ability to make our arrangement mutually beneficial.

So it's over. You have to go. I'm truly sorry, but... go get better on someone else's time. No, being sorry doesn't mean you can stay; it means I acknowledge that this sucks for you. Nor does it mean that I claim responsibility for all the stress you're about to endure. Every single moment of anger or frustration or fear you feel between now and the second you walk into your next residence is entirely your own doing. How many times did I say to you "If [situation] continues, this isn't going to work"? How many circular arguments did I step out of because you were unwilling to discuss the one issue I brought to your attention? How many times did I state a simple expectation, and then you agreed to it, and then you didn't meet it, and then, rather then acknowledging that failure, you'd make excuses? How many times did you scream at me in my own house because you didn't get your way? How many times did my unwilling to change the way I live cause you to be nasty to me? How many times did you insult me in front of my own child? In my own home? All because you were unwilling to simply live under my roof by my simple rules? 

Consider it. I'd ask you to try seeing it from my perspective, but I don't know any more whether that's something you're capable of. Again, I'm not holding this against you; you aren't ready for true empathy yet. You have a lot of work to do, and I hope you do it. You're brilliant, ferociously intelligent, beautifully talented. You've been given many gifts that can change your life, and can be used to change the lives of others for the better. You have a real destiny and purpose in this world and you're so blinded by rage and fear and confusion you won't let a single soul gently pull the wool out from in front of your face. Unfortunately, through this letter, I know I've become the latest in a series of assholes to kick you out, further justification the world is out to get you and (poor little you) now you have even more work to do to keep your head above water. I can't be your stepping stone any longer.

I love you and I wish you well. Maybe I'm totally wrong about how I think you'll react. Maybe you'll say you understand, and you're sorry, and you'll begin looking for something else right away, or perhaps that something is already lined up. That would be great; I sincerely hope I'm wrong about the way you're going to react to this conversation. But in case I'm not, here are all the reasons outlined for you.