It's still not my first choice

Hamfist moved in a little over a year ago. I lived alone, except for cats, for 10 years before that, so I knew living together was going to be a difficult adjustment. What I've found so far is that it's a lot like culture shock: Not so much one big cataclysmic "everything is different" moment, but a series of smaller jolts around details I couldn't have anticipated. A lot of this is because of our inherently different wiring. We're about equally far from "neurotypical", in very different ways, and knowing that about ourselves really helps us to be patient with each other's quirks. But honestly, for a basically quiet, introspective, highly sensitive person such as myself, a big noisy ADD-having Leo is an extra-challenging housemate. I suspect it will be many more years before he truly understands that the lighter the touch he uses with me, the better results he'll get. I'm not even sure that "light touch" is on his menu. It is entirely possible that I'm in for a lifetime of flinching.

Most of it, though, is about the simple fact that living alone is what I like best. Yes, still - and I'm beginning to suspect that will always be true, just because I'm me. The example I always come back to is when I drop something in the kitchen: First the crash, then the cussing, then the cleanup. What fills me with (arguably disproportionate) rage is having explain the crash and the cussing. That has always pissed me off, no matter who was asking for the explanation - parents, roommates, doesn't matter. Really, if you're that curious, come look! Otherwise, just let me get on with the damage control; if I need help, I'll speak up.

Another problem is the simple physicality of sharing the space. I like it warmer than he does, and have zero tolerance for drafts. I'd rather be a little sweaty than have the fans blowing on me at full blast; I spent all summer sneaking around behind him, turning them down. He likes to play loud music and computer games, and can live with constant background noise. I don't, and can't. I've recently become aware that the way his big body blocks the light coming in the windows can sometimes irritate me so badly that I literally have to leave the room until he's done in there. Turning on overhead lights does not solve this; the problem is the change itself. It's like a flickering fluorescent bulb, but sloooowwww and, worse, lacks a predictable pattern.

About these things I at least feel entitled to my own position; I have a right to attend to my own comfort, especially in my own home. I will freely admit that the light thing, and many of my other personal space needs, are highly idiosyncratic, so much so that even having to verbalize them can be uncomfortable. It might be less so if not for the lifetime of experiencing people's responses to them, which have ranged from dismissive to hostile to condescending to pitying. Rarely has anyone ever just said, "Oh, okay, I'll try to keep that in mind".... Until Hamfist, that is. Even he is not unfailingly patient about it, but he sure comes closer than anyone else I've ever had to share space with.

Where I'm less clear about where to draw the line between his rights and mine is the matter of what I like to call "attention theft". I do not multi-task well, as most people seem to define it. If I were a juggler, I'd be the beginner kind who can keep maybe 3 balls in the air in a simple pattern, but if someone throws another ball at me, all 4 will fall. If I'm interrupted in the middle of a task, it throws me off badly enough that I often need to start over. How big a problem that poses of course depends on the circumstances, but it's compounded by the fact that there are almost always balls being juggled in my own head that are not visible to an outside observer. It's pretty much NEVER calm in here, people! So, unexpected demands on my attention can feel incredibly disruptive, and I'm not always polite about it when it happens and all those balls come tumbling down inside my head.

Cohabitation is by no means the only area in my life where this has been a problem, of course. The jobs where I've been most comfortable have been ones where the work I need to do goes into my inbox, I have clear instructions about what to do with it, I have resources to consult if I run into difficulty, and I'm let to get on with it, especially for tasks where accuracy and attention to detail are important. This has always seemed to me like a supremely reasonable way to go about things, but not every co-worker or boss I've ever had shared that belief. My last job was so far from that scenario that for my last 3 years there, it was a rare day that didn't find me crying from frustration, literally. Coming home to a quiet house where I could control the demands on my attention to some extent was so important. For months after I lost it, the stress of being unemployed was as nothing compared to the stress of that job. It wasn't until things got really bad financially that that balance started to shift.

In that setting, though, I could still tell myself that I was in the right, at least in part. This whole life-partners thing is different. Years ago, a friend whose child was about 5 at the time was acting out, and when the mom just sent him out of the room and told the adults "Oh, he just wants my attention", I recall thinking "Wait a minute, that's your 5-year-old; isn't he sort of entitled to your attention?". One of those things we non-parents think, but know better than to say out loud... I find myself recalling that often these days, as I'm trying to sort out how much of my attention my mate is entitled to. Recently my mom observed, when I was grousing about him wanting me to call him when I felt it was unnecessary, "Wow, he really wants to merge way more than you do." I think everyone wants to merge more than I do, frankly - and that's always been true, in every kind of relationship. Stand next to me, hold my hand, but please, stay the fuck out of my head. I get that pouring my coffee and trying so hard to add just the right amount of milk is a way he shows his affection. Prickly thing that I am, I would strongly prefer that he let me do it myself so I can be sure that it has just the right amount of milk, as a way of showing he understands me. It drives me absolutely batshit when I'm walking past him carrying a load of laundry or something to dump in the garbage, and he insists on grabbing me and kissing me as I pass. I get that there are people who would kill for that amount of affection; I know how ungracious, and ungrateful, it sounds for me to complain about it. Which is why I haven't said anything about it to him, and probably won't.

Because I am grateful for every drop of his affection, and his acceptance, and his patience with me. When I make a list of pros and cons, the balance is still way far on the pro side; even on the worst days, it breaks about even. I have to hope that as things are starting to turn around for us, slowly but surely, I'll be less anxious, less irritable, less menopausal... it will get easier. Even if it doesn't get easier, the unthinkable has happened: I need him. Financially for now - heavens yes, and how did I ever let myself get in this pickle?? - but even with that out of the equation, the thought of being without him makes me a little sick to my stomach. I need his help keeping my fixer-upper house and car afloat, I need the wall-o'-warmth that is his back in my bed, I need not to grow old alone if I am to age into sweetness instead of sourness. I prefer not to exercise; I preferred smoking, too, but I knew that my preference didn't make it the healthy thing to do. If there were a way we could do as Katherine Hepburn recommended men and women do - just live right next door to each other, and visit regularly - I'd jump on it in a minute. The fact that I chose a mate who I knew would never, ever settle for that tells me tells me that deep down, I know this is healthier for me too.