You can be silent or have a confrontation – and both options sound awful, writes advice columnist Eleanor Gordon-Smith. But now is the time to switch abstract wishes for a concrete plan
My adult son moved back home several months ago, ostensibly to support me as I went through immunotherapy (after chemo and radiotherapy for cancer). However, my life feels like hell. I was quite content before. I felt OK about the cancer, and was running my home well. Now, I’m beyond exhausted.
I’m doing so much extra housework (he rarely contributes because when not working he’s “too tired and needs downtime”) and he’s reverted to the teenage behaviour of leaving plates of food in his room, coffee dripped on the floor, toothpaste-splattered surfaces, and so on. He comes home late from work, then keeps me awake until 2am or 3am with doors slamming, cooking and gaming. We’ve discussed how much I’m struggling, how hard I’m finding returning to the role of active parenting and how my mood is degenerating. I’m really unhappy.
Apart from talking, we’ve argued – or we live in stony silence. I liked my home as it was and I enjoyed coping. Now, I dread most days. I have around two to three years of life left and I’m terrified that this is how it will be. I’ve asked him to move out (his father lives around 10 minutes away and it would cost my son nothing). He calmly promises to improve and, of course, nothing happens. I’m so very, very tired and sad and at a loss as to how to manage the situation. What should I do?
Eleanor says: I’m so sorry you’re going through this. This sounds like a huge intrusion on your peace right when peace is at a premium.
Confronted with the massive insensitivity of a loved one we can sometimes feel caught between two equally bad-seeming options. The first is to be silent. The second is to have a confrontation. Both feel so teeth-pullingly awful that we often hope some third solution will materialise in time. In fairness, sometimes time does panel-beat the problem away. People grow out of the aggravating habit; the years float the relationship into new circumstances, leaving the old dynamic behind. To gamble that time will sort things out – even if that means paying the cost of staying silent – isn’t always a bad choice.
But here’s my question: are you willing to take that gamble? You’re living through a horrible hastening of the sands in the hourglass. I don’t want to speak for you, but in my experience that makes me want to trade gambles for certainties. It sounds like you have – or had – a pretty clear picture of how you want to spend your time. It also sounds like you’ve handled this diagnosis with admirable fortitude. And I think you get to do whatever you damn well please with your days.
Maybe you want to seize the day? Maybe you think the day bruises like a peach and you want to hold it gently instead? Maybe you want to travel, maybe you just want to feel scared about what’s coming? Whatever it is, this is the time to switch abstract wishes for a concrete strategy. You shouldn’t have to merely hope that other people will get out of your way enough to let that happen. You should get to know that they will. And they should be doing everything they can.
What’s the case against telling your son that it’s time to move out, or insisting on therapy together? Not asking. Not making a misunderstandable suggestion like “have you thought about staying with your dad?”. Closer to something like: “I appreciate what you’ve done, but if we cannot solve this, I want this time and space to myself”. Though your letter is, of course, just one part of how you feel, you do sound clear: you said you’re really unhappy, that you’re terrified things will stay this way.
That conversation might be really difficult for him. Twenty-seven feels younger on the inside than it seems, and he will have huge feelings about your diagnosis. (Is regressing maybe a way of clinging on to the experience of having a mum, of being your child?) These are all good reasons to approach this with kindness, and not treat him as though he is only a pain. But they’re not reasons to put his experience over yours. Telling him this has to change or he’s out is not you causing a rift in the family. He’s done that already. It’s just that so far, you’re the only one who’s noticed.
I know it’s easy to hope a third solution will come out of the clouds. But waiting for that solution defaults to the kind of reasoning we always use: we live as though there will be more time.
My adult son moved back home several months ago, ostensibly to support me as I went through immunotherapy (after chemo and radiotherapy for cancer). However, my life feels like hell. I was quite content before. I felt OK about the cancer, and was running my home well. Now, I’m beyond exhausted.
I’m doing so much extra housework (he rarely contributes because when not working he’s “too tired and needs downtime”) and he’s reverted to the teenage behaviour of leaving plates of food in his room, coffee dripped on the floor, toothpaste-splattered surfaces, and so on. He comes home late from work, then keeps me awake until 2am or 3am with doors slamming, cooking and gaming. We’ve discussed how much I’m struggling, how hard I’m finding returning to the role of active parenting and how my mood is degenerating. I’m really unhappy.
Apart from talking, we’ve argued – or we live in stony silence. I liked my home as it was and I enjoyed coping. Now, I dread most days. I have around two to three years of life left and I’m terrified that this is how it will be. I’ve asked him to move out (his father lives around 10 minutes away and it would cost my son nothing). He calmly promises to improve and, of course, nothing happens. I’m so very, very tired and sad and at a loss as to how to manage the situation. What should I do?
Eleanor says: I’m so sorry you’re going through this. This sounds like a huge intrusion on your peace right when peace is at a premium.
Confronted with the massive insensitivity of a loved one we can sometimes feel caught between two equally bad-seeming options. The first is to be silent. The second is to have a confrontation. Both feel so teeth-pullingly awful that we often hope some third solution will materialise in time. In fairness, sometimes time does panel-beat the problem away. People grow out of the aggravating habit; the years float the relationship into new circumstances, leaving the old dynamic behind. To gamble that time will sort things out – even if that means paying the cost of staying silent – isn’t always a bad choice.
But here’s my question: are you willing to take that gamble? You’re living through a horrible hastening of the sands in the hourglass. I don’t want to speak for you, but in my experience that makes me want to trade gambles for certainties. It sounds like you have – or had – a pretty clear picture of how you want to spend your time. It also sounds like you’ve handled this diagnosis with admirable fortitude. And I think you get to do whatever you damn well please with your days.
Maybe you want to seize the day? Maybe you think the day bruises like a peach and you want to hold it gently instead? Maybe you want to travel, maybe you just want to feel scared about what’s coming? Whatever it is, this is the time to switch abstract wishes for a concrete strategy. You shouldn’t have to merely hope that other people will get out of your way enough to let that happen. You should get to know that they will. And they should be doing everything they can.
What’s the case against telling your son that it’s time to move out, or insisting on therapy together? Not asking. Not making a misunderstandable suggestion like “have you thought about staying with your dad?”. Closer to something like: “I appreciate what you’ve done, but if we cannot solve this, I want this time and space to myself”. Though your letter is, of course, just one part of how you feel, you do sound clear: you said you’re really unhappy, that you’re terrified things will stay this way.
That conversation might be really difficult for him. Twenty-seven feels younger on the inside than it seems, and he will have huge feelings about your diagnosis. (Is regressing maybe a way of clinging on to the experience of having a mum, of being your child?) These are all good reasons to approach this with kindness, and not treat him as though he is only a pain. But they’re not reasons to put his experience over yours. Telling him this has to change or he’s out is not you causing a rift in the family. He’s done that already. It’s just that so far, you’re the only one who’s noticed.
I know it’s easy to hope a third solution will come out of the clouds. But waiting for that solution defaults to the kind of reasoning we always use: we live as though there will be more time.
