“You should be glad that I even cleaned up the mess.”
But you left the house in disarray because of it. The point of cleaning is to... clean. It's not to get angry at a mundane thing and then leave the chairs in all the places we walk through, forcing me to move everything back because it's in my way. It's not about getting mad at a rug getting stuck under a door and then kicking it into a pile, leaving it for me to straighten out and put back so I don't trip over it.
I've been trying my damnedest to clean this fucking place without any help, even when I ask for it. Even when I make my complaints known. Nothing changes, nothing gets better, and all I get is told how he's “not like other men.”
It's like I live with someone entirely different from the person I moved here with, and I don't know what happened to him. I keep trying to look at the past and figure out what changed, and I can't figure out what things caused this. Or if this is who he always was, but he only needed a trigger to be this person.
And it makes me sad.