Legal strategies will rid my property of the unwanted self-proclaimed caretaker who takes no care. I will tell you about them later. Meanwhile, something strange and a little awful is happening.

That this guy has spread toxins in my house is certain, including fecal matter and powder residue of indeterminate chemical make-up. It will require a massive and expensive clean-up, but the mess can be remediated.

This guy has spread toxins into my friendships. The woman who introduced me to him, assured me he was a good bet, and then tried to negotiate him staying after the first eviction notice because “nobody wants to throw somebody out with winter coming”? She used to be a good friend of mine. Now I can’t stand to see her. It’s like a divorce story. She has chosen sides, and that includes free warm housing for her golden boy no matter what. I wound up telling her that boundaries were God’s way of protecting us from ourselves, that her setting herself on fire to warm someone else was unhealthy but her decision, but setting me on fire to do it was unacceptable. I doubt our friendship will survive, and she comes with a few hangers-on who will make decisions based on hers. For now, let it ride. Friendships based in reality usually heal. Eventually.

This guy has spread toxins into my personality. Wait. Whoa. No. You do not get my soul.

I volunteer regularly at our town’s Friday food pantry, where a woman we can call Lucy is a regular. Lucy lives in a motel room with a moving target number of cats. She cannot get an apartment from sheltered housing because she won’t give up the cats. She’s in constant danger of eviction from the motel because the goal of the org providing the motel funding is to get you into a long-term apartment. And because the motel doesn’t like the cat smell any more than the people at the Friday market. Lucy tends to have a little space around her.

Lucy likes me because, in her words, I have a “sweet, cheerful soul” and am “not condescending-kind but friendly-kind.” I pretend to juggle apples. I tell people which foods they can eat without a microwave and how to heat them safely over a fire if they’re living rough. I tell them how to cook chickpeas so they taste good. I’m the NICE one. (We’re all nice, you understand.)

Friday past, Lucy started telling me her eviction was imminent and illegal. Those words slammed into me and heated my blood to instant boil.

I snapped at her, “I don’t want to hear it, Lucy. I can’t help you and I’m not gonna listen.”

Lucy is hard of hearing, and she said, “Thank you. You always listen to me and I appreciate it.” And kept talking.

I walked away from her, and she was so astonished she started to cry.

This will not do. Dude, you can burn my house down or freeze its pipes until I have to raze the place myself. You might end friendships that may or may not have been based on usury and usefulness. But Dude, you do not get my personality, my soul, whatever you call that thing God has spent 58 years cultivating in me just so I can see His light and promise in even assholes like you.

You are taking advantage of me. I get that. But you cannot now, and never will, be able to teach me kindness should not be extended. You will only be allowed to teach me that it must be extended with the careful boundaries that were missing in unverified trust at the beginning of this mess you appear to delight in being able to cause.

I picked up a fruit tray, walked back to Lucy, and lied like a rug. “Oh, hun, I’m sorry. I was listening. I just wanted to make sure you got this because it’s the last one and I know how much you like them. Now, where were we?”

You don’t get to live rent-free inside me, Dude. Just the house.