Don't cry over Lost Bedsheets

 I’ve changed three houses in 4 years. If you know me, you know I’m an easily adjustable person to live with. I keep to myself, don’t make unnecessary fusses, and am too uninterested and barely have the time to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.

But about 4 months ago, when I first realised I have to shift houses, I began to question whether it, in fact, is me who might be the problem. Full disclosure - I had to vacate the first house because the owner wanted to sell it so it wasn’t entirely up to me. The second house, on the face of it, offered a smaller room but ample storage. What it lacked in space, it made up for in furnishings. New furniture, quaint society, and the location well-connected to most hotspots in the city, I never really thought I’d ever feel the lack of anything here. Except I did.

I should’ve known there was something wrong with my flatmate very early on, but maybe I just wasn’t invested enough to care. Our ‘initial bonding’ began with us sharing a smoke and talking about our previous flatmates. I didn’t have much to go on, but she had a fascinating number of roommates who had stolen her shit, were problematic, violent or just annoying to live with. She told me that one time things got so bad she called the cops on one of them. Have you ever called the cops on someone? I haven’t.

Have you ever had one of those? Roommates who made your life a living hell - who made you want to not come home, who made you feel like you were on thin ice every time you were around them? Or just people who brought out the worst in you? If yes, this might strike a few chords. Or provide for some scarce entertainment. I mean, if my misfortunes make a few people on the internet laugh, then this wasn’t for nothing.

It all began one early morning when loud music coming from the living area disrupted my sleep. It was about 6:30-7AM on a weekend. I waited a long time for her to lower it or shut it, and when she didn’t, I got up and told her to lower the volume and went back to sleep. This happened a bunch of times and led us to our first kerfuffle when her uncle used my washroom [which was outside] and left it smelling like the ninth circle of hell, I shit you not. It smelled like an entire village had taken a piss in my bathroom and I couldn’t stand the stench. Imagine being subject to this huge a disturbance in the force so early in the morning. What began with me telling her off with “Please note that my washroom is strictly off limits” ended up with her giving me a lecture on how I don’t respond, but react to situations [and making me late for work]. Textbook mother-in-law behaviour. 

Whenever I would share a concern, like our huge-ass electricity bills [amounts I’d never had to pay in my history of renting houses], she’d first agree to it but when it would come to acting on them, would pick a fight and do nothing. A few times initially when I’d have my friends over, she’d either tell me how it can be a nuisance to the neighbours, or start to text how noisy and uncomfortable it is to invite friends over and have them sit in our common space. This became so traumatic that I had no option but to invite my friends and hang out in my bedroom. 

Do you know what’s worse than being homeless? Being in a house with thin walls [I’m kidding, I realise and accept my privilege, please just go with this]. Over time, she would have more of her family over, sometimes for days on end, who would leave the entire house smelling weird. She’d also invite friends over, one of whom stayed with us an entire month. It was her first time living in a rented apartment so her weekend alcohol crowd was a given. The thin walls ensured that every minute of their banter was torture for my early-to-bed ass. I remember one distinct night when I was already going through it, looking for an escape in sleep like a typical introvert but sleep wouldn’t come because my flatmate was having a party outside. I then plugged in my headphones, put Djo’s ‘Chateau [Feel Alright]’ on repeat, and tried to give me hope that things would certainly get better. 

They didn’t. Not in that house.

It is one thing to be extremely set in your ways to not allow someone even one bit of benefit of the doubt. It is entirely another to be so self-consumed and so self-assured to believe that you can do no wrong. This creature did both. While I continued to pay for the electricity she used [she’d have the air conditioning on the entire night/day] without even dividing it fairly because our conversation would always end in arguments, I also put up with the fights she’d pick with my cook [he only cooked for me because she liked eating outside/cooking her own food], couldn’t call her out on shit she’d do [she’d leave the washer dirty, one time also letting the water running for hours, flooding the washing area] because if I did point out what she did wrong, she’d find a way to turn it onto me. 

But the biggest way this demon traumatised me was sending me rude, logic-less, terribly phrased texts late in the night which I would see first thing in the morning after I’d turn back my phone internet connection on. She ruined a couple of regular mornings, and caused me to have a full out-of-proportion cry once after a fight [I’m an angry crier], but it was only after she ruined my day right before I was supposed to give an important presentation when I realised how much I hated living with her, living in that space with her shit all over our common living space, and how truly miserable and helpless I was with this apathetic specter of a human being.

It’s true what they say about time - it helps you heal and forget in the best way. I think I also forgot a lot of bad shit she put me through - including the time when after an argument, she threw my clothes off her clothes rack which she was presumably okay sharing with me. Until the day I lost all remaining respect for her.

It was early in the morning, and I’d ordered some groceries online. I was ready to leave for work but wanted to stock the fridge, only there was no space because this demented ogre had occupied two out of the three shelves, including the vegetable compartment. When I asked to make her some space, she flatly refused, saying, “That’s not possible, now that I’ve started to cook my own food”. Not even a sorry, can you imagine? Like she was doing me a favour by letting me live there. 

I found new flatmates a few months ago, something that gave me the patience to put up with this traumatic individual until my lease ended. I knew I could be cordial and patch things up before leaving because human beings aren’t meant for discord. We’re programmed for harmony. We like closures. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to. Has it ever happened to you? Someone made you feel so bad about everything that you lost complete respect for them? It did to me. I began ignoring her. Completely. Full-blown silent treatment. Until about two months ago, when one morning, after having come back from a friend’s, I was trying to get some more sleep before work and heard a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it to find her heinous blubbery face begin yapping before I could comprehend what was happening. She picked a fight with my cook again, this time hurling loud insults. I realised after that passed over that I’d never met someone who loved picking fights as much as this person. How hard must it be to live with so much dissatisfaction and hatred? 

And so, when I found myself bawling over lost satin bedsheets the other day, I reminded myself that I was already out of a worse place and that I lived with actual people with empathy now. And maybe crying over not being able to find slightly expensive sheets was a response to something else [it was, I got my period a day later and it all made sense], but I am genuinely happy in the space I now live in. It’s in a corner of the city, not that connected like the previous house, nor furnished like it. It was shabby when we moved in and needed a lot of fixing and cleaning on account of it being an old house, and it has selective items - but they’re all items I actually need. No fancy chimneys and no posh storage space, no windows I could sit and sip my coffee from, but a bathroom that’s inside my room and access to a balcony that has the most splendid sunsets I’ve laid my eyes on. And most importantly, people who make me feel seen. And heard. They’re not perfect, but they don’t make me feel like something’s wrong with me. I think sometimes that’s all we need to feel - that we’re okay. 

I’m sorry I didn’t put much effort into making this a story. I think my storytelling needs polishing. But this was supposed to be a rant to make me appreciate what I have - the blessing of the present that’s in my control, beautifully eclipsing over the reality I can happily now call my past, and in other words, someone else’s problem.