In 2000, I had a roommate in university residence. At first she seemed really cool. Like me, she wasn’t into the cheering and singing, and we both enjoyed a good drink and smoke. But after a few weeks she began to become annoying. She bragged to her friends that she didn’t need to buy a computer “because my roommate has one!” She made my bed her official ‘smoking spot’, and often ashtray. If she poured too much lotion on her hand, she would walk across the room and wipe it on whatever part of me was closest to her. She was up all night and would bring strange guys home and expect me to sleep while they got it on.
Then, ‘annoying’ turned into erratic, strange, and eventually threatening. I am pretty sure she was psychotic. She started filling up our room with random objects she collected (we could have been featured on ‘Hoarders’), and she claimed to have cured a man of AIDS with her witchcraft spells. She told me how she hated “skinny girls” and wanted to kill them all. (Not a good time to be a naturally skinny girl, which of course I am). She was not joking, and did become physical a few times by shoving me out of her way. She would listen to Eminem’s song where he kills his wife Kim, and make orgasmic noises during the most graphic parts of the song. Of course, to others, this roommate was charming, exciting and fun, so the few nightmarish stories I shared with other members of our residence were perceived to be exaggerations.
Then a new game started. When I went to the washroom, she would lock the door, and either leave, or not let me back in. I often had to go downstairs and sign out the ‘lock-out key’. Then she discovered that if SHE signed out and kept the lock-out key for our room, AND locked our door, I would have absolutely no way of getting in to our room. It didn’t take me too long to realize that I needed to have my keys with me AT ALL TIMES, even if just running across the hall. One time, I hadn’t seen her in days, and I had to use the washroom. I thought it would be silly to bring my keys with me, but my paranoia was at an all new high, so I left the door unlocked, but brought my key. When I came back five minutes later, the door was locked. I opened the door and stepped into darkness. When I turned on the light, I realized that I was standing in a pile of dead and dried up flower petals. My roommate was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when I relayed the flower petal story to a friend back home and said, “What do you think that means?”, she answered, “It means get the HELL out of there!”
I did. After weeks and weeks of harassing the residence manager and sleeping on someone else’s floor, I FINALLY got my own single room in a different residence! While I was still moving out, she had already put many of her things in my closet/dresser. My ex-roommate’s crazy ways quickly became apparent to the rest of the residence, and I had multiple people seek me out to tell me they were sorry for thinking that I was the crazy one.