The day after.

I’m processing the virulent emotionality and physicality by the roommate in my little bedroom yesterday as well as the virulent demise of my living situation.

I moved in only six weeks ago (after a search half that long), putting it at the top of the chart of fastest turnarounds/moves (as well as the most rapid descent into unliveable in my extensive history of residences).  I hafta laugh, otherwise I’d cry, at the stinkin’ rotten turn of events.

I’m not complaining about moving per se; it was in the cards, inevitably.

Rather, I’m rankled in some measure by the ugly force with hurtful intent forcing and fueling the immediate move and, moreso, having been relegated to a tiny bedroom with the door shut (per discussion with the reasonable roommate so to not stoke the flames of the mad roommate). In a bedroom, coming out only for meals and restroom in the lifestyle of the preceding roommate, coincidentally included in yesterday’s post before everything collapsed.

“The situation is quickly heading south. I smell it” I’d written, with no foreknowledge that two hours later, a roommate would unleash and launch toxic ammunition and cross the line of sacred space and privacy and Other and never for a moment recognize the assault or experience remorse or contrite.

She is not, by any means, the first dangerous woman with whom I’ve lived; I ask of God, however, that she be the last.

My place for my remaining time is well defined, less by me than the engineers of the situation: my 7-by-11 room (undressed) with door closed.

Door closed. Those two words raise enormous pains and issues, taking me right back into childhood where, coincidentally, I spent oodles of time behind a closed door. A door that fluctuated between offering escape from the warfare that was my home, momentary safety until my father burst through with violent attacks including physically, and privacy and solitude.

A closed door speaks of soul-wrenching and heart-breaking isolation – that definitely WAS my childhood – abandonment and neglect.

A closed door speaks for others: We don’t see you, you don’t exist.

A closed door speaks to me: Come in. Be safe. For a while.

A closed door speaks for others: Life is better without you around.

A closed door speaks: unspeakable pain. And yet also pain expressed in words. For it is not because of shut doors but despite them that I wrote then – and write now.

Yes, I do uphold that Marcy is unbalanced and not a well woman in the mind. I do uphold that a part of her wishes ill on me and was on an unconscious drive to get me out.

I also uphold that rare is the human being (roomie) who can live here for very long and possibly the only who can do so is male but I do not see her ever agreeing to that.

My home life is now squeezed into a little room with a walking space of 7 feet by 5. Not much different from a prison cell.

A closed door. I cease to exist in the home now.

Or do I?


4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. fatcatfromvox
    Sep 15, 2011 @ 12:52:50

    Yikes! The crazy is strong in that one….hope you’ll be able to get a better (safer) place to live asap – good luck!


  2. allycatadventures
    Sep 15, 2011 @ 13:33:45

    @fatcat – She’s memorable! If not better left in the rear-view mirror. Stay tuned to read what’s next!


  3. longeyesamurai
    Sep 16, 2011 @ 04:52:17

    Wow, just wow! Add me to the list of “concerned and hopeful this resolves quickly”

    I have dated “crazy” but never had to share house with one but I can definitely see the need of a restful place.


    • allycatadventures
      Sep 16, 2011 @ 09:40:05

      @Capra – It has certainly got me down, really down. Fortunately, because I’ve lived in (too) many fucked-up situations, I’m extremely skilled at finding ways to occupy my time for hours on end away from the house. Given the option, I will always opt for roommate-shares with males over females. Only once, many moons ago, did I live – briefly – with a male who proved really neurotic. And guess what. He was (very) gay!


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