A Virus Called Hatred

Mondays with Mel
Aug 27, 2017 · 9 min read

She was a peppy Asian girl, no more than five feet tall, with yellowish red streaks highlighting her short bob-like haircut. She wore a white Columbia sports jacket and an easy, enthusiastic smile. She seemed out-going and friendly, and I instantly wanted to be her friend. “Please let her be in my house,” I thought. And I introduced myself. Lucky for me, she was in my house, and I was delighted.

It was move-in day for first-years entering the College, and the College had houses where students would live in (similar to Hogwarts in Harry Potter). I was standing in line, waiting for the key to my dorm room. It was a hectic day, so I didn’t see her again until Orientation Week. We got to know our campus, our neighborhood, and our new city together, along with the entire incoming class.

As the first weeks of classes flew by that autumn, I saw her at least weekly around the house. With time, we had frequent encounters, and we became well-acquainted — one might even say friends.

By the time spring came, we had shared enough meals and exchanged enough pleasantries to accompany each other to campus-wide events organized by student groups that put on large, festival-sized entertainment. I had fun.

One day, when it was time for students to pick new room assignments for the following academic year, she popped by my dorm room without notice. I remember because I was lying crouched on my bed, hoping for my period cramps to subside.

I wasn’t too bothered by her visit though, as I enjoy spontaneous company once in awhile. That day, she asked if I wanted to be her roommate, and I said yes. It was an easy answer, and I thought anything would be better than my roommate situation at the time.

Summer break came and went, and we skyped once between June and September. It was comforting to have someone from college to keep in touch with, I thought.

The start of the new academic year began, and I was ready for it. I was excited and happy to have this girl as my new roommate.

Before classes began, I volunteered to be an Orientation Leader to help the incoming class transition into college life. A few days into Orientation Week, the girl had arrived, and she insisted that we go to a frat party where there would be drinking, dancing, and loud music. I said no. I wanted to set some sort of example for my first-years, and I didn’t want to run into them at an alcohol-filled party. She insisted. I said no again. She said, “If you come, you have to drink when I tell you to drink.” I said, “NO.” Disgusted and put off, I said it more firmly and aggressively this time. She finally stopped pressuring me and ended up not going to the party that night because she couldn’t find anyone who would go with her.

I felt off for the rest of the night, but I let it go by the next morning. Red flag number one.

***

As the weeks went on, I hardly ever saw her. She was the ghost-type roommate who was never around. Part of me enjoyed the space, but another part of me missed her because I considered her my friend. I wanted it to be like the year before, where we would share meals, go on runs, and lounge around together. It wasn’t the same.

When I did see her, she would vent to me as if I were her therapist. She was going through the demanding process of joining an exclusive social group and felt the need to vent to me about the struggles of that process. She opened up about her problems, her insecurities, and her deepest wishes and fears. I listened, trying not to let her issues affect me. But they did.

I was too inexperienced to know how to build a wall between other people’s problems and my own. I was too empathetic, and her stress drained me.

Given the unique exposure I had into her life, I observed that her actions contradicted all of her thoughts and emotions. She would share a feeling or thought with me, but contradict herself completely through her actions, choices, and behaviours. It was puzzling and exhausting to witness.

Meanwhile, I was living my own life, trying to “figure it all out,” like every other privileged 19-year-old in college. Part of what I had to figure out included the cleaning schedule in my suite. You see, I am the “neat freak” roommate. I enjoy a sparkling bathroom, so I make sure to clean weekly, at the very least. However, none of my suitemates shared the same cleaning standards as me, and needless to say, the girl rarely, if ever, did her fair share of the cleaning duties.

One day, I was exasperated at the lack of equity in clean-up duties that I confronted her about it. I said, “Hey, can you please clean up that corner of the bathroom? It’s accumulated gunk for a while, and I’ve already done my share of the chores.”

She quickly responded, “Oh, I cleaned that already yesterday, but it just got really dirty again really fast.” And ran out the door.

I was stunned. Speechless. Hurt. She had lied to me…to my face. It was incredibly hard for me to come to terms with that interaction, and my slow processing was my mistake.

Red flag number two.

***

The relationship continued despite the red flags, which were limitless, but too many to list here. We moved in together for the following academic year to occupy an apartment off campus.

At the time I made the decision to continue living with her, I felt conflicted. A small fraction of the time, she seemed okay and genuinely happy for me as I shared my milestones and successes with her. But most days, she would vent endlessly without checking in with me to see how I was doing. Overall, I had never been filled with so much negative, toxic energy than I was when I was around her, and my mental health suffered.

During the summer, she was absent for several weeks for an internship, and I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I shared the apartment with a temporary summer roommate who would become my lifelong friend. I never knew an ideal roommate experience could even exist, and I dreaded the return of the girl in question.

When said girl came back, however, the temporary summer roommate made an astute observation as we shared the apartment amongst the three of us for a few weeks: “It’s hard to live with this girl because you want to confront her about something, but she’s never around. So the issue compounds itself by having it simmer in your head, and by the time you have a chance to finally confront her, you just want to explode and the issue itself feels out of proportion!” This was the exact feeling I had built up inside me for the past year that I was never able to identify or articulate.

***

Months rolled by, and I had finally had enough. I told the girl during a tense and awkward roommate meeting that I no longer wanted to live with her. She acted shocked, all sweet, and innocent, and asked, “Why?”

I told her that ever since the start of the second academic year, things hadn’t been the same. The relationship was one-sided, and she never checked in with me to hear about my life and my perspectives. It was unhealthy, and I needed to move on. She responded, and I quote, “I needed to sacrifice some relationships in order to get to where I am today.” My heart sank as I thought, “You definitely sacrificed ours.”

***

In the following weeks, I felt more at ease knowing this would all be put behind me soon. She found somewhere else to stay, and I found a replacement. I informed her that the replacement would need to move in by the first week of June, implying that she needed to move out and make the room available by then. She said, “Okay.”

June rolls around, and I visit my parents out of town. Meanwhile, my replacement roommate finds that all of the girl’s belongings were still in the room. My replacement roommate is furious, confused, and aggravated, as am I. The girl had left a note to my replacement roommate saying that she had to leave in a rush to catch her out-of-town internship, so she had to keep her belongings in the apartment for the next four summer months.

She left behind her bed, her desk, her shelves, her books, her boxes, her clothes, and other miscellaneous stuff that one accumulates. No heads’ up was given to me or anyone else involved.

This situation tested my character like nothing had ever done before. Waves of rage and hatred flowed through my body throughout the next four months. My new roommate and I had moved her stuff into our tiny living room. It was cramped and crowded — a fire hazard. Legally, we had the right to get rid of her stuff, which was considered abandoned property, and she was no longer eligible for a full security deposit refund because she broke the lease requirements, which required her to clear out the space by a very specific date. Friends encouraged me to have a bonfire with her stuff.

After many therapeutic venting sessions to my close friends and family, and as the new academic year approached, an exchange of carefully curated emails were sent back and forth between the girl and me — copied on the emails was my carefully chosen new roommate with whom I shared the same values, priorities, and cleanliness standards.

In one of the emails, the girl asked me what she did wrong and what happened to make our relationship go sour because she had considered us “sisters.”

My new roommate and I put our heads together. Despite every ounce of my body wanting to throw her stuff to the streets — or turn it into a bonfire — we decided to charge her a fair market price for storage space. After all, she did use our apartment as storage space for four months without our consent. We even gave her a full security deposit back. It was generous of us, and it eliminated any reason for us to lay awake at night.

When it came time for the girl to come pick up her belongings, she couldn’t and didn’t look me in the eye.

***

Hatred feels like poison running through your veins, contaminating your mind, body, and spirit. I wish that awful feeling upon no one. I know from experience that hatred stems from pain, fear, and the lack of awareness. The pain of feeling left behind, betrayed, lied to, taken for granted, and taken advantaged of. The fear of not knowing if you’ll ever experience anything better. The lack of knowing how and why people do what they do.

As I prepared to enter my final year of college, I let go of all the pain and anger I felt in my heart because I knew that would be the ultimate path toward freedom. As I worked to put everything behind me, I could breathe again. I was free.

***

Time heals all wounds, and this was no different. It took me four years to write this piece without breaking down into a fit of rage and emotional dysentery.

Through this journey, I learned to take care of my mind, body, and spirit to achieve greater self-awareness. I learned how to identify and avoid fake, disingenuous people and instead, surround myself with people who share similar values and priorities as me.

My cleanliness standards went down, and with my most recent roommate, I never imposed cleaning chores because I cared less and I learned that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Through time, I learned to view the story from her perspective. The stresses of this girl’s life blinded her to the needs of others. Either that, or she simply does not consider other people’s feelings and points of view. Regardless, she’s human too, and has her own side of the story to tell.

At the end of the day, I came out of this experience as a stronger, more self-sustaining person, and I am all the better for it. I have become more cynical of the world and the people in it, but that has given me the tools I need to defend myself in this sometimes cruel and unforgiving world. Besides, naivety and innocence are reserved for children, and children do and must grow up.

Time heals all wounds, and thanks to honest and deliberate self-reflection, close friends, family, and the powers of the universe, I can finally rest easy knowing it turned out okay for me. She was one lesson I learned the hard way, and despite everything, I do wish her well.

Peace in,

Mel

)
Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade