Many of my roommates get nicknames known usually only to me.
The Psycho Loon.
The Dangerous Bitch.
My current roommate is the Ritalin Roommate.
To my knowledge, she isn’t on ritalin and I’m not suggesting that she should be. I don’t support the MASSIVE and RAMPANT overprescribing of drugs and the rush to medicate everybody out of their health, wellbeing and minds. )Backing away from the hot topic of the American society’s love of & dependence on meds.)
Ritalin, as you probably know, is used to calm so-called hyperactive kids. (Backing away from that discussion too.)
My roommate’s not a bad person but a tightly-wound GO GO GO person. Only time I’ve seen her calm is while watching TV at night. There’s a frenetic energy in how she speaks and moves. I’m quickly fatigued, even exhausted at times, by her presence and interactions.
Because the situation’s soured recently (per prior posts), our interactions are now virtually nil, by (my) design. I spend little time at home and when I am there, I’m locked away in my two rooms in “my” section of the house. On occasion I MAY step out into the side yard.
I come out only for drink or food either when she’s in bed or not home or, barring those, safely involved in her tasks in her area of the house.
It’s a crappy way to live, a imprisoning way to live. However, since she’s made it abundantly clear that the kitchen table is off limits for lap-topping and the kitchen is to be used ONLY for cooking and the so-called common living room is hers, I’m relegated to my rooms.
Ritalin Roommate is an apt nickname for her. The Mistress is as good, if not better, now that I think again. She dominates and lords over my presence in every part of the house, excepting my rooms, INCLUDING the so-called shared common areas.
That is really really unfair. And it creates a Parent-Child dynamic with the parent DICTATING to the child what will and will not occur and what will and will not be permitted in the house.
Well, not every parent is like that but mine was. My childhood was hell under the thumb of a father who was extraordinarily oppressive. Inhumanely oppressive. Hard words to write but if the bondage fits …
I am 57, my roommate 61 or 62. She is WAY old enough to know better than to treat her renters like dumb children. She is WAY old enough to know that respect — her buzzword, ironically — kindness and consideration make for if not a happy home, then a well-functioning one.
Shit. This stuff is really weighing on me. Unfortunately, I’ve no choice but to endure. AH-GAIN. Just isn’t the right time or circumstances to make a move.
Plus Mercury retro is right around the corner (June 7 – July 1). And since I have to give 30 days’ notice, in probability I’m looking at 2-1/2 more months there.
I can’t take it. I’m not enjoying my “home” life and I’m not enjoying this lack of employment one bit.
With home not a place of respite and stress coming at me from ALL sides, those ubiquitous American meds are startin’ to look pretty good! (not really) What I’d like to say to my roommate is: Give me
liberty drugs or give me death!