The walls are thin in DRA

My first year at university was a struggle to say the least; I dragged six suitcases, a guitar, a bunch of useless adapters, and a ukulele across an ocean.

I was allocated to a hall of residence "DRA", the big one outside of town. The soulless one, devoid of heart. It was also quite expensive, a reminder that weighed on me now that I had been attributed the fear-inducing "International Student" status despite being a UK citizen. My punishment for being forced abroad, for being exposed to cultures, plural.

It would be an understatement though, to say I was excited. It's university.

My first roommate seemed really sweet, and she invited me to a party. Maybe we could innocently tease the boys in our flat, complain about their lack of cleanliness, organise flat dinners, become a real girls group. A feminist trio, because we were three you see.

Though I learned soon enough that we were one, me, and they were two. I missed the party I had been invited to, a mistake with a social faux pas fatality rate I had underestimated. I was never asked out again.

A month later, I started to come to terms with the dull fact that I probably wouldn’t have a tight bond with anyone I was living with. My notes on their doors unstuck themselves and found their way into trash cans, and catching them on their way out was a futile call for help launched into the nothingness, like a failed rocket.

I also noticed that our shared living spaces here in DRA were getting dirtier, to the point that it became, frankly, unacceptable. That's when I had the idea of the century: I would do them a favour and clean, and solidify my spot as a really considerate and cool person.

Unfortunately for me and my perhaps naïve outlook on life at the time, this became my biggest mistake yet, as it was apparently the most annoying thing I could ever have done.


Not only did my flat continue to ignore my presence, host flat parties without me, making sure not to notify me beforehand, but when my mother visited for my birthday, they ate half of my cake that I had left carelessly in our fridge.

But surely, they knew now that it was my birthday, and those celebrations were not uncommon in our house. I felt lonely in my room, as I waited for someone to knock and say something. My day crumbled and fell apart.

The walls are thin in DRA, you know. You can hear almost everything that’s being said if it isn’t whispered. I've sat on my bed, a flood of tears, listening to my name being thrown around with various adjectives I had never before seen myself as, obsessive, annoying, strange, irritating, dumb, stupid, boring, dirty, autistic, lame, goodie two shoes, Virgin Mary.

As the year went on, Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus were blasted next door to me, as if to sarcastically say "Welcome Home". 

I became a recluse, and it probably didn't help my flat reputation as an antisocial bitch. I remember once coming into our common room to get some tea, only to be asked if the quiet radio music they were playing was 'too loud'. My privilege to enter the kitchen for normal reasons had now been revoked, it was clear. This offended me the most.

Actually, that's not true. Because my real breaking point came two days ago, when I was left a note on my door, warning me that the girls planned on having guests over and that they promised to clean afterwards. I thought that it was sweet and was convinced they finally felt guilty. After all, they're human.

When the guests arrived, drinking games began, and true to their words, the party was very loud. My door was open, hoping to solicit some conversation or friendship. One of the guests that had been living in the flat here and there, came into my room, tipsily informing me of my flatmates’ worry about the party being too loud and if I wouldn’t like it. I was again being branded as some senile idiot with no social life. It was a Friday night at 9pm.

When everyone had left, I entered the kitchen to eat for the first time that night. It was a mess to say the least, but they had promised to clean, so I left it untouched.

I admit, I was curious to see what games they had played as I hadn’t been invited. Some answers to quizzes seemed fun and I was a bit jealous, but upon finding one of the game sheets, I read “Name all the people in this flat", with the answer being "A__, S___, A___, S___, and FREAK." An arrow pointed to the word freak, and underneath it stood my name.

Call me pathetic, but I retreated to my room, sobbing quietly. I thought this kind of back-talk was a middle school thing. I called some friends, started feeling better about myself.

Yesterday, some girl's used underwear that had been lurking in our flat hallway for a long time, to the point that I had asked for it to be removed, was hung on my doorknob. Some weird threat and attempt at humiliation.

Of course, I asked who, who had done it. That's what we all want to know, that's why we read books. Who is guilty. But none of them spoke up, and all of them swore they were innocent. No one was guilty.

But I will give you your villains, because I will tell you this: they were all guilty anyway, to the point that any fucks I had left about being a 'cool' flatmate who doesn't snitch went right through the damn front door. I went directly to campus superiors, and they held a meeting in which I was awkwardly left alone with two of the perpetrators for 10 minutes before a warden came in.

They were on their phones as he arrived, and I tried my best, but I burst into tears. The mentioning of each abusive act that was being read aloud with my permission from an email I had sent to recap the events I had endured (for this is the word), had my eyes going red. They apologised, and gave me the strangest and kindest hugs I had felt in a long while.


Further reflections:

After that, it went quiet in my flat. Though soon enough, a huge party was organised. This time, I was part of the planning, some sort of ruse to avoid a complaint I imagine. One look at the guest list had me skip the thing all together to attend a philosophy meeting instead. I didn't want to hang out with everyone who had labelled me a freak. Still, I supplied money for alcohol and bought chips before I vanished from the premises.


I came home at 11pm, was given the middle finger by some random person in my hallway, and hurried into my room. I was still met with "Is that her? Fuck her! Dude, fuck her so much!" from behind the closed door.

And then, someone called Connor was being egged on to bang on my door, as others were telling him "No, don't, she's scary". It unsettled me, and it made me angry. Perhaps not so gracefully, I swung the door open and shouted "Who the fuck is Connor?". Said person stood cowering behind his friend, too brutish to admit the deed.

As I told him off, the false-feminists that had called me frightening encouraged me, some disgusting and cheap buffer to my emotions. Is this the power that doors have? Do they change people entirely?

I was so upset that I started crying again, I just can't help it, I'm an emotional person. And I'll say it always: it's allowed.

One of the girls from my flat knocked on my door, eager to apologise, and seemingly upset. My friend had come over to join me in my room. He opened and said "Now is not the time." She apparently thought the next day was, so came up to me to say sorry as I was doing my makeup to go out.

Life goes on I thought. I'll be out next year. Both holidays the flatmates had left the apartment dirty for me to clean for the upcoming cleaning inspection, with expired foods from January with mould on them, to dirty socks, other students' clothing, pots and pans burned alike, a dead fly in the corner (maybe he died of being teased, the promise of an open window that kept being closed, flicking, and spitting, poor guy).

You know, I wished many times for my mother, as primal as it seems. I had wished for my dad too, because he always knows how to handle these situations, how to complain correctly, how to be taken seriously even if you feel like crying, how to shed light on my side of the situation. I had wished for more friends. And on a darker note, I had wished for an out. But all throughout it all, when I had imagined myself gone or un-seriously entertained the idea of being dead, I saw their wretched faces, pathetic and infested with egotistical sorrow, crying "She was the best flatmate", "So considerate", "We had our differences but she was loved by everyone", "Yes I'm going through a really tough time right now, obviously, it's so weird for someone you knew and lived with to just die like that", and it made me sick.

You don't get to win here. I am the one who comes out stronger on the other side, not you. I'm here to write down what you did to me and my experience at 17 years old. But I'm not here to stoop to your level, and you can bet I'm not here to bring you fame.

Keep trying, your names will never make it into my work. 

September - April 2014/15

University of St Andrews