Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Talking About: Surviving the EVIL Frathouse--Or Actually, Escaping The Evil Cathouse

Let me tell you something: no one is prepared to suddenly box up all of their possessions and move overnight.

I had a lot of stuff. It wasn't...a HUGE amount, necessarily, but I was a book lover, and so I had tons of those. CDs? Well, some, although fortunately my years in college coincided with Napster's debut, so I had fewer than I otherwise might. DVDs? Yeah, because it was before the age of Amazon. But not a lot, because I have really never been a TV watcher.

And I had cupboards full of hair product I'd never used. And makeup. (WHEN will I learn my lesson? I never use this shit, like, ever. But I buy it anyway.)

And shoes. OMG THE SHOES. Some of them I still can't find, and I miss them. I'm still missing some items of clothing--seriously, I lost CLOTHES in this move. That just seems wrong to me, somehow. Clothes are not--at least mine are not--expensive, or overall too bulky, but yet I lost key items in this move and I'm still so fucking angry about it, I suspect because I'm still getting over the fact that I suddenly had to box up all of my possessions and move overnight.
The signs had been there for some time, really, this ex-roommate whose girlfriend was the most awful person I had ever known, but since I tend to sit on my emotions, I just struggled through somehow. The yelling. The black eyes on my ex-roommate. The fact that this woman, her girlfriend--did I mention, a twice-convicted domestic violence felon?--would start telling me how awful a person I was, when my ex-roommate wasn't there, because this felon didn't have a home to go to--shocking--and just had to abuse someone, the way an alcoholic will drink hand sanitizer if that's all you've got. And then when I finally had the courage to voice my concerns to my ex-roommate, a woman whom I'd known for 20 years and whom I thought cared for me as a friend, she made it very clear that she didn't care about my boundaries, my safety, or my life. "(Twice convicted domestic violence felon) is my life now," she said.

Well then.

I hired movers and my mother came, gods bless her, and E, who was rather new in my life at that time, also came and actually made things worse, but at the same time I loved that he wanted to stand up for me, was willing to physically approach (Twice convicted domestic violence felon) if she threatened my life, which she ended up doing.
It was Mayday, and so the numerous times that we called the cops--they didn't answer. They never came. I called, E called, and the Landlord of our apartment building called. No cop response whatsoever. So glad I'm paying THEIR wages with my taxes. Being threatened for my life in my own apartment, by a convicted felon. And no response. AWESOME.
The movers almost left, citing that it was too dangerous an environment. Fortunately I convinced them to stay, in the face of (Twice convicted domestic violence felon) who kept yelling at them, telling them that I was a cunt who they should never believe. Yes. Because a sure sign of sanity is yelling violently at strangers. That WAS fortunate because it was literally the only day I had to move--I had taken the day off from work, because I no longer had weekends available. I had been in SoCal the weekend before and I would be in NYC the weekend after, with E. If the movers had left I might NEVER have moved.
It helped, I think, that she was so abjectly crazy--telling me, and my mother, and the movers, that it was HER apartment and she had a right to do what she wanted in it--well, honey, given that my ex-roommate moved you in a week ago, you aren't paying rent, and your name is certainly not on the lease because there's a very strong policy about felons getting leases--honey, it's not actually your apartment. At all.

And then the fun began.

I actually got out of there, leaving behind hundreds of dollars of belongings that I'll never see again, before (Twice convicted domestic violence felon) kicked out an apartment window, which my ex-roommate told me about by phone call. "Landlord was so upset, I just felt so sorry for him," she said. "He was so upset! I felt so sad for him!"

I hung up the phone shortly after. 

And this is not even mentioning the times in which ex-roommate's mother called me, asking my opinion of the recent screaming match that she'd witnessed between ex-roommate and (Twice-convicted-domestic-violence-felon). Each time I had to reassure the mother: Yes, ex-roommate has fallen in love with a violently abusive and crazy woman. She's 28 now. She's still just a barista at Starbucks and she has never taken responsibility for anything, so I can't imagine she's going to start now. And she's 28 now.  There's not much you or I can do about it. I just moved out. Sorry.

1 comment:

Sean Oliver said...

Whoa. Drama.