Sonia Said: Can you have PTSD from sharing flats for too long?
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
I wake up, ready to run for my door. What’s happening, why didn’t my alarm clock wake me up? I check the phone. It’s on, showing 4 am in the morning.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
I look at Sassenach, who’s looking at the ceiling, then at me. For some reason, I imagine her eyes say: ‘And why aren’t you banging some man who could be my dad?’
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
I jump out of bed. That’s it. I will ring the bell and yell. The sentences are already forming in my head as I put (too) comfy pyjama pants on. I’m feeling strong and powerful. I love this shit. But this time, something’s off. Sassenach is still looking at me with that judgement in her eyes.
‘No.’ I say to the words I know she’s thinking. ‘I did NOT become an uncool spinster with a cat. I JUST need my sleep.’
But I don’t go.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Right, one more and I’ll come up there! I wave my index finger threateningly. But I don’t go. Instead, I sit on the edge of my bed and do the most unusual thing: question myself.
I’m a person of conflict. When someone deserves it, I’m there, ready to fight, scratch eyes, swear and never back down. This has been pointed out to me on several occasions. But there is another thing that has happened on several occasions over the last decade. Wherever I went, whoever I lived with, something was always wrong. And it wans’t me, I swear! Find one (normal, working, flat-sharing) person in London who doesn’t have horror stories from the experience of living with other people.
Because it’s really hard. What begins as an adventure and fun times with newly met people, quickly turns into a nightmare that leaves you itching for going back home to parents (which I would never do, WORST flatmates ever!) The often thing about London is: no one stands still. Every big house is just a stop to millions of people, its walls full of different memories and energy (my old Wood Green house used to be butchers), welcoming anyone who has month’s rent ready in their pocket, no questions asked.
knockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknockknock
When no questions are asked, trouble begins. Sometimes it can be good, especially if you’re that person that just needs a bed because you lost your job, you have some cash for a week, a friend is vouching for you and your last option is to pack your bags and book a flight back home. But sometimes, a mix of selfish people and landlords who don’t care as long as they have their rent can leave you in some shitty situations.
I’m thankful for all those situations. They (and many hospitality jobs) taught the awkward introverted me how to fight. And when you’re a young woman in London, you have to fight every-fucking-day-and-minute for the most ridiculous things. And must admit, until a certain age, I was an offender myself. Late nights, bang bang sounds, but usually, if someone told me once, I’d consider it (and if not, please note it’s too late to complain. I’m a different person now).
KNOCKKKKKKKKKK ————————————————————-KNOCKKKKKKKKK
But at some point, you remember you’re human and you have basic needs. You need to sleep at night. You would like your food to remain on your shelf in the fridge so you know you still have something to eat before going shopping. You don’t want to smell weed in your room. You would like to stop being the only person who cleans. You’d like to live with normal people, not pathological women who
share a little room with an 18-year-old son, grunt as a way of communicating, leave their unfinished food in the kitchen for a month (I have photos, do you want to see?) because ‘I’m no cleaner.’
are little thieves who show up with week’s worth of rent and a connection to landlord’s friend then disappear with your money (told you not to give any to her, Julia!!!) and you find yourself screaming at your own landlord about his stupidity.
are proper old crazy women who scream instead of talking at all times because, well, no reason.
There is so much worse that I can’t remember now (send me yours?) but somehow, instead of it making me more tolerant, I became a walking active volcano, sensitive to the smallest sound in my precious little flat. And it’s bad. No one but Sassenach could live with me at the moment (If she meows one too many times, I just lock the door and pretend she isn’t here). When my family and friends came for Christmas and we played charades, you’d see me crying, DON’T JUMP! NEIGHBOURS!
Which is why I decided I was overreacting and it was time to learn how to let go. Not every conflict created in my head needs to be resolved in the real world. The walls are thin, I am sensitive and my upstairs neighbour is a stupid bitch who is going to burn in the ashes of my rage (aggressively pounds on the ceiling).
So what that 50% of my day is listening to THUMP THUMP THUMP as if little bombs were thrown from the sky on me. I will not make a pun about how living above her is like living in the war zone. Oh, somehow it’s already written down on a little bit of paper. I will not drop it with her and therefore start yet another war.
THUMP THUMPPPPP THUMP THUMP THUMP
Why is the note in my hand? Why am I on the third floor, sneaking to a stranger’s door?