Turns out, the worst part of student housing isn’t the costly utilities—it’s living with a guy who’s one DSM-5 test from being the antagonist of a Netflix documentary.
In mid-January of my first year with no housing prospects, I didn’t have the luxury of being picky with roommates. One day, my friend found a cute three-bedroom apartment and said she knew a “super chill guy” who could sign a lease with us. I was hesitant to move in with a man, but I met him a few times before and didn’t notice any red flags. I told myself it would probably be fine.
It wasn’t. It was worse than I could’ve ever imagined.
When we first moved into our new apartment, he seemed harmless. He helped us with assignments, paid rent on time, and even let us borrow his car for weekly Costco runs.
It wasn’t long before his mask started to slip. Little comments about my body that made me uncomfortable, lingering touches that were far from accidental. One night, I found out he went through my underwear drawer when he announced it at my birthday party. He told everyone he was “looking for a lighter,” then smirked and added, “nice vibrator by the way,” like it was a joke instead of a violation. Happy birthday to me, I guess.
From there, my life became a psychological thriller I never auditioned for. He’d make sexual jokes, invade my space, and gaslight me whenever I tried to set boundaries. Eventually, I learned he’d been lying about nearly everything. His job, his family—even his relationships. He’d smile too insincerely, lie too confidently, and twist every conversation until I was the one apologizing.
By December, I found out he was stealthily acting the same way towards my friend. Out of curiosity, we googled the traits of a psychopath and were faced with what seemed like his autobiography: manipulativeness, superficial charm, pathological lying, and a lack of empathy. He checked every box, down to his copy of “The 48 Laws of Power” on his bedside table.
We were scared to go home, slept with our doors locked, and counted down the days until winter break. When we finally told him he needed to move out, he agreed suspiciously easily and offered to keep paying rent “to make things right.” For a moment, I almost thought he had a conscience.
I was wrong.
When we returned in January, everything was gone. In true holiday spirit, it was like the Grinch came to pay us a visit over Christmas break. He took the air fryer, the cutlery, the dining room table, and even the Wi-Fi router. The only thing left was a cease-and-desist letter from his “lawyer father,” who turned out to be a paralegal with a Gmail account.
Just when we thought we were free from his torment, we received an eviction notice, as our roommate-from-hell stopped paying his portion of the rent.
Thankfully, after many tearful phone calls, our landlord was very understanding, and everything ended up being okay. It took a while to shake off the fear and anger, but eventually, peace found its way back in. That May, we found a new house with amazing friends, zero compulsive liars, and no perverts digging around in my lingerie drawer.
I’ve certainly upgraded, not just in roommates, but in boundaries. If this living situation taught me anything, it’s that peace is priceless. I used to want revenge, but I learned that walking away quietly and letting karma run its course is even more empowering. If nothing else, surviving chaos gives me a better reason to trust my gut, while making for great writing material.
Creepy men may be more prevalent than I thought, but I now have the confidence to put them in their place…or at least spot them before move-in day.
Tags
Column, confessions, Culture, Hot mess, Lifestyle
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