When my parents were married and bought their first house, I got a real bedroom of my own with 2 bunkbeds, my own dresser and a toy chest. It was awesome. I loved that house. But after my parents divorced we moved far away to Pittsburgh and things went downhill.
In Pittsburgh, I had to share a bedroom with my older sister for a year. She took great pleasure in bossing me around and bullying me as much as possible. Sharing a bedroom made it worse.
After about a year, my mother’s new boyfriend (my future stepfather) moved in. Then he let his ex-girlfriends and their kids move in with us whenever they were evicted from their places. Some stayed fro weeks and others for months. My bedroom situation changed according to who was living with us at the time. One time, my bedroom was our unheated sunporch. Another time, it was a closet sized crib room. Another time, I got the big bedroom but had to share it with my “pseudo-foster brothers”.
A few years later when I was in middle school, we moved to the ghetto. We moved into a big old brownstone wreck. My sister got her own bedroom. I got my own huge bedroom! I was thrilled until a month later when one of my stepfather real kids ran away to live with us and I got yet another roommate.
There was only one roommate I liked – Arthur. He was a full-time college student who lived on campus and only stayed with us during holidays and summers. Arthur’s mother had dated my stepfather at some point. Later she was murdered so Arthur had nowhere to go and my stepfather stepped up.
Arthur was smart, sweet, athletic, kind and friendly. He helped me tie my tie for my 8th grade graduation. He had many girlfriends. He took my sister and me to the movies and to play basketball at night. I loved that guy.
All the rest of my roommates were a pain in the ass. I remember one kid who was with us off and on for years. All night long he would violently rock in the bed and wake me up. His rocking was like doing complete fast paced situps. He did hundreds of these every night. The bed would creak and bang against the wall. When the noise got so loud it woke me I’d have to get out of bed and shake him awake to get him to stop. (I now realize, as an adult, that this poor kid suffered from some serious mental issues. Back then, I just thought he was a weird kid, a delinquent and a liar.)
Anyway, between my sister – who took every opportunity to torture me and make my life miserable and my unwanted pseudo-siblings who disrupted my peace, I hated having roommates (except for Arthur).
My mother finally divorced my stepfather when I was 17 and I got my own bedroom, which became my oasis. My bedroom was my entire world. I did my homework there. I talked to my friends on the phone there. I read. I worked out. I hung out with my girlfriend and my friends. I played the drums.
I had my own bedroom for 4 years until I moved in my my (future) wife. Sharing a bedroom with her, and a home with her kids was something entirely different, obviously.
I didn’t have my own bedroom again until my wife died 29 years later. It’s been more than 4 years that I’ve now lived alone.
And I love it.
I wish my wife was still alive. Living with her was wonderful. But she’s gone.
I can’t imagine living with anyone else ever again.
I don’t want to share a bed. I don’t want to give up any closet space. I don’t want someone else’s food in my fridge, stuff in my house or car in my driveway.
It’s nice not having roommates.
I know people who served in the military, lived in dorms, and even had roommates as adults. Some seemed to really enjoy having roommates. Perhaps I would have too, had I been in any of these situations.
Since I did not, I’ll stick with what I know.