Flatmates or Family? The Emotional Politics of Sharing a Space
About three weeks ago, I returned back to Leeds after a LONG Christmas break. I emphasise long because most of my home friends went back to their various universities much earlier than I did. So, for the final couple of weeks, I mainly only saw my parents.
Now, to clarify, I adore my parents, like a lot. We get on really well and have a relationship I’m unbelievably grateful for. However, this doesn’t stop me from transforming into a mutant version of my 16-year-old self every time I’m at home for more than a couple of weeks. I get moody, quiet, irritable, sassy; it’s not even something I do consciously. In fact, I’m aware of how childishly I’m acting and consciously try NOT to. But, despite being fairly self-aware, sometimes even just one “How was your day?” too many, or staying slightly too long in the same room is enough to subject my poor parents to snappy retorts or brooding silence. Worried that my childhood home was being haunted by the malevolent spirit of my teenage past, I confided in my friends – and what do you know? They all felt exactly the same.
Can the place you’re living in completely change your behaviour? Or is it all about the people you’re living with?
Arriving back in Leeds, I felt myself switch almost immediately. My freshly 22-year-old self had emerged, ready to make the most of my final semester at university. I felt at peace in myself again, and couldn’t help feeling guilty for what a little menace I had been. Was it the gorgeous Hyde Park that brought out this inner peace? Campus? Or perhaps a chaotic house filled with seven wonderful girls? I suspect a combination, but the latter has defined my time here.
Whenever I tell people I live with six other girls, their reaction is usually the same: “SEVEN girls? Isn’t that loads of drama?” And to put it bluntly, no. Living with six girls has been a total joy. Giggles filling the hallways, sharing new meal ideas, running into each other’s rooms to swap clothes, a nightly viewing of Zoella’s Vlogmas, dancing around the kitchen and post-night-out debriefs. Don’t get me wrong, we have minor disagreements, but when you live together, who doesn’t?
I have never once snapped at my housemates like I have with my parents, nor have I ever felt the urge. But why? We both intensely share a space, see each other every day, and ask how it was; what’s the difference?
Having had this conversation with quite a few of my friends, this is what we’ve concluded. At university, you start a whole new life. You’re shopping, cooking, cleaning and organising for yourself every day, with nobody telling you what to do or when to do it. Now this might seem pretty obvious, but what nobody quite prepares you for is having to transition in and out of that independent headspace. You would have thought by third year it’s something I would’ve gotten used to, yet every year this adaptation catches me by surprise.
I think one of the hardest dichotomies of this double life is wanting simultaneously to be treated like an adult and a child. Before I go back home, I can’t wait for the comfort of my mum’s homemade meals. Fast-forward a couple of weeks, and I can’t wait to be cooking on my own terms again. Just before I head back to Leeds, I can’t wait to have my own space back. Fast-forward another couple of weeks and I just want a hug and a chat from my mum.
Suddenly, my housemates have become this new, unconventional family that I wish I didn’t have to leave. I think the knowledge that our time together is finite definitely affects the way that we interact, knowing that life won’t always be like this and wanting to make the most of it. So maybe that’s it. My parents, at least in my head, will always be there to come back to. Consequently, the space I share with them doesn’t feel as special, so to speak, because it’s always been there and feels like it always will. However, this isn’t the case with my housemates, so I think I treat our time together with a little more care.
Moving forward, I’m going to try and start treating each space in my life, and the people in it, with equal kindness. Although home and university don’t make me feel the same way, they’re not supposed to. I’m lucky to have experienced both. And even though I can’t promise my teenage alter-ego won’t rear its ugly head when I move back home in the summer, 22-year-old me will be having serious words with her.
Words by Anna Lawrence-Wasserberg