RELATIONSHIPS June 21, 2004 Issue

At home in the heart of Sydney

By Louise Pritchard

IN THE BEGINNING , each time I opened the front door, I felt loved. I was grateful for finding this well-located house in Sydney and living with three caring young women—university students like myself. We shared similar lifestyles, values, goals—even friends. We socialized together and often stayed up late talking, laughing, and providing advice and support to one another.

But after six months, I'd begun to dread going home. One girl had become ill-tempered and irritable. Another didn't pay her bills on time. My flatmates began talking behind each others' backs, criticizing, and arguing. Our housekeeping became a mess, too. We blamed one another. No one made any effort to clean the bathroom or take out the garbage. Finally, the Friday before Christmas, one of my flatmates came home late one night after drinking too much and said some things to me that really hurt.

I went to my room and tried to pray and calm myself. Then I phoned my mother and made arrangements to spend the rest of the weekend at my parents' house. There, I thought, I'd be able to get over the tension and forgive my flatmate. But I continued to feel hurt and betrayed. By Monday morning I was not only furious, but also ill with the flu.

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