Gayle Deserved Better.
I had a meltdown before my 20th birthday; I was officially too old. I played Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain a gazillion times, breaking down at the lyrics: “You can’t be 20 on Sugar Mountain….”
I wailed aloud, my voice completely clogged with tears, “you’re leaving there toooo soooon!”
I believed deep in my soul that I was leaving childhood much too early; I did not want to grow up. Twenty felt like I was trading a roller coaster ride for a desk job.
My parents told me not to be so sad: “your twenties are a wonderful time of life!” And my friends thought 20 was a fine age: “one more year till adulthood!” they exclaimed giddily.
I was often told not to feel what I felt.
To squash my feelings, I used alcohol. On my 20th birthday, I drank myself into oblivion.
It was the beginning of the school year, so students had just arrived on campus. My new roommate, Gayle, and I didn’t know each other well, but we had planned a fun year.
By my junior year in college, though, I was a holy terror. While my sophomore year roommate had deemed me irritable, and the dean had deemed me a problem drinker, poor Gayle had no idea what baggage I carried.
We drank at the Hood, I think. I don’t remember much beyond birthday shots and loud voices. I don’t remember who was there, or how I got back to my dorm. I don’t remember when or where I passed out.
And I was blissfully unaware that I could have died that night.
Gayle, however, was hyper-aware. I blacked out, then passed out … then repeatedly vomited in my sleep.
I don’t know how she did it, but Gayle somehow stripped me of my clothes, my blankets, my sheets and pillowcases. Gayle spent the night making sure I didn’t choke to death on my own vomit. And somehow the room was all clean when I finally woke the next day.
I want to be very clear about this sad fact: at 20, I had no idea that this was a dangerous episode in my life.
I didn’t know until years later about all the people who die of alcohol poisoning, who choke on their own vomit, who never see the light of day again.
I sincerely hope I expressed my gratitude to my new roommate who, in our first week together, not only saved my life but cleaned up the disgusting mess I’d made without a single complaint. I could not have thanked her sufficiently.
I think about this often. My response to this night, and this new roommate, was to bury my shame in more alcohol. I drank more than ever that year and spent many, many nights in other rooms, partially to avoid Gayle. We managed to share a room for the remainder of the year, but I tried to never be there.
Looking back, I realize that I mentally dehumanized Gayle to make my life easier. We had little in common. She was generous and caring and sweet to a fault. And I was selfish and harsh and pushy, like a lurking sea monster.
Gayle deserved better than a puking, lurking sea monster. But she stuck it out, and I owe her my life.