After a few late night heart-to hearts (when she had returned from a party and stirred me from my sleep), I began to realize that we weren’t very different after all. We both loved dogs. She rode horses—I liked horses. We both strove to do well in school. I came to the conclusion that her friends were bad influences and that, if it wasn’t for them, she would not drink and do drugs nearly as much.
During one of our heart-to-hearts, I mentioned the prescription medication that I took. She was overly interested, but I took this as being concerned my well-being I thought that we had become friends. That weekend I went home to visit my family.
I always had anxiety leaving the dorms for the weekend. I had fears that Kelly would mess up my side of the room, have a lot of friends over, or that she would be ridiculously intoxicated when I came back on Sunday. On that particular Sunday, all of those fears came to be true.
I walked into the room to find Kelly sitting at her desk, very still. I spoke to her and she slowly looked at me. She explained to me that she had taken too much ecstasy and she had become very jittery, so she solved the issue by taking a couple of “bars,” which I found out later to be hydrocodone. She insisted that she was okay because I was panicking. After I decided that she was indeed alright, I began to clean my side of the room. It was messier than I had remembered leaving it, but I assumed that I had just forgotten to clean before I left. While cleaning, I found some of my pills on the floor. I would not have found this suspect except for the fact that I had not yet taken that type of pill while in the dorms—the bottle was believed to be unopened.
When Kelly was in the shower I continued to clean and picked up all of the random pills on the floor. I found the bottle in my drawer and examined the label. There were supposed to be 90 pills in the bottle. So, I counted. I counted several times (I know this makes me seem paranoid). The pills in the bottle and the pills on the floor only added up to about 80 (Paranoia pays off!). I was concerned.
Kelly returned from the shower looking slightly perkier, so I decided to be blunt and ask her.
Me –“Did you take some of my pills from the bottle in my drawer? I just ask because I noticed some on the floor and some missing in the bottle…”
Kelly–“Oh my GOD! It was totally my friend, Ashley, you know her. She’s such a druggie. I casually mentioned what you took and she wanted some so bad! We just took a few! You barely ever need them, right? I’m sorry we touched your stuff! DAMN IT ASHLEY!”
I didn’t know what to do. So, I told her that I was going to let our suite-mate and RM know what happened. She said that she understood. The RM was bewildered– Kelly told her about all of the drugs and alcohol and sex. I was told that I could press charges, but I didn’t I felt bad for Kelly. I did blame Ashley. Kelly was to no longer be my roommate—she was kicked out of the dormitory. I felt like an immature tattle-tale for not being able to be cool with my roommate doing what she did. It wasn’t until a few years later, when Kelly died from a drug over-dose, that I realized that I hadn’t been wrong for calling attention to her abuse.