The following piece is satire and should not be misconstrued as actual reporting. Any resemblance to a student, staff or faculty member is coincidental.
The diagnosis of my dorm room
When I moved into my dorm, I expected string lights, maybe a rug and the faint smell of instant ramen. What I got instead was a full-service psychiatrist’s office. My half of the room is a standard dorm disaster. My roommate’s half features a faux-leather couch, framed motivational quotes and a waiting area chair that suspiciously resembles one from the library — one of the good ones, nevertheless.
The couch of doom
The couch is where souls go to nap, and “trauma” goes to get diagnosed for extra credit. If I dare sit on it, I’m immediately asked, “And how does that exam make you feel?” Honestly? I want my desk back.
But no, my roommate insists, “the couch invites vulnerability,” and “I already sold your desk for scrap.” I think it mostly invites back pain, but I’m not a professional, I guess.
Therapy-speak as a second language
Living here means every roommate conversation is in therapy-speak.
“Can you stop blasting TikToks?” becomes, “I'm noticing your noise levels are crossing my sonic boundaries.”
“Do the dishes” morphs into, “I feel unseen when the plates remain unwashed.”
Even the sticky notes have evolved into affirmations: “Remember: growth starts with taking out the trash.” Thanks, Carl Jung.
The co-pay crisis
Then there’s the $20 co-pay. No, really. To reclaim my side of the room, I have to Venmo my roommate $20 “per session.” Which is still cheaper than healthcare in the United States. At this point, I'm basically paying rent twice: once to the University and once to Dr. Roomate, PhD (Pretty Huge Delusion). The irony? I can’t even get an extension on my assignments, just on my trauma.
At least my roommate takes Venmo; Blue Cross and Blue Shield doesn’t even take my calls. Honestly, it’s the most affordable therapy I’ve ever had, even if I didn’t sign up for it.
Boundaries? Never heard of them
The real problem is the boundaries, or lack thereof. Try waking up at 2 a.m. to find your roommate scribbling notes like “patient present with chronic snoring and resting ugly face.” Or having your resident assistant walk in and ask if student insurance covers this setup (spoiler: it doesn’t).
Conclusion: summary and discharge
Diagnosis: Patient (me) presents with mild anxiety, severe sarcasm and acute claustrophobia from living inside a psychiatric practice.
Prognosis: poor. In therapy-speak, I’d say: “I feel unseen, invalidated and deeply inconvenienced.”
Treatment: transfer me to a single room, or at least waive the co-pay.
In roommate-speak: “Get your couch off my carpet.”
At this point, I’m not sure if I live with a student, a therapist or the ghost of Freud himself judging by the decor, all three share custody.
Faiza Mujahid is a junior at the School of Public Affairs and is a satire columnist for the Eagle.
This article was written by Faiza Mujahid. It was edited by Aidan Dowell, Alana Parker, Quinn Volpe and Walker Whalen. Copy editing done by Sabine Kanter-Huchting, Arin Burrell, Paige Caron and Andrew Kummeth.
