On the last Saturday of August, I moved into a dorm that resembled a stately brick home on the outside and a hospital on the inside. I blinked away the tears filling my eyes as every second spent shoving my life under the bed and onto high closet shelves echoed the threat of realizing I'd made a huge mistake. I was happy at my new home, and the community that had already begun to rally behind me reminded me of all I had to gain just by being here. What was I so worried about?

"What if you and your roommate don't get along?"

That was something my grandma asked me one of the last few days before I moved, and it caught me off guard. Of course we would get along. I mean, we Skyped and stuff, talked about what we were firm on in terms of whether we would buy a fridge together or what our guest policy would be. Everything should've been fine.

Only it wasn't.

It turned out there was a lot we didn't talk about, and it created more than a few issues. Our "talks" turned into the blame game, leaving me in choking sobs at the end of each one. I figured it was my fault for not knowing how to communicate with my roommate. Things got so bad that I stayed out of the room as much as possible. I'd one-up people who'd spent the afternoon in the library, telling them I'd been in there all day. Was that even something to be proud of? Was any of this?

This is not how it was supposed to turn out. We weren't going to be best friends by any means- we simply had too many differences- but we should've been able to get along, right?

We're not going to go into detail about what happened after that. Let's just say we fell apart.

I had this idea of who I wanted to be when I came to Hollins. This girl was a brazen, introverted badass who stomped her way around campus and never opened her mouth unless she had to. Instead, I cried just about every day. I fled my dorm late at night so the cause of my anxiety couldn't see the result of verbal bullying, People on the hall noticed and then they stopped caring. This was no one's problem but my own.

Even though she'd indirectly suggested I get back into therapy, I emailed my RA and told her I needed out. It had been three weeks. I talked with several people, repeating the same story but melting down in different spots. I finished with some paperwork and was out by the end of the week. There was just enough time spent moving out of my old dorm that I cried four more times.

Moving in with my new roommate was something out of a dream. We hit it off right from the moment I began dragging my life across Tinker Beach. Later on- after a week of living together- I'd bandage her leg she'd nicked while shaving, and she'd do a tarot card reading for me. This is how college was supposed to be. So what was all that mess before?

I don't think of the time before I was in Randy, my new dorm. I don't see the glare of fluorescent lights or feel the sinking feeling in my guts as I turn the key to my door. I don't live there anymore. I'm not my past anymore.