Please be patient and considerate as most of us move to staying home. Every one of us is going through something similar. You may not think of us as your housemates, but we do share a home.
These are uncertain and difficult times, and I understand if you’re more stressed and anxious than usual. Me too! I promise I’m not stomping around on purpose. I swear I can’t control my cats zooming around — yes, sometimes even during quiet hours.
Ever since your first noise complaint the night we moved in, my housemates and I have tip-toed around in the living room, our carpeted bedrooms. When you complained again later that week, when we invited two friends over for a relatively quiet board game night, the same security guard apologized on your behalf and asked if we might be able to walk toe-heel, too.
And then the ceiling abuse started. One time my cat jumped off the bed too loudly, and five loud knocks sent her scurrying under the couch. It was 11 at night, one hour after quiet hours had begun, so I felt embarrassed. I never wanted to be that annoying, noisy neighbor.
The next day, our doorbell rang. Not expecting guests, we opened the door and saw you standing there, only a few inches from entering our home. You asked us, relatively cordially, if we could stop walking around so loudly, especially at night. “I’m not a crazy, unreasonable person,” you said. “I just want to be able to sleep at night.”
We apologized profusely, confessing we didn’t know the floors reverberated so loudly. We promised to try to keep it down even more, that we were only walking around, making lunch, going to the restroom, playing with our pets.
I started feeding my cats more wet food at night, and most of the time, they would curl up and nap, and everything was well. But this didn’t always work. Sometimes we would drop small items on the floor when coming home with a fresh Costco haul, or run into a cardboard box we forgot to recycle the previous night, and just like that — BAM BAM BAM — you were back.
My whole routine began to change. Regretfully, I stopped playing fetch with my kitten in the bedroom. I started shutting both cats out when they would chase each other, hoping you would be more tolerant of noise from above your living room. I avoided using my new Waterpik, paranoid that the reverberations would somehow reach your delicate, porcelain ears.
I still remember the night one of my housemates couldn’t take it anymore, and in their rage, stomped right back at you. I was impressed (and I’ll admit, alarmed) by how loud your voice was, cursing us through the floorboards. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I could hear your venom.
We finally called the leasing office the next morning, lodging a formal complaint and asking for advice. They confirmed that what we were doing fell under “reasonable living noises”, and they told us they would speak to you… but there wasn’t much else they could do.
It was quiet for a few blessed weeks. Or maybe I just wasn’t home as you tormented my cats in the daytime. But now, since we’re all hunkered down to fight back against this unrelenting virus, you’ve banged on your ceiling at 10 in the morning, 6, 7, 8 at night.
I’m at a complete loss. I don’t understand what you’re hoping to achieve, what else we can possibly change to appease your standards. None of your latest outbursts fall within our complex’s quiet hours. Each time: five loud knocks, literally shaking the ground beneath my feet. Our own personal earthquake.
I’m sitting here writing this all down, and my housemate is outside, putting his plates away in the dish washer. The door bumps against the floor. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. A few pans are jostled around. BAM BAM BAM. He starts the machine, humming to himself, and walks back to his room, forgetting to tip-toe. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.
I glance outside before he disappears from view and notice his headphones clamped against his head, music likely blasting, and he is none the wiser. That’s probably for the best.
Meanwhile, the unit upstairs has young children sprinting around in circles, jumping up and down on what I assume (and hope) are couches, squealing and laughing and playing. All 50 pounds of small human, thumping over our heads, then screaming at the top of their lungs.
They’re yelling and running, yelling, then jumping… and all I feel is pity for their parents who have been given the impossible task of entertaining cabin-fevered adolescents.
I know that, by now, I should be used to this. I should just ignore you, keep my headphones on, and live my life as normally as I possibly can. I can’t keep letting your inane behavior affect me.
But I can’t.
Every time I hear a thud or bump, even if it isn’t caused by you, I feel my heart start racing. Every time someone gets up from their chair without lifting the legs completely off the ground, I hold my breath. Every time I hear a soft pitter-patter of paws, I close my eyes and wait.
My anxiety has skyrocketed, and it has almost nothing to do with this pandemic.
I’m writing this because I feel the need to vent. We’re all stuck here for who knows how much longer, and I’m already hating it. Not because I am afraid of running out of supplies. Not because I miss the fresh air. Not because I worry for my friends who are suddenly unemployed and can’t afford their next rent payment.
Please.
Stop.