There is no doubt that the transition from in-home living to a dormitory would be hard on anybody. Little did I know just how difficult it would be for my first roommate, Tito. This fact was lost on me, however, on move-in day. To the horror of my family, we opened the door to a room that was not only lived-in, but reeked to high hell. The source of the stench lay behind Tito’s desk fan, what I can only assume to be a gym shirt… the culprit of it all. It sat on his desk, unassuming. But the fan idly blew about, fanning the stink throughout the room. This ungodly shirt came to be my very first impression of Tito, and I would not know why he was the way he is until later on.
Later that night, I got to meet and greet the man of the hour. He was genial enough, but our differences were clear. I had lived through times with not much money, taking the bus to school and caring for myself more with one parent at home. On the other hand—not to his discredit—Tito’s house was the opposite of lax. There was never a time where his parents were not dragging him to and fro. If my childhood was laissez-faire, his was strictly regimented. I lived a childhood with exposure to drugs and alcohol, while it was demonized in Tito’s life.
If there were two defining traits of Tito, I would put them in this order: Odorous and sheltered. It’s hard to evade the aroma that found itself cloaking around him. It was the same stench of BO, and it permeated throughout our room like a CO2 leak. There was never a second around Tito, in our entire month, when you could not piece out what that smell was. This made some nights unbearable, but one must adapt to change no matter how grim. Of course the stench was caused by his sheltered nature. I remember on one of our first nights as roommates, he tried asking me to throw his laundry in with mine. Socially unaware of the implications. Do you think I wanted his bombshell clothing anywhere near mine? His outfits remained the same during our time together, so I can only pray he has since learned the art… of doing laundry. Other things Tito neglected were bringing a sufficient amount of food (which includes bringing any appliances to cook), a barren wardrobe, and surviving off of, “whatever his parents packed him.”
Speaking more on his personal experiences with substances, that is where our divide pronounced itself most. I was by no means an innocent kid coming into college. My father had put me down the “don’t get caught” doctrine, which I found beneficial to shaping how I would come to view substances in my life. Through the ages 16-18 I was stoned daily while I cruised through school. It wasn’t a good habit to build, but I built a sort of self-wisdom through personal experience. Tito has none of this experience, and was shielded to every substance known to man… including caffeine.
The two variables—Tito’s sheltering and the freedom of college—came to present an interesting dilemma. He confessed to me his “subtle” interest in marijuana, and I knew it from then it was over. Our livelihoods have come at a crossroads, and I felt it was my duty to take Tito upon my wing and educate him about doing drugs the proper way. We had a long talk one night after I smoked a weed pen in the room. He got (what I can only imagine) a subtle contact high from it, and it was that night where I wanted to articulate how dangerous it can be. I know people that have fallen off a cliff, and formed very tricky drug habits that are hard to break.
In a nutshell, I told Tito to smoke marijuana on an off-day. Additionally, I told him about the importance of having your first smoke-sesh in a controlled, cozy environment. There is nothing more frustrating than trying to light up, only to be chased away by cops and go on some grandiose adventure. The spike in your anxiety while under the influence is inevitable, and I told him this plainly. However, I would soon discover his personal decision to disregard my guidance.
Timeskip to the day of our first RA meeting, residents were still settling in and eager to partake in all that is college life. The meeting is crowded to the brim, overflowing with 100+ people in a tiny lounge on the first floor. I was going through motions until I saw Tito, appearing as a bundle of energy. His cheeks flushed, movements erratic, and I have never seen a man look like he was trapped in an active war zone until I saw Tito’s demeanor. The signs were written on the wall… he smoked pot. This angered me heavily, because I knew he could not take care of himself, and I did not want to deal with the basket case unravelling before me. Some friends I made couldn’t help but chuckle at the spectacle of Tito, which felt fair because he brought it upon himself.
When the meeting ended, we all signed our names off to say we attended, and Tito made me sign for him in his disheveled state. Later on, when we went back to our room, I tried discussing what happened with Tito, but it was to little effect. I learned that he (probably) smoked with a group of friends, as opposed to ripping my weed pen. A group of friends who were not looking out for his best interest. From what I gathered, they had a little sesh, and then released Tito to the wolves. If you leave an incredibly high individual with zero tolerance high and dry, you are begging for him to get hurt! Tito smoked in the middle of the day, right before a mandatory RA meeting, ignoring all warnings I gave him. There was not much action after that—aside from his incoherent babblings. I told him to go to sleep, and the next day I went off to school as usual, Tito no longer a priority.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until that night… Tito never came home. Another day came and went, nothing. I tried messaging him multiple times, to no effect. His elusiveness persisted for an entire week, during which he was missing school and missing a lot of his personal possessions. Eventually, when it reached the seven days mark, I feared enough for Tito’s welfare that I reported him missing to the police. The next day, I received a response not from the police, but from my boss who works at the uni.; they said Tito had dropped out, and his parents were coming to gather his things. Hearing this raised a LOT more questions than answers, so I kept pressing on Tito for information.
Eventually, Tito would clue me in as to why he acted so erratic. Quite literally, the weed made him crazy. The details are fuzzy, but after the night of the RA meeting, Tito got admitted to the psych ward. He was experiencing a severe psychotic reaction from pot. He’d remain there for an undisclosed amount of time before going back home.
From the brief time I spoke to and saw Tito on his psychotropic journey, he experienced quite a few symptoms that told me something wasn’t right. He was asking me about stuff we did together that never happened. His thoughts scattered around the room; his voice as a shotgun and his words buckshot. Tito’s expression—even standing still—you could tell that his head was in flux. His face would scrunch back and forth like he detected a foul odor. I did not know it yet, but these were his signs of psychosis.
While Tito was not lacking in intellect, I could not consider him a wise man. It was little fault of his own, but he still needed to hold himself accountable. A message I urge to all the other sheltered teens out there. It’s good to experiment while you’re young… as long as you don’t look like a total doofus. So if this is you, listen to the souls that guide you, the souls that have been down the treacherous path before. Look out for your own best interest, and don’t smoke weed with near strangers in the middle of the day; be rational!