Trauma in the Night

There are several things about living in Houston your whole life that one should be used to by the age of 30(ish). One is the heat. Not just a little extra warmth from the sun. We're talking about sticky, suffocating heat. The kind that hits you like a ton of bricks when all you've done is crack the front door open. The kind that makes you wanna repent and get right with Jesus cuz if hell is anything like this...or worse (which, it is)...then my pet sin is just not worth an eternity of this madness. In Houston, we experience at least half the year of this and I should be used to it by now. But...nope. Not used to it. And probably never will be.

Another thing I've never, and will never, get used to is giant, mammoth, roaches. Not those puny, little roaches that are a result of not cleaning your kitchen. Sure, those suckers are totally disturbing. But that's not what I'm talking about. No, I mean the kind that come in from outside...and are ENORMOUS...and fly. Cannot, will not ever be used to those. I hate them. HATE. hatehatehate. They make me angry and sick to my stomach and make me freeze up in terror. Nothing else in the world makes me wanna cuss (just keeping with my policy of being honest) and nothing can paralyze me so bad.

I can think back to a handful of experiences that really defined this phobia in my formative years. The memories are so insanely vivid, I can recount details of those times better than I can remember birthdays and Christmases growing up.

I even have a whole theory about how they must have been recruited by Lucifer when he fell. But it's really just me trying to still be okay with God being their creator and being a good God. It may sound stupid, but I feel like I can trust Him more if I can assume they just made a choice to join the dark side.

But I digress.

Well, not really. Because all this explanation lends to set up why I may have to go to therapy in the near future. (Kind of not joking).

Last night, around 2:30am, I woke up from a dead sleep because I thought I felt something on me. It's hard to judge because I've been sleeping with several fans blowing on me and usually it's just the air blowing on my skin. I swatted and felt around. I felt nothing. I grabbed my phone to use the screen as a light. I looked everywhere, checking in the sheets and all over the bed. I saw nothing. Must've been the fans.

I realized I needed to pee like an 8.5 month pregnant woman usually does at 2:30am, so I got up. I went pee. (Matt was still up reading or watching something in the living room...as is his night owl custom). I walked back to the bedroom and did another "thorough" check of the bed and it's surrounding area. I made a choice to not be paranoid and worked for a few minutes to get myself comfortable.

As I was finally drifting off to sleep again, I felt something on my inner thigh...inside my shorts. Get that? Inside my shorts. Again, I swatted and this time, I felt something that doesn't belong there. I yelled and swatted some more and grabbed my phone again. I looked in the spot where I felt the thing and didn't see anything. I must've swatted it successfully away. But I still needed to find it or I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. I looked around and eventually found it on the back of my calf. Sure enough. It was one of those monsters (nicest word I can say). FREAK OUT. I slapped it off of me and went running for the door to call for Matt who came in with a shoe. Luckily, I hadn't swatted it too far away because we were able to find it and he killed it and he's my hero.

The roach was dead. But the damage was done. I couldn't calm down. I was sweating buckets and my heart was racing. I went into the typical crazy tailspin of, "Where did it come from? How long was it there? Was it what I felt the first time? Then where did it go? Why did it choose me? Where are the others? Where did it come from???" My poor husband. He just stood there and offered his usual, "I don't know."

There was no way I was staying in that bed or that room so I grabbed my pillow and went and sat on the couch to cool off a bit and calm down. I eventually ended up in bed with Josiah, but totally didn't really sleep at all. Not only is his bed one of the single worst beds I have ever slept on (poor kid), but I kept feeling things crawling all over me. Every 10 seconds. And when I would finally drift off to sleep, I would have some of the worst nightmares...not even related to creepy-crawlies. Just scary junk.

I'd like to say that this was the first time this has happened. But it actually happened a couple weeks ago. In bed alone and I feel something on my leg (same leg). I chalk it up to the fans blowing through my leg hair (cut me slack...shaving is hard these days), only to find out it's a freaking giant roach that's been getting his late night giggles from walking around on me for who knows how long. That time, Matt came right in with a shoe (I still think it's funny that he recognizes the type of terror in my tone and doesn't even consider that it's a different kind of intruder) and ended up staying in bed with me, watching over me while I fitfully tried to fall back to sleep.

Why do I tell this story? For several reasons.

1. I find it a bit therapeutic to write it out and come to grips with my experiences, as disturbing as they may be.

2. I just need some good, old-fashioned sympathy. I am a middle-child, after all.

3. I'd like to use this as a thorough explanation as to why I will be taking donations to build a solid brick wall fence around our house. Or, at the very least, to hire a professional exterminator. My sweet, hard-working, thrifty husband has tried with his store-bought bug spray, but as you can so plainly see, it just ain't cuttin' it. Momma needs the real poison.