t would have been a truly impressive epic battle had my enemies not possessed a brain the size of an amoeba. But the worst was what happened between my ears.
I dropped the note in my property manager’s mailbox (it’s still 1975 where they live where there’s no Internet).
“I have bedbugs in my couch! Please help!”
Those creepy three-bite patterns had shown up. One as a triangle, another in a row. Bedbugs aren’t exactly the Einsteins of the insect world. They’re not as good at bloodsucking as mosquitoes, which get it right the first time. Bedbugs are kind of like the blood bank trainee trying to find the right vein for your donation. They gotta stab a few times.
I found the evidence under the couch cushions, but not in my bed, thank Goddess.
I had A Bedbug problem years ago, when I was living with my ex in Connecticut. We began getting the three bites at night, but never multiple times, or both of us together, and had no idea what they were. We blew it off and hoped the problem would eventually go away, and it did. Probably our lone bedbug died of loneliness. We never had a problem again. I expect one of us brought it home somehow.
Back then, bedbugs weren’t as common. They were the scourge of our ancestors until about 1939, when a Swiss chemist developed the pesticide DDT, which was outstanding at knocking out bedbugs, roaches, mosquitoes and other insects, but also, as it turned out, American bald eagles, ospreys, brown pelicans, peregrine falcons and California condors. It was banned in the early ‘70s and has been cited by some as the reason why bedbugs made a comeback. Except they’re horrifyingly evolutionary in response to new threats and they’d already begun developing a DDT resistance. They’ve developed it against other pesticides, too, which is why it’s so difficult to get rid of them.
Bedbugs evolved about 100 million years ago and may have plagued the dinosaurs. I tried to find an evolutionary reason why they even exist—surely there’s some purpose for them, right? Didn’t everything evolve for a specific reason? Where are they in the food chain? Can humans exploit them somehow for some property they possess that cures infected hangnail or something?
I found nothing. Some scientists believe they’re a food source for certain spiders, but I suggest there aren’t enough of those spiders around. As far as I can tell, all bedbugs are good for is poking holes in humans.
I Googled to learn what I could do to prevent the couch monsters from finding my bed. YouTube videos showed me how to make little protectors for my bed’s feet for trapping those who depart and those trying to enter.
I learned bedbugs supposedly hate peppermint oil, so I bought some, (14 drops of oil for 3/4 cups of water), and sprayed the floor between my living room and the bedroom every night. I also sprayed the door frame. And the bedclothes. I felt like a witch, circling my bed every night with my Magic Potion Mister intoning the hallowed incantations of my ancient foremothers and foresisters:
“Get the hell away from my bed you filthy little #$%^&s!”
After a couple of days my bedroom smelled like a North Pole cathouse.
Taking back my power from the stress
Anyone who’s been thusly cursed can testify that bedbugs bring stress and depression. Your home has been invaded by a mostly unseen army and you’re always waiting for the next rash.
The property manager scheduled an exterminator for a week hence and I was like, But what if these #$%^&s overpopulate and come looking for me???
Not to worry, one female lays an egg a day, so they’re not like African driver ants which lay 3-4 million eggs a month.
Younger me would have broken down in great despair and considered abandoning the apartment, leaving all my worldly possessions to the bedbugs. But, I thought, someone who writes a Substack newsletter called Grow Some Labia really shouldn’t wuss out so easily!
It’s all in how you think about life’s slings and arrows, and how you choose to interpret them. The reason why they schedule a week in advance is so that you have time to plastic-bag all your clothes, books, and other possessions in the treated rooms, remove electrical outlet covers and vacuum your own bedbug-ridden furniture.
The old me would have put off what needed to be done for awhile and then forced myself, whining and crying that it wasn’t faaaiiir, and why was I being so put-upon by this curse? Why was God being so mean to me?
How we react, and our resistance to our plight, is what can make a crisis like this far, far worse than it needs to be.
As I walked home from the drugstore with my peppermint oil and trusty plant sprayer, I felt a little more powerful, like a warrior who wasn’t going to submit to my enemies’ demands without a fight.
I am taking back my power! I thought to myself. I refused to give in to my familiar inner personal enemy, The Terminator.
I shoved a towel under the bedroom door crack. It probably wouldn’t keep the beasts at bay if they wanted in but they’d have to work for it.
I’d wake up in the morning thinking, Do I itch anywhere? No, I didn’t. By Labor Day weekend, five days after my bites, my stress heightened. But my Magic Potion seemed to be working. Or maybe my enemies just weren’t hungry enough. Bedbugs can live for months without feeding, some up to a year. If you Google too much you find horror stories of how they’re resilient to just about everything except maybe a nuclear holocaust. I’m not sure if they’ll survive like the cockroaches but I’m not sure they won’t. I mean, they survived the dinosaurs’ killer comet and now they party on pesticides.
Can you drown them? Yes, they can’t breathe underwater, but they can hold their breath for hours. Can you flush them down the toilet? Yes, but they’re like little Navy Seals who can come back up from the tank and live to terrorize you further, probably a thousand times more pissed (ar ar).
They can track your scent, your sweat, your vibration. They know when the pest dudes are coming, because like they’re psychic or something, and they will amass an air force and parachute into your bed, leaving your drained, dessicated corpse for the exterminator to find.
I had to move my sealed plastic bags to the balcony, which looked like a Toronto garbage strike.
My Inner Terminator was screaming that this was all for naught, I would never get rid of them, and they would terrorize me forever.
“Shut up,” I said, and envisioned myself slipping on a helmet and picking up my Peppermint Spray Mister O’ Death and meeting the enemy on the battlefield of my living room floor.
“Die, you foul beasts, die!” I yelled in my fantasy as I sprayed them with Christmas nightmare. Peppermint oil kills on contact although you have to actually find an invisible ninja to do this. Which is why it works better as repellent.
I cried the night before the exterminator came because I was so stressed out. I wasn’t eating much; my stomach was constantly upset. Later, you can’t put all your stuff back; you must live out of these hermetically sealed garbage bags until the exterminator returns in 2-3 weeks to get the recently hatched bugs.
My beautiful apartment had turned into a nightmare hellhole, even as I thanked God, Goddess, and Darwin that the little f—kers hadn’t invaded my bed.
I lay there that last night, checklisting what I needed to do before I left for work, as my boss had arranged for me to work at their ad hoc ‘office’ in the city. And I felt another mild panic attack.
I reminded myself, There are people in Ukraine, Israel and Gaza right now who fear nightly attacks by an enemy far worse than bedbugs. I’ll bet they’d trade for my piddly-ass problem any day.
Privilege means our afflictions are often much bigger in our heads than they are in reality.
When I got home that evening, all my furniture was upended and I couldn’t move anything back until after I was declared bugless.
This was my new, albeit temporary life. Every step of the way was a new source of depression. But then, I noticed—because Buddhism teaches you to pay attention to your emotional storms—that after a day or two I got used to each new step.
That Friday night after putting clean bedclothes on the bed, restoring my computer desk to minimum working order, and moving several balcony bags to the living room so everything didn’t mold, I treated myself to dinner at a local Italian restaurant including two glasses of wine, because wine cures all situational depression.
I really didn’t give a crap about the bedbugs as I stumbled home with my leftover pizza box. I was a lot safer now.
Bedbugs happen
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, unless you choose victimhood. Depression immobilizes you, makes you incapable of action. It’s sort of a parasite of its own, draining you of competence and confidence and telling you there’s nothing you can do to change things. I have to remind myself to snap out of it, to re-frame how I’m interpreting a situation, not to take anything personally, that I was dealing with a problem many people have. I didn’t even have anyone to be mad at. The bedbugs? They’re dumb insects doing what they’re designed to do. The property managers? Bedbugs suck out their profits. God? Oh please.
Bedbugs happen, and contrary to mythology, they don’t care about your housekeeping. They only care about you, their human buffet.
I reminded myself this was a challenge, an adventure, and as difficult as it was I’d gotten off easy. There was nothing else to be done; this is how you deal with these little ratbastards.
You wash or high-heat dry all your clothes, bedclothes, linens, everything. I did multiple loads on my normal washing day and the day after The Grand Steaming, I did several more, and our basement laundry was predictably busy on a Saturday morning. When I finally found a free dryer I raced to the washing machine to pull some stuff out and claim it; but an old lady was already loading her clothes in there.
“That’s my dryer,” I told her. “I just saw it and I raced over there to grab some clothes and claim it!”
“But I need a dryer too!”
“I saw it first. I have a helluva lot of laundry to do.”
“So do I, I haven’t done it in a month!” But she compliantly unloaded for me.
Later, I apologized. “I’m sorry I was a pissant earlier. You said you have a month’s worth of laundry to do, well guess what, I have to wash everything I own because I just got treated for bedbugs.”
Nothing makes people more sympathetic.
She was nice about it, and I found something else to be grateful for: An old lady who wasn’t going to hold it against me that I metaphorically elbowed her out of the way for a dryer.
Unlike bedbugs, not all people suck. I offered her a blessing as I departed with a huge pile of warm laundry. “May the washers and dryers you need always be free for you!”
She smiled.
Did you like this post? Do you want to see more? I lean left of center, but not so far my brains fall out. Subscribe to my Substack newsletter Grow Some Labia so you never miss a damn thing! There are also podcasts of more recent articles there too!
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