I’m terrified of mice and it makes sense
An elusive little grey monster prompts a deep dive into phobias and leads to the Black Death.
T‘What if the mouse came back with friends?’
his is officially a Covid19 free zone. No griping about protesters, prime ministers, failed Wellington City Council parking enforcement when it’s actually justified. No Delta, Omicron, Deltacron or Optimus Prime. No chat about places of interest or lack of interest. Well, except for this brief passage talking about what I’m not going to talk about.
Wait. Stop-press. One last Covidation. Yes, sure, I flicked over to watch the Stuff live stream last week, but seriously there is only so much one can take of all the drama and pathos. Not when there was Ozark series four to be binged at an unhealthy speed.
So as opposed to addressing the elephant in the room, it’s all about the ‘‘mouse that roared’’ for me. The mouse that has held me captive for a week now. Terrified, shaking and shrieking each time it scuttles across my bedroom floor. Yes, I am that woman. The woman in the bad American sitcom standing on the kitchen chair screaming at her husband to save her from that wretched, tiny, creepy, little grey monster.
‘‘Grab the shotgun Tony!!
For God’s sake grab the AK47 if you have to! Save me!!’’
After an hour of begging my daughter to drive across town and face the mouse, and having her refuse, I sat in the middle of the bed alone and forlorn. Like Tom Hanks in Castaway with just my phone and half a block of Whittaker’s jelly tip chocolate.
‘‘What would happen if I never stepped foot on the floor again?’’ ‘‘What if the mouse came back with friends?’’ ‘‘Who would rescue me?’’ ‘‘Would they eventually find me half-eaten by mice, with chocolate drool on my pillow?’’
Spiders do not frighten me. My mother taught me that spiders are our dear friends.
Spiders eat flies, and we like anything that eats flies. I’m not afraid of roaches or bugs. Wasps don’t really bother me, unless in a swarm, but rodents send me into next-level panic. I appreciate that it’s ridiculous, and makes no sense, but nor does any genuinely morbid irrational fear. I know two people deathly afraid of buttons. I may be related to them. Where does it stem from? I’m someone who likes the science behind psychological flaws. I want to know why, scientifically, alcohol affects some people differently. I need some backstory, ‘backed’ by good science. In this case, vast and extensive Googling. A thorough Googling may explain why tiny little scurrying animals trigger a panic attack.
Google, more specifically Wikipedia, tells me that I have one of the common specific phobias. Disappointing. It’s sometimes referred to as ‘musophobia’ and although it’s irrational and disproportionate, not unlike me as a whole, it makes sense based on where my forebears originated. It’s also apparently a ‘startle’ response to unexpected stimuli. Excellent to know. I’m now sure I’d make an excellent sniper or guard on a watchtower.
Googling over, I have my own theories based on my obsessive interest in genealogy. I’m deathly afraid of mice and rats, but happy to hold hands with a spider. There is surely an evolutionary explanation. Most of my ancestors come from Ireland and England with a bit of French, Portuguese, Romani Gypsy and South Asian thrown in. Rats and mice carry disease. Tens of millions of Europeans, up to 30 per cent of the population, were killed off by the Black Plague. The disease was carried by rodents. Naturally I’d carry through my genes a morbid fear of the nasty little varmints. My forebears had a lucky escape.
It doesn’t alleviate my anxiety, and despite buying several dozen traps and smearing them with peanut butter, I know the mouse lives on. He visited again this morning. So again I am Tom Hanks in Castaway sans ‘Wilson’ but with my uninterested cat keeping me company.
If the Black Death was around today it would kill off 2 billion of us. That’s quite a stat. I’m not trying to make any point here, but my God I know I would certainly line up for that vaccine, and beg for a booster.