An Ode Frederick the Mouse

An ode to Frederick:

Dearest Frederick,

We met only two days ago, but it truly feels like a lifetime: a lifetime of surprises, of moments I’ll never forget. Even when I can’t see you, you’re all I think about. Everything you do, no matter how small or minuscule, feels so big to me.

Best,

Meg

I moved into my apartment on October first. Dragged my two suitcases, stupidly overpacked back pack, and two purses on the subway and up the one flight staircase to my Harlem abode. Sure there’s no dishwasher, and everything smells a certain kinda way, and I think that might be black mold in the bathroom, but the room is huge, the bed came with, and it was mine. All mine: my first apartment.

I greeted my roommate who'd put the room on the marketplace and set down my bags in the very much so empty room, sans a closet and a bare, slightly stained mattress. I was happy ... kind of. I'd spent the past several weeks with people 24/7. I've always been an introvert, but the quiet was unsettling. I plopped onto the mattress and surveyed my new home.

That's when I saw it.

Movement in the corner of my room.

A mouse.

A small, Grey, pretty-adorable-but-not-in-my-apartment-please-and-thank-you mouse.

Suddenly I became aware of several things as listed below.

1. There was a mouse in my bedroom

2. The high ceilings — a feature I’d loved — seemed much, much taller

3. There was a mouse living in my bedroom

4. The bigness of the room was ... too big?

5. If there was one mouse in my bedroom, there could easily be many, many more

6. Everything was white. The bare walls, the uncovered mattress, the window sill. It felt like a hospital room.

7. The asshole mouse wasn’t even paying rent

8. I was lonely and scared

Five minutes. I’d lasted five minutes before I ran. I took my back pack, almost forgot my keys, and bolted.

The first night I was meant to sleep in my very first apartment, I stayed in my old dorms with a friend who signed me in. I cried a lot. A blubbering mess: “I’m so pathetic” “how am I going to afford rent” “I miss Georgia” “there’s a fucking MOUSE!”

Admittedly, I was reacting less to the mouse and more to the past weeks I’d spent rushing around. I got drunk and cried some more (“I miss my doooooog!”)

But, by the end of the night, I’d accepted that the root of my sadness and anxiety was not, in fact, the mouse — or Frederick, I’d decided to name him — but rather the newness of my situation. I was living in a neighborhood I’d been to barely a handful of times; I couldn’t rely on my parents for money, and I was facing months of part time jobs in order to scrape by. Yes, I had a mouse, but that was simply a road bump on the ridiculously unpaved, pot-hole filled street I'd decided to drive on.

So I went back to my apartment the next day. I resolved myself to handle the situation. I texted the landlord who promised to send the super the next morning. When I opened the door to my room, nothing scurried away; there was no movement. Perhaps Frederick had moved on to bigger and better apartments. To be safe, I sprayed a mixture of peppermint oil (an anti-mouse tip I'd read on Google) around my bed and at the corners of my room. I settled into my room (after a productive Bed Bath and Beyond trip) and slowly my spirits rose. Yes, there was a mouse in my bedroom, but it was my bedroom, in my apartment; not my school’s, not my parent’s, mine.

I showered, lit a candle, watched a Netflix documentary about haunted houses, popped a sleeping pill, and forced myself to be positive. As I felt myself calm, I stretched out in my queen bed amidst the overkill of soft blankets I'd purchased. I stared at the window at the corner of my room and smiled. My room. All mine.

And that's when Frederick jumped onto my bed.

In retrospect, it was an impressive dive; certainly worthy of an Olympic medal. He leapt from my windowsill (how the hell he got there without me noticing I'll never know) onto my bed. I am not ashamed of the bloodcurdling, B-horror film worthy scream that escaped my mouth. For a moment, Frederick and I simply stared at each other in silence – perhaps it was a look of understanding? – before I jumped onto my feet and hid at the far corner of my bed while he scampered onto the floor to the far shadowy recess of my room.

I immediately called my friend who I'd been staying with:

"Hey, what's up?"

"Frederick."

"The mouse?"

"He jumped on my bed. Can I please spend the night again?"

The responding "Yes" was accompanied by an unfair (in my opinion) amount of laughter. I half-sprinted half-tiptoed to grab shoes and my backpack before I was fleeing my apartment for the second night in a row. I was still in my PJs, but the prospect of spending any more time with Frederick (who was seemingly growing more and more resentful of my presence) was too much to bear, so instead I braved the pouring rain in sleep shorts and a T-shirt.

My roommate texted me; she'd heard the door close: Oh no, mouse again? She'd been extremely apologetic about the whole situation, and assured me that she'd put a trap outside of my room and mention it when the Super came the next day. I felt a bit guilty; Frederick certainly hadn't asked for a person to move in. I'd purchased humane traps but hadn't put them out, and I wasn't sure what traps my roommate would use, but I wasn't in a hurry to revisit the apartment.

On the subway back to my old dorms, all the subway rats seemed to stare at me. They must have known I was an intruder. Frederick had clearly snitched.

I was all too pleased to sleep in a mouse-less abode, but I was frustrated that, for the second night in a row, I was not in my own apartment. However, the next morning my roommate told me they'd caught Frederick.

I won't lie, the third night I struggled to fall asleep until nearly three in the morning. I kept listening for scratches or squeaks. However, there was no sight of any of Frederick's relatives, nor have there been since.

Frederick is likely just the first of many figurative (and possibly literal) mice I will face as I continue living in New York. And fact is, many of my future mice won't have solutions nearly as easy as sleeping at someone else's apartment.

However, I am hopeful. I believe that Frederick taught me an important lesson: living in New York is stupidly difficult. But I can't run away from any of it. Living in New York – actually living as a "real" adult – means I can't skip work the way I skipped classes, and I can't expect to succeed by sitting on my ass. I have to face my mice head on, trap or no trap.

It’s Time to Talk About Emetophobia

On a good day, I only think about it several times; and those thoughts don't linger too long – just a brief spike of anxiety that's quickly pushed away by a distraction of some sort.
On my worst days, I do not eat. I do not leave my room. I have several panic attacks. I can barely talk.

Emetophobia is the irrational fear of vomiting. It's embarrassing, and I rarely talk about it. When I do, I find myself making excuses. I know it's stupid or I'm being ridiculous.
I sometimes find myself wishing that I had a different phobia. A fear of flying, maybe, or an irrational terror of spiders. In the end, I know that's stupid. Phobias have one thing in common: aggressive, inescapable, irrational fear.
The problem with emetophobia is that I cannot escape the fear because that fear is inside of me. I could vomit at any time (and yes, writing that out made my heart rate skyrocket). Fact is, I cannot run away or avoid myself.
While emetophobes can't escape their fear the same way someone with a fear of heights can, we find various ways to cope. For example, I constantly carry medication on me at all times. I make sure that I can leave a social situation at any moment in case I start to feel sick. I know some emetophobes who have to carry lysol wipes in case they come in contact with germs; some swear by ginger candies to help with any sudden bouts on nausea. Some can't even say or read the word vomit
I can pinpoint the fear itself to an experience when I was 8. It was the night before the Fourth of July. I was with family in California, and I must have eaten something bad because I woke up in the middle of the night and full on Excorist-vomited all over the room. The next day, I was racked with fear that it would happen again. For years after, the fear plagued me. I became a vegetarian when I was 11 to avoid undercooked meat. Eating in general made me nervous, especially in restaurants where being sick would be obvious. Long car trips also terrified me. When I drink, I'm always nervous that I'll end up drinking too much.
At the end of the day, I know that the fear isn't just vomiting itself, it's the fact that I can't control the possibility of being sick. The resulting cycle usually goes like this:

• A trigger: whether it be a stomach ache or heartburn, seeing someone gag or hearing the words "stomach virus"

• Anxiety. I get anxious. The thought of throwing up grows bigger and bigger until I can't focus on anything else

• Because anxiety so often manifests itself physically, I start to feel physical symptoms. Maybe it's just a pounding heart rate or sweaty palms, but sometimes (far too often) it's nausea

• The nausea makes me anxious – am I gonna be sick?

• I get more anxious, and I feel more sick.

• The cycle continues until I die. At least that's what it feels like will happen

My emetophobia used to be, quite frankly, debilitating. Ironically enough, after throwing up when I was 8, I didn't throw up again until I was 20. I got the stomach bug when I was abroad in London in the fall of 2016. I puked on Halloween while dressed as Mary Poppins. Julie Andrews, I apologize.

I threw up again in March of 2017 when I got carsick on the way to the airport. That being said, I only regurgitated a banana, but still – trauma is trauma.

The last time I threw up was August of 2017 in my own childhood bathroom. It was, on paper, typical: a mix of wine, beer, and too much tequila on a stomach of only Thai food. To this day, I still can't eat Pad Thai.

I would love to be writing a success story at the moment – Suddenly, I realized there was nothing to be afraid of! But unfortunately, that is far from the truth. I still don’t eat red meat at all, and even though I eat chicken and fish, I get very anxious when I eat at a restaurant (food poisoning, of course). Stomach bug season is a nightmarish will-I-won’t-I-catch-it.

I don't talk about it. The reactions I've gotten are usually anything but encouraging. I mean, no one likes throwing up. Just get over it. Or worse. Just laughter.

Thus the title of this post. It's time to talk about emetophobia. You do not have to understand my fear, you don't have to experience it, but we have all experienced fear itself. So my request to anyone and everyone: when someone shares a fear with you, whether it be small or large, and whether you understand or don't, consider the common ground. You too have experienced fear, and that is where your empathy can come from. You don't have to get the phobia, but you can get the feeling of fear.

My tricks and tips for coping with my emetophobia are, in the long run, just a portion of overcoming the phobia. I talk to my therapist and psychiatrist about my experiences. I try to just name what I’m feeling to my friends – I feel a little nauseous so, of course, I’m pretty nervous. While I have made so much progress, I am by no means even close to the finish line of this shitty, shitty journey. Still, putting a name to my fear has helped me feel less, well, crazy. I hope that by sharing this, anyone else suffering from emetophobia will feel less alone.

And on that note, I am going to go eat some food and refuse to be afraid.

You Don’t Choose the Bodega; the Bodega Chooses You

From my apartment, I can see three different bodegas.

The stress is astronomical.

When I was in college, I had my bodega. Alan's, right on the corner across from my campus, provided at least half of my food intake for the four years of my college life; usually, either a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, a #6 (chicken, gouda, sundried tomatoes, and honey mustard), or a salad when I wanted to pretend to be healthy. I was on ridiculously good terms with the Bodega guys; it got to the point where I would walk in and they’d get my coffee ready.

There is something truly magical about a New York Bodega. From the music choice (at Alan's, always early 2010 pop hits) to the smell (some weird mix of meat and cleaning product) to the random array of items available for purchase (shaving cream, birthday candles, and rat poison all on one shelf).

Especially magical are the Bodega Cats – the strange once-strays seem to own the Bodegas, and owners accept that they no longer have full ownership of the deli. There's an Instagram account dedicated to these magnificent creatures (@bodegacatsofinstagram) if you don't believe me. Befriending one of them probably grants you 10 years of good luck – you cannot convince me that Bodega Cats aren’t witches in animal-disguise.

There are several things to consider when choosing your Bodega.
Firstly, you need to find your food staples. You'll need a breakfast item, hopefully a combo deal of a bagel and coffee for 3 dollars max. You'll also need your go-to sandwich. Nothing is worse than having to painstakingly list the ingredients you want. Your order should be as simple as "Number X" and nothing more. And, of course, you'll need your drunk food options. This step is more subjective than anything – whether you want a plate of fries smothered in hot sauce or a box of double-stuffed Oreos, you need to make sure that you can get them from your Bodega at any hour.

Secondly, you need to establish an accord with the employees. Whether or not this results in the occasional free coffee or discounted panini, you want that over-the-counter banter.

Thirdly, you want a Bodega that is as close to your residence as possible. While it may be relatively nice out at the moment, January will be filled with snow, sleet, wind, and crippling Seasonal Affective Disorder. The last thing you want to do is trek more than a block or two for that sweet, sweet Bodega goodness.

In my opinion, these are the three most important factors, but there are plenty more. Price of course (the cheaper the better). A small selection of booze is always a bonus as well. I also look for basic food staples in case I'm too lazy to go all the way to Trader Joe's. And, of course, you may be inclined to find a Bodega with a Bodega cat. The world is your oyster (and by 'world', I mean a large city, and by 'oyster' I mean Bodega).

So currently, I’m on a mission to pick my Bodega and hope that it accepts my love. I found my coffee shop, narrowed down my bar options, but the amount of bodegas from which to choose is still overwhelming. But I'd rather have more options to choose from than fewer.

If only New York had Waffle House. Then I’d be truly happy.