I am a fairly composed person. For the most part, I am calm and collected. I rarely get into a situation where I find that the best reaction is any reaction. I like to down play anything that is happening, rather than getting upset. If you keep those crazy reactions to yourself, you usually don't have to back track and explain yourself. Beyond keeping myself composed, I am not usually anxious. Getting worked up about something you have no control over doesn't do anyone any good.
On the rare occasion when I do get anxious it is related to disorganization, and I can list, sort and organize my way out of it.
All this being said, I was hit with a level 5 anxiety attack today. I was having difficulty breathing, had a tightness in my chest, and felt like I could fall apart at any moment. What's worse, is that as far as I can tell, said attack was brought on by nothing at all. I spent a perfectly pleasant afternoon with a friend, working on a school related project, followed by a delightful dinner.
As I scrolled through Instagram shortly after, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling that something was wrong. It was something I didn't really know how to process because it is such an abnormal feel for me. I tried walking it off, I tried talking on the phone, I was even able to come home earlier than expected, which I surely thought would mellow me out, rather than hype me up. Unfortunately, none of these things worked.
You know what did work? Having a complete meltdown. (Big shout out to my mom who was on the phone with me when said meltdown was occurring, and who didn't hang up no matter how ridiculous it got). This was not a normal meltdown. Red alert, Chernobyl, full scale meltdown.
After arriving home and kicking off my school appropriate footwear my very floral dress, bare feet, and I sauntered into the bathroom only to be greeted by the most outrageous palmetto bug I have ever seen. The anxiety attack I was experiencing was clearly brought on by my new powers of premonition, which were trying to alert me to the horrific creature that was waiting for me at home.
He was marching around and waving his antennae at me, daring me to do anything about his presence. My first reaction- find a shoe.
As Squiggly was on the counter, not the floor, there was really no way to take my sneaker and smack him without also crunching my jewelry and other various belongings underneath him, because yes, he did have the gall to be prancing his wiry little legs all over my extremely valuable jewels. So, I put the sneakers on. No use in being barefoot when he could at any moment leap to the ground and begin messing with my mind in completely different way.
Obviously, my next instinct was hairspray, my favorite bathroom bug killer.
But I was out.
The next aerosol can I found was Lysol, which actually did the trick a little quicker than hair care products, which I did mentally note for the future. Once the bug, which was clearly the size of a silver dollar, was deceased (on top of the allergy pill I forgot to take this morning), I was posed with the problem of how I could safely dispose of his remains.
Palmetto bugs are basically a cleaner version of a cockroach. They look almost identical, but palmetto bugs don't come out of the garbage, they come out of trees. We all know that those suckers play dead until the exact moment when you are preparing to dispose of them, then they are revived and suddenly are squirming all around the place with new life, the likes of which you have never seen. Since Squiggly was nearly the size of my hand, I had determined there was no way I would be using my hands and any form of paper product to "scoop him up", I went to the kitchen to retrieve a serving spoon, per my mother's suggestion, which I could use to transport Squiggly to his watery grave via the El Toilete Canal.
This is the point where my meltdown began. Even though I knew he was dead, I could not fathom being able to move it. His size, which I am most likely exaggerating, seemed to be growing in his death, and he was now surely the size of a small mouse. Every time I was able to reach the spoon toward him, I immediately retracted my arm and shuddered in fear, sometimes letting out small shrieks. At this time I had to let my mother off the phone because I was not sure I could successfully carry a bug in a spoon, scream in terror and fear, and hold the phone between my ear and shoulder without letting the ball drop somewhere.
In the middle of this, the details as to when are a bit hazy, my roommate came home to find me in the bathroom still wearing my teacher dress- with sneakers, a can of Lysol in one hand, a metal serving spoon in the other.
To be clear, she did not think I was the picture of sanity.
After my 48th failed attempt to pick Squiggly up, I began to show signs that I may not come back from the crazy. My breathing was shallow, my voice was high pitched, and I could not stand still. At this point, the spoon was removed from my hand, the bug was scooped and flushed, and in a matter of 14 seconds Michelle had managed to do the very thing that in nearly 14 minutes I had not been able to accomplish.
Clearly, her ability to keep her composure and not lose her cool enabled her to quickly and effectively handle the situation, which proves my point that losing your composure is rarely the right thing to do. After the big bug had been sent down the drain, I proceeded to lose myself even more and broke into a bit of a cry as I profusely thanked her for saving my life, while she broke into a fit of giggles at my obvious over reaction.
Whether it was the endorphins released during the Great Bug Debacle of 2012, the intense relief I felt after the bug was gone, or the stress released when I cried, the anxiety attack had finally ended.
Now that the bug is gone, my bathroom is thoroughly cleaned (thanks to all that Lysol!), and I feel like I can take a deep breath once more, I would like to maintain my stance on composure. It is necessary and will help you make level headed choices in a situation, even when your roommate has clearly lost her marbles.
