I don’t like bees.
Logically, I know the worst they can do to me is give a brief sting but they can fly and buzz around me and are super fast and scary and evil and ugh. Bees.
These days I tolerate their existence better than I used to but there was a time my fear bordered on phobia.
I was eight or so when I got my first sting. There I was, minding my own business on the swing in my backyard when some flying monster came out of nowhere and stung me. Why? I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t poking their nest. But the evil creature thought it best to cause me pain.
The second time, I can’t exactly blame the bee. I was camping with my family about a year later when I stepped on one. Ouch. My fault though, I suppose. Still, it seemed out of nowhere.
The third, and final time, was when I was twelve. On a hike at a camp with my youth group from church, the beast injured both myself and the girl behind me. Up ahead some girl must have disturbed their home, and the insect decided to retaliate against me.
They aren’t fair. They come out of nowhere. They hurt. They fly. Fast.
And a few years ago several HUNDRED wasps filled up my sun room.
You know those ridiculous horror movies where the girl stands in shock and screams? Laughable, right? Funny. Always so funny. Silly dumb women can’t make themselves move and are useless.
There may have been a moment like that when I first saw them.
I think I had enough sense in me to close the french doors to the room before I completely fell apart but there most certainly was a scream, hands on my face and everything.
Towels were stuffed under the cracks in the door. Frantic texts were sent to my husband.
The terror wasn’t limited to the one room, either. Stray wasps could be found throughout the house. The fact that they were mostly lethargic helped but still. They were in my house.
Armed with a fly swatter and a bottle of Windex, I hunted them before they could hurt either me or my young son. Sprayed with cleaner, their wings were rendered useless. Disabling the creatures before I crushed them made it so much easier. To this day I use this method whenever I see that one has broken in.
We kept the doors closed. Dear Husband found the crack they had gotten in from the outside and sealed it. We waited for them to die. And die they did; but not before the rest of those hiding in the walls swarmed the inside of my house.
When my father-in-law visited he fearlessly sucked them up into the shop vac. We continued the quest ourselves as more drifted in, each time wadding up a ball of paper towels so any survivors could not escape.
I hate them. I hate them so much.
But at least now I have ways to cope. So maybe it’s more hate now than a phobia?