Why I Won’t Deal With My Phobia of Mice
On loss, depression, and the reigning terror of a tiny four-legged creature
I find it difficult to pick my top pet peeves as I have so many of them, spread across categories ranging from the serious to the mundane. For example, I hate watching people eat corn — does it always have to look like the eater is ferociously attacking a poor, golden stalk of a vegetable? I cringe when I hear people order in a restaurant by asking, “Can I get the salmon?” Sure, you can get it, but can you ask nicely?
These examples pale compared to what I feel when I hear people carelessly use language that define real psychological or learning issues: OCD, phobias, dyslexia, depression, PTSD. Saying “I’m so OCD” because you like your kitchen counters clean or “I’m so dyslexic” because you read directions incorrectly is demeaning to people who actually suffer from those conditions, which are lifelong battles and not at all casual annoyances to people who actually suffer from them.
I have one real and true phobia: mice. I don’t know many people who like to find mice in their homes, although I do have a good friend who is so dedicated to animals that she has spent hours trying to gently pry mice from glue traps and once even rescued an injured mouse she found on a sidewalk. I’m not talking about not…
