Fear Not.

Pathological fears are best defined as those fears that fall out of the normal and ‘healthy’ realm of anxiety. Frankly, I never really understood how any anxiety could be defined as beneficial—but my army-appointed- shrink explained it this way to me, “Amy without healthy anxiety you would be even MORE prone to do stupid stuff… and I would be forced to start seeing you at least twice a week.” And let’s face it…. Only the REALLY crazy Army Wives are seen twice a week.

As far as I know, I only have two concernable pathological fears: heights and mice. Now, the fear of heights is a pretty common phobia, and one that tragically resulted when my parents placed me on a questionably-safe rollercoaster at a travelling carnival (OSHA who?). The rollercoaster broke down with me at the tippy top as my ‘concerned’ family looked on and giggled (definite proof that my parents loved my brother more). I was probably between the ages of 4-7, and I can remember having to hold the hand of a complete stranger as I climbed the rickety stairs/ladder contraption to safety. It shook and rattled in the wind, and scared the living daylights out of me. From that day on, I tend to struggle with all things elevated—airplanes, ladders, glass elevators --even piggy back rides on really tall people.

The second fear, rodents, I have absolutely no explanation for. Nothing traumatic happened to me during my childhood that rodent-scarred me for life—no foggy memories of cute fuzzy mice barring their fangs or leaping on to my face to eat me. In fact, I read Beatrix Potter, Ralph S. Mouse, and Stuart Little as young girl, and even had the typical rite-of-passage-gerbil (which I forgot to feed like every good American child and held a full blown military style funeral when it passed (it’s name was Sir Lancelot).) Even with this normal rodent-exposed upbringing…. I still (and for no reason, whatsoever) go into an absolute panic at the site of a mouse-- one that usually involves me climbing the curtains and fearing that I somehow contracted the bubonic plague just by looking into their little beady mouse eyes. (And yes, pink eyes freak me out the MOST!).

The only thing worse than catching a visual, is the thought of setting a trap. THAT really sets me into a tail spin, where I sweat, get nauseated, and in extreme situation (such as when a creepy attic is involved) break out into hives. Now, I know what you are thinking: What in the Sam-Hell does this have to do with being an Army Wife?? And the answer is simple: it is at those moments in life when you are at your absolute weakest—like when your husband has been on a business trip to the desert for the past 11 months and you discover that a demon mouse is living rent-free in the attic-- that life likes to throw the irrational-fear-monkey-wrench straight at your heart. My mama always said, “Amy, there are snakes in paradise just waiting for you to show fear.” And she is right. Deployments force us to reach out of our comfort zone, and tackle the projects that we would be more than willing to let our ‘other half’ tackle—but they can’t. They are 7000 miles away. And you are on your own. Heck, a deployment may cause only one person to be missing from your life, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that everyone in the world has suddenly left you.

Deployments—during time of demon mouse invasions or whatever your pathological fear entails-- leaves you with only one option. Rely on yourself, and tackle those horrors—whether mice, heights, or the anxiety ridden thoughts of ‘what if’ before they consume you. After all, you can’t be brave unless you are first afraid, and I have yet to find anything more frightening then the thought of having to do EVERYTHING in this life alone. And let’s be honest, sometimes the mere act of living takes more courage, strength, and will power than we ever believed we possessed.

So what am I doing tonight? The answer should be obvious: I am crawling up into the attic in my little J Crew dress, black heels, and one intimidating-bad-ass headlamp, and setting 500 snap traps ALL OVER my attic. I know that this will require a shot of vodka to complete, and I will probably have my best friend on hold (just so someone will be aware if don’t make it back… and will call the cops before I am carried off by starving coyotes). Yes, I have a mouse in my attic. Yes, I am totally freaking out by the thought of this. Yes, I am on my own to deal with this little blood-thirsty-beast. And yes, this biatch has messed with the wrong Army Wife. It’s time to pretend that I can handle ANYTHING on the homefront. And I can.
It’s time to kick some serious mouse ass. Hasta La Vista Baby.