This morning as I pushed the button to open my garage, I saw something running along the door frame of the double garage door.  I quickly turned back into the house and slammed the door. I grabbed my cell phone and called my husband. I told him what I saw and waited for him to assure me he was on his way back home. He had only been gone a few minutes.  But instead he ask a few questions, and then suggested that it was most likely a chipmunk.  He knew that would elicit a calmer response from me than any other type of  rodent.

I am deathly afraid of rats.  I don’t know if my fear was caused by the seventies rat movies Ben or Willard. Or if it was the rats that nested under the broken concrete in front of our house when I was a little girl. My father and our next door neighbor tried everything to kill them. Nothing seemed to work. Or at least that’s the way I remember it. Of course, I was only six or so at the time. My husband once explained to me that rats aren’t invincible, but I’ve never been able to shake the fear that nothing can stop them. When my children were younger, they knew not to ask for a mouse, gerbil, hamster, or guinea pig as a pet. I classified all of them as rats and there was no way I was sharing my house with a rat.

I wanted to believe it was just a chipmunk. But I know what I saw.

I reminded my husband of how afraid I was, hoping if I sounded desperate enough he would volunteer to come home. Though in the back of my mind, I wondered what exactly would he do if he did come home. And if I hesitated much longer, I would miss my cycling class at the gym.

I decided to brave the garage again, sort of. I coaxed my Westie to go out there. After all, they were bred to be mousers. But he had no interest in going into the garage. I had to bribe him with a dog treat. He stood just a few steps away from me – tail and ears erect – but then he came back inside. I was torn between comfort that the coast was clear and disappointment that years of pampering had weakened his hunting skills. I called him back in the house and resolved to face my fear.

I ran the six feet or so from the house to my car.

Throughout my entire workout, I replayed that thing scurrying across the top of the garage door. Then my mind drifted to that scene in 1984 when Winston is being punished in Room 101 of the Ministry of Love, where prisoners are sent to face their worse fear. Orwell described Winston’s encounter with the rats so graphically that I have never forgotten the image his words created in my mind. I imagined myself in Winston’s place. I’m sure I would have died.

The moment I got back to my car I called a pest control company to come out and investigate the problem. Then I found various ways to avoid going home. I felt stupid for being so afraid and finally went home. I needed to shower before the guy from the pest control company got to my house.

But the weight of my fear really hit me as I walked around my house to the front door rather than going through the garage. I couldn’t help but wonder what other adjustments I’ve made in my life because of fear. What else was I avoiding because I was afraid?  It occurred to me that it’s the fear itself that is so crippling. A mouse or a rat can’t really hurt me. It’s my mind that has created this belief that there is a threat to my well-being and safety.

Turns out it was a mouse. The service man set out bait and assured me there was nothing in the garage anymore.  I wanted to put the whole thing behind me, but I felt the urge to write about happened. Perhaps it is my way of facing my fear. Natalie Goldberg  says it this way in Writing Down the Bones:

Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.

Maybe that mouse was a gift. It has forced me to make good on one of my New Years resolutions to write about the things that scare me and make me feel vulnerable.

It hasn’t been easy to write about my fear, but we grow stronger and more courageous each time we face our fears.