I thought killing my first mouse would feel empowering. It didn’t.
Yesterday, January 8, was my marriage anniversary. January 9, I trapped and killed my first mouse. I pictured it as an act of empowerment symbolic of being a single ass woman taking care of my single ass self.
I even started a list a few days ago in preparation: “What I have learned to do on my own.” “took care of a mouse infestation” would be number 1500 but I just started the list so it’s only number 10.
I was prepared to slay this mouse slaying business — single style.
I bought pre-baited traps thinking it meant the traps were already baited. It didn’t mean that. Pre-baited means put bait on before you set the trap up. Duh.
Four — the number of times I snapped myself while setting up the trap.
Five — the number of minutes it took to catch my first mouse.
Three — the number of times I screamed “I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” after discovering the dead mouse.
Ten — the number of minutes I cried.
I wish Koy was here. She’s not afraid of mice.
I still get mad at him in my bottoming moments. When I am inevitably weeping on the cold floor (because that is where, the fuck, I cry). I get mad at him for making me face things I don’t want to. For deceiving me so deeply.
It is his fault I have to kill fucking mice. Because he’s not here to kill them for me. I am here because of him.
Because he couldn’t look me in the eyes and tell me, “You’re so cute. The way you look before you say things. Your mannerisms.” Because he couldn’t notice me. Because I don’t know how to allow someone to notice me.
It feels good to be noticed.
Autumn came over this morning. She ain’t afraid of no mice. Disposed of them for me while I sat in another room.
What I have Learned to do on my own:
11. (1501) Learned how to let someone notice me, or practiced anyway.
12. (1502) learned how to let my friends take care of my needs, because, it ends up, I have them.