My fear of mice was intense and deeply unsettling.
It wasn’t just their appearance or the way they darted along the baseboards that frightened me, but also the ominous feelings they stirred within me. This anxiety first surfaced in 2011, after months of declining health led me to spend a week hospitalized in Paris, where I lived. Despite numerous tests, doctors were unable to pinpoint a clear diagnosis.
Ultimately, I was told I was experiencing burnout and was discharged.
This explanation left me unsatisfied. While in the hospital, I felt some relief thanks to prednisone, a common steroid, but once the medication wore off, my condition worsened.
I spent days confined to bed, growing weaker and more uneasy. Simultaneously, I began hearing noises in the kitchen. Because I hadn’t cleaned before being hospitalized, I imagined mice multiplying inside the cabinets.
I asked my then-boyfriend if he heard anything, but he did not. I started to fear that I might be losing my sense of reality.
Several days later, still bedridden, my complexion was pale and painful sores had developed inside my mouth. "Something is seriously wrong," my boyfriend said. "We need to go to the emergency room."
I mustered the strength to go to the hospital, where tests revealed a drastic drop in my blood counts. The doctor urged me to return home to New York immediately. Back at the apartment, I packed my suitcase and then lay down, overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion, longing for the escape that sleep might bring.
