It’s a memory that lives rent-free in my brain. I was about five, and my parents and I lived in a Lakewood house with a sunroom you had to pass through before reaching the front door. Every spring, flurries of miller moths would swarm that godforsaken room. My parents would urge me to sprint through while they stayed behind to valiantly swat at the flapping chaos. My heart pounded as I dashed to safety, convinced these shadowy beasts were seconds away from sinking invisible fangs into me.
Now, I know miller moths don’t bite. Or sting. Or really do anything except flop around like drunk little paper airplanes. But that early terror is hardwired into my nervous system, and I’ve since declared them my sworn enemies. They fly directly at my face like they have a personal vendetta. They leave behind a gross dusty powder on any surface they touch. And when they perch on a wall with their wings folded behind them, they look like triangles. I’m sorry, but no trustworthy animal is shaped like a triangle. I simply don’t believe a benevolent higher power would create geometrical beings.
My mother had enough of my fear one spring day in 2012, a year I recall as having far more millers than usual. Then 13 years old, I was getting dressed and one crawled out of the sock I was about to put on. I screamed so loud that I woke my grandmother from her afternoon nap. That’s when I got sent to a therapist to deal with phobia and anxiety. As a stubborn teenager, I only went twice, but The Anxiety Workbook for Teens still lives in my mother’s basement—a depressing reminder of my failed attempt to overcome my fear…