If you’ve ever been a victim of mosquitoes — and I don’t mean one or two bites, I mean chronic, consistent biting and suffering — one of the hardest parts of the experience is simply getting someone to believe your story.
They look at you like you’re a bratty kid when you ask to eat dinner inside, rather than on their mosquito-infested shitty urban “terrace.” They DEET-shame you every time bust out the Deep Woods bug spray and then force their homemade Eucalyptus essential oil on you.
They don’t get why you’re afraid of lakes at dusk or beaches near the equator or the entire state of Maine.
They don’t blame the mosquitoes. They blame you.
There are two types of people in this world: people who double as mosquito meat and people who don’t. Everyone will get a bite from time to time, but there are thousands of people like myself who suffer from CMB, otherwise known as Chronic Mosquito Bite Syndrome, and are particularly attractive to mosquitoes.
No matter what we do — no matter how much we push them away and tell them no, we don’t love them anymore — they come back every time, begging for more.
It’s in our blood. Scientists speculate that some people may be particularly seductive to mosquitoes because of their unique odor profile. Folks with higher metabolism and above average body sweat are more likely to be targeted, including those who produce excess amounts of lactic acid and carbon dioxide. Even the quiet bacteria who live on your skin play a role.
I always thought mosquitoes were attracted to me because of my great personality and Vanilla candle body spray but dumb “scientists” say otherwise.
Whatever. It’s just physical.
There are millions of others like me: people who fear public parks, freshly cut grass and summer rain. We love travel size bug spray and screen windows and closing the back door. We don’t think about “saving mosquitoes” to protect the environment. We don’t have that luxury.
We’ll kill anyone, including mother mosquitoes and their children while the rest of their mosquito family watches. Screw your politics: folks like us will do everything we can not to use Calamine.
What makes the whole experience particularly frustrating is when people who don’t suffer from the affliction pass judgment on those who do. They force us to come outside for their shitty picnic that’s 90 percent Triscuit cracker anyways. Alternatively, they’ll humiliate us when we decide to wear long pants to the pier because it’s the fucking pier.
They think we’re being children, or that we’re exaggerating, but they just don’t understand the difference between someone who occasionally suffers mosquito bites and those whose lives are defined by it.
For people who don’t suffer from mosquito bites: consider this a desperate plea for your empathy and your leftover Off! Spray. Let us whine to you. Feign interest while we count out loud the number of bites on our legs. If we say we hear a mosquito inside the tent, don’t challenge our story: embrace our truth.
The path to healing begins with our whining and your over-the-top pity.