By Holly Berry
From a very young age, I was always deathly terrified of cockroaches—these slimy, dark creatures that live in the smallest and darkest crevices where nothing else could ever imagine existing. I think this fear originated from being allowed to watch horror movies with my older brother before the age of 5. My mom told me that if I started to believe any of the movies were real, she wouldn’t let me watch them anymore. She assured me that the events in these films were just fiction, even though a lot of the scenes felt very realistic. If I started to have nightmares or be afraid because of the movie, I would not be permitted to stay up late and hang out with my older and cooler brother. I simply hid my terror about the many scenes that elicited fear. That’s how I continued to hide my feelings for the rest of my life, stuffing them below the surface so no one could access them and use them against me.
I specifically remember watching a particular episode from the 1980s series “Creepshow” in which a cruel germaphobe is killed in his apartment by a swarm of cockroaches. I don’t remember all the details, but I was terrified by the scene in which hundreds of bugs crawl out of his mouth and over his eyes. I was convinced that these filthy, awful creatures would find me and bury me too.
In the southeast, we make up special names for these creatures so they don’t sound so grotesque. In coastal North Carolina, they’re referred to as water bugs to differentiate the larger insects from the smaller bugs. The large cockroaches usually thrive in conditions with more rain and humidity and typically are more present when the seasons change to cooler weather as they search for warmer environments indoors. This important distinction is made so people will know that this type of cockroach exists through no fault of theirs. The other kind—the smaller variety—may signal to others that there’s an infestation due to less than ideal conditions, such as uncleanliness. As an adult, I find this differentiation ridiculous; it seems to reflect the way that our society silently judges others for their simple existence today. Because why would an infestation be anyone’s fault? This seems to place blame on being dirty or being poor or having no ability to rid yourself of the infestation.
In the picturesque city of Charleston, South Carolina, a true representation of the genteel south, these disgusting creatures are referred to as Palmetto bugs. I still remember the first time I saw one. I squealed in a panic while my then-boyfriend calmly explained that the Palmetto Bug is the other state bird of South Carolina, a true beacon of the city—a flowery term to describe a very ugly insect in hopes of accepting its indigenous right to exist in a city that barely stays above water.
Strangely enough, I’m not that afraid of spiders or other insects. I have a healthy fear of snakes, but an irrational fear of cockroaches, especially the large ones. Regardless of what they’re called, my fear of them continued to grow. Whenever I saw one, I broke out in goosebumps all over while silently trembling and desperately trying to escape the room. What is it about the creatures that live in the dark that make them so terrifying? Is it the idea that they live in a place of darkness or is it the darkness they bring with them that’s frightening? Maybe it’s the darkness that morphs them into these ugly creatures. Or is it that they live in the dark because they are terrible and are unworthy of living in the light?
Whenever I saw one, I’d chase it down with bug spray until it eventually drowned and went belly up. I couldn’t force myself to get close enough to hit it with a shoe; even the thought of hearing its shell crack or seeing its guts splattered would terrorize me. Being close to this roach would seize me with a fear I struggle to describe. I’d wait until I could find someone else to dispose of the remains after the cockroach had died. I couldn’t even face the dead carcass in fear that it would come back to life and fly in my face. It was irrational, but most fears are.
When I was older, I’d learn about the idea of totems—spirit beings or spiritual objects that tell stories. An early form of communication before writing and documenting history with words became the standard—a way to provide value and show respect for all people and living things of the world. Any time I’d see a random animal—a bunny rabbit crossing my path or a tree frog in my window—I’d look up the significance or the totem meaning, much as I might try to interpret a dream. It gave meaning to everything.
During a pivotal time in my life, I decided to take an over-the-counter DNA test “for fun” and unexpectedly discovered that my dad was not my biological father. After uncovering many lies and secrets that my mom had used to manipulate me, I decided to estrange myself from these family members so I could focus on developing my truth and reclaiming my identity. At this time, I started seeing cockroaches everywhere. My house was sprayed twice a year for insects and yet I saw three in my kitchen over the span of a month as the weather turned cooler. I sprayed a third time that year. At a restaurant, one crawled across the wall behind my back. At a coffee shop, one crawled up the wall and flew across the seating area, much to the barista’s colossal embarrassment. I woke up in the middle of the night to see one crawling next to my night stand, dangerously close to my face. For some reason, I was seeing them everywhere.
I searched for the totem meaning. As a default, every totem website includes a picture of the juiciest cockroaches. As I scrolled quickly past these pictures with my eyes half closed, I found this description: “Cockroaches can sneak into a place through the smallest openings, so they bring the message that you should utilize every opportunity life offers you. Moreover, this creature is likely to come to you if you’ve been hiding your true self from others.” As I went on to read about the cockroach totem, I learned that cockroaches symbolize resilience and survival.
I thought about my own journey. Discovering at the age of 37 that my dad wasn’t my biological father opened a Pandora’s box of lies that had been built around me. My dad, with whom I could never form a connection, had always suspected I wasn’t his biological child. I was expected to have a relationship with my older, wiser brother, regardless of the abuse he inflicted on me as a child. All of this was facilitated by a mom who so desperately wanted me to think she was the most important person in my life. Born out of her own desire to not feel bad for her terrible past and a desperation to be loved unconditionally by someone, she withheld information.
Inadvertently, she’d teach me that I must be unlovable if my brother could hurt me and my dad couldn’t even hold a conversation with me. I felt I must be a bad person if, after their divorce, my dad would move far away and not take me with him. Eventually, I also grew apart from my mom and pursued my own interests. No matter how much I tried to anticipate her changing emotions and be what she needed me to be, it always ended in brutal arguments that left me emotionally drained. I concluded that also made me a bad person. If I could no longer be around the woman who did everything for me, then I must be bad. To cover my guilt, I worked tirelessly to make her happy. I put myself through countless holidays and numerous family events to show her that I cared for her and would never leave her, even when she made poor decisions about money and relationships. And she reminded me she’d never left me, even when everyone else had, and, therefore, I couldn’t leave her. I would be her fallback plan. It was my duty and my calling in life because I must be bad if no one else loved me but her.
I didn’t use the revelations of the DNA test to find belonging in a different family, but rather to find belonging within myself. I became the detective of my own life. Finally asking the questions I’d like to have to asked my dad decades ago, I wanted to know more about what the relationship between him and my mother had been like and why he left me after their divorce when I was so young. My childlike brain remembered it one way, but I was curious about his memory. I could finally understand that both of our experiences were valid and provided important information for my healing. Through these conversations, and, eventually, telling him that he was not my biological father, I discovered much about him as a person. He also carried a lot of blame about his own shortcomings as a father. We weren’t able to have a meaningful conversation when I was younger because he was also running away from his fears and guilt about not being the dad he wanted to be. I was simply a reminder of a very difficult part of his past, but I was also his obligation, much like how I felt about my mom. Ironically, after discovering he wasn’t my biological father, I felt closer to him than I ever had before. I could see him as a perfectly flawed human who was willing to take accountability for his mistakes and apologize for them.
By speaking my truth to my closest friends and family members, I discovered how much they hadn’t known about me. Many knew I wasn’t close with my dad, and because they hadn’t met my older brother, they thought of me as an only child. They saw me as super smart and fiercely independent. My mom was okay in their book because she was very charismatic and she seemed to love me. I felt as if the people who knew me only loved me because of the version of myself that I had built for them to see. As I spoke more about my truth, many were appalled that I survived such terrifying conditions. But as I unraveled all the information, even I was appalled that I had survived. Looking at the life I had made, it was difficult for me to be proud of myself. I was a highly functioning trauma survivor. I was the first in my family to go to college and achieve a secondary education. I had a successful career, a beautiful home, a financially stable life, and a very handsome dog. By society’s standard, I was just missing a close intimate connection and children of my own. Even with all that I’d accomplished, society reminded me that I did not have the thing I craved the most, a connection with other humans, but also with myself—one that I would only find after discovering the truth. I was still lacking this connection because I had buried who I really was under the fear that no one could love me because of my history. Knowing the truth and opening up about my past, finally living as my most authentic self, allowed me and others to love the truest version of myself—a bold, bright, beautiful, and resilient woman.
That DNA test shined a light on all the dark corners of my past and cleared the lies that had scurried to find darker corners. It gave me freedom from the dark and made way for the truth, which liberated me from the lies. Today, I’m not perfect, far from it actually. But I live my truth and I love myself more than ever. I forgive myself for the pain I inflicted on others when I was living in the dark, and I forgive myself for all the opportunities I lost to allow others to love me. I was trying to protect myself from being hurt by loved ones again. The truth is, I never would have been able to let anyone love me until I loved myself first. The truth, I now understand, is that I am loveable and I am loved. I am full of love for myself, and that love spills over onto others, even those who have hurt me. That doesn’t mean I allow them back into my life; those healthy boundaries are for my protection. But I can practice loving kindness from afar so the darkness stays away.
Now, when I see a cockroach, I welcome the opportunity to reflect on where I might be hiding again, where I might be falling back into habits of self-loathing or negative self-talk to keep myself small and hidden and safe. But I also grab a shoe or a book and I squash the bug and dispose of it quickly. Because I haven’t quite mastered the Buddhist zen of letting it live peacefully. (That’s my next lesson.) I can face the fear now; it doesn’t hold onto me or terrify me in the same way. While I’m still scared, I know that none of this is my fault. Cockroaches exist as the most resilient creatures alive today. They don’t seek to terrorize my life and they don’t exist to remind me that I am unworthy. They remind me that secrets live in the dark and have a way of escaping from the smallest cracks and crevices. It’s best if I just accept them as they are and face them head-on instead of allowing them to bury me in fear.
Holly Berry is a healthcare professional in North Carolina. She was an aspiring creative writer in high school and college until she gave up these pursuits for a predictable career path. She was even featured in the extra credits of the film adaptation for the novel “Big Fish” as one of Daniel Wallace’s creative writing students. She’s revisiting her passion for telling and writing stories after a DNA discovery helped her understand her purpose. Berry is drawn to healing and hopes to use writing not only to further discover herself but also to help others discover themselves too. You can find her budding fiction book review account on Instagram @bottomlinebookreviews and follow her personal account @holliipop.
