Battling bedbugs: one woman's ordeal

NEW YORK — I have a secret. And I don't want to talk about it.

For almost a year, I was infested. With bugs. With bedbugs.

For months, these tiny, reddish-brown creatures fed on my blood and drove me to the edge of sleep-deprived psychosis. Their flat, wingless bodies invaded my bed frame, my dresser drawers, my books, even my videotapes. They made my possessions useless.

"They're not a health problem. They're just pests," said my landlady, who rebuffed my pleas for help.

I always thought bedbugs were mythical creatures from a bedtime rhyme. They are not. Nor are they mere pests. In the end, these tiny nightmares forced me to abandon my apartment and all the things inside that made it my home.

And so I'm going to tell my secret. Because I want you to be freaked out — so this doesn't happen to you.

The invasion

Mid-October, perfect sweater weather. I woke up, put on my favorite blue zip-up and went for a walk on the streets of Manhattan, my newly adopted home. When I returned, I noticed some red welts on my neck. I knew it wasn't chicken pox or acne.

I realized what was going on after I overheard my upstairs neighbors talking about their bites. The two adjoining buildings were infested, too.

I had just moved here from South Carolina, where bugs were the size of pickups. Bugs don't scare me. But these things did.

Each night, in bed, I waited wide-eyed for hours knowing they were homing in on the heat of my body. I slept in a long-sleeved shirt tucked into pajama bottoms tucked into socks. The slightest tingle upon my skin made me flick on the light, snap back the covers and begin the heart-pounding examination.

Some mornings, there were no new bites, and I allowed myself to hope that the latest visit from the bug guys had worked. Could I finally unpack my clothes from the black trash bags and retrieve the rest of my wardrobe from the dry cleaners, where I had a $1,200 bill? Could I invite friends to visit without worrying they might take home an unwanted gift?

Sleeping on poison

Then the itchy red welts would return.

From October 2005 to March 2006, the "bug guy" visited every 10 days to hose poisonous chemicals into every corner of my apartment — the brick wall, the mattress, the furniture, the wooden floor.

I found my two cats collapsed on the floor of my studio apartment after the first exterminator spray. They got a $250-night stay with the emergency vet. After that, I boarded the cats each night the bug guys visited. I chose to sleep on a mattress soaked in poison, knowing at least that this night the bugs would stay away.

I sank into depression. I had no clothes to wear. I was afraid to make any friends. I stayed late at work to avoid going home. When a sympathetic co-worker offered me a couch for a good night's rest, I hesitated; I couldn't be sure what unwelcome visitors I might bring.

Moving out and on

I could spend many paragraphs telling you how no one understood. I could spend column inches denouncing my landlady, who sued me when I stopped paying rent, and telling you about the lawyers who said it would be more expensive to fight than to give up. I could give you statistics that show how anyone, in any city, could end up like me.

But instead, I will tell you what it's like to walk away from all your possessions and start anew.

The day I made the decision, I was sitting in a sushi restaurant with my dearest childhood friend, Tara. She said I needed to be ruthless. "You can buy new things. Get rid of it all."

On the day I got rid of everything, I was militant.

Dozens of movies with squashed bugs and dried blood inside video jackets — gone. My DVD player, which disgorged bug carcasses when turned upside down — gone. The closet of clothes, stacks of purses and meticulously-matched shoes, picture frames (I kept the photos), books, my guitar, my five-piece bedroom set — all gone. I even debated discarding my 32-inch television.

Aside from easily washed kitchenware, I selected only the most irreplaceable items — the toy dog I got for Christmas when I was 10, the first and only quilt I sewed, my late grandmother's alarm clock.

I couldn't risk tossing things into a trash heap on the street for fear they would be scooped up by the unsuspecting. Instead, I just gave my landlord the keys to my apartment.

A year has passed, and the bugs have not come back. But I am changed.

Professional counseling and even a hypnotist have helped, but I still obsess over any red spot on my skin. I do a double-take when dark fuzzies and the mole on my left wrist catch my eye. I sleep only on white sheets, and pass black trash bags on city streets with dread.

I still feel isolated and alone sometimes. I read blogs about bedbug victims, and they comfort me. They affirm that I wasn't crazy, and, more important, that I wasn't overreacting.

Your bed is supposed to be your sanctuary, the place where you retreat when you're at your most vulnerable — undressed, at night, in the dark. I no longer have that sense of comfort. That's why I hope my secret freaks you out. Because the thoughts that darted through my mind on those endless nights are things I would not wish on anyone.