The FOUR times I was almost killed by bees.

My Final Destination Origin story.

Get ready for one of my action packed, chaotic wild ride essays.

It’s rare to know how you’re going to die, without being sick from something deadly. But it feels inevitable that I am in some sort of karmic, unspoken feud with the Black and Yellows.

Nobody believes me, that this has happened this many times, and that used to annoy me, until I realized that there is something somewhat iconic about having such a stupid rumor about yourself. I am not connected to something cool/edgy. People think that of all the lies I could have started about myself, in my 17 year career, that I chose being chased by bees a lot... It’s sort of perfect.

I blame My Girl. The day I watched that fucking film, with its fucking horror story about bees, I set something off in the universe. I manifested a life of chaos. I am allergic, but also I developed a violently irrational phobia of them from that exact day forward. If I hear the slightest buzz even, I lose my mind. I’m not being hyperbolic. I MEAN I LOSE MY MIND. All sense leaves my body, my integrity disintegrates, and I am overtaken with a survival instinct, that is somehow always accidentally suicidal. Every time.

this fucking movie

This phobia has dominated my life since I was 8. To this day I can’t even watch anything with bees in it on the screen. I still haven’t seen the show Yellow Jackets just because the poster had a wasp on it. Until I was 20, I couldn’t have any windows open all year, and stayed indoors for the entirety of July/August, venturing out only after dark. I only wore dark colors, having bought into the myth they would think I was a flower if I wore colour. I would cross any road that had large bushes on it. I refused being a flower girl at weddings every time I was asked. I wouldn’t eat sugar outdoors unless it was the winter. I believed they were all always looking for me. I was… mad.

My first incident was a few weeks before my 17th birthday. I was walking down the street near my home. A huge bumble bee came down the street towards me, I tried to shift across the sidewalk, and it narrowed in towards me, probably minding its ow business, and my natural instinct was to RUN INTO ONCOMING FUCKING TRAFFIC TO BE FUCKING SAFE. I was of course, immediately hit by a car, but for a fun twist, I flew onto the other side of the road, where I was then hit again… by another car. People heard the cars hit my body and flooded out of the shops on to the street. I blacked out, and came to with the two drivers screaming in the street. I panicked that I would be in trouble for jay walking and somehow shot up onto my feet. Everyone gasped at my miracle. I couldn’t believe I had gotten away with it. I was desperate to comfort the traumatized 80 year old man who hit me first, so then proceeded to do some STAR-JUMPS to show him how well I was. I fought my way past all the concerned onlookers and ran home before the ambulance could get to me. I lived up two flights of stairs… bound up them and told my family nothing of what happened. I went to my room, and suddenly felt exhausted. So I lay down for a nap. I don’t know how much time passed, but the next time I woke up I was in a hospital. Turns out the adrenaline was masking a broken back, ribs, arm and a severe concussion. I didn’t make a full recovery for 18 months! Because a bee had been on the same side of the road as me.

me

Upon my recovery I was advised by my doctors to seek CBT therapy. (Cognitive behavioural therapy) It’s a treatment helpful for many things, but especially phobias. We spent twelve weeks working on my “irrational” fear, and my tolerance for buzzing and at the end, to finish the course, they took me for a session of exposure therapy. To a park. I had not been in a park in over a decade. I was petrified. As we got inside, my therapist spotted a lavender bush. A known magnet for my sworn enemy. I was sobbing as she inched me closer and closer. (To be fair, I had failed to disclose I was allergic or perhaps she would not have taken such a huge risk.) But finally, she had me stand right next to the bush, where it was now touching my skin… and I must have threatened some of them, because I GOT STUNG. AT A FUCKING CBT SESSION FOR MY “IRRATIONAL” FEAR OF BEING STUNG. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I was rushed to the hospital and never spoke to said therapist again. The treatment was largely unsuccessful, gifting me only a near death experience, and a forever, deep, hatred of lavender.

Photo by Léonard Cotte on Unsplash

My twenties remained a closed window, no air con, affair. My bedroom had never known fresh air… until one night, during the worst heatwave Britain had experienced in decades, I decided to crack the window open a few inches at night, setting my alarm for sunrise so I could shut it again before the dreaded buzzing enemies were back out on the prowl for me, because I am a psycho. That night, amazingly, something worse happened. A massive pigeon somehow got in and flew around my room, flew into my face, scratched me and then proceeded with shitting all over me, and everything I owned. I have never opened my window ever again. I am now 39.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I was 31 the next time I had a major life threatening event with the Black and Yellows. I had moved to Los Angeles, in no small part due to the fact that it being a desert and a concrete jungle, made it somewhere less likely to have a lot of bees. I wanted to be outside at last. I loved how arid and grey the streets were. I was filming a show called The Good Place with Ted Danson, who is in INCREDIBLE shape, not just for his age, but for my age even. I asked him how he maintained such a condition, and he told me I needed to start exercising. He suggested jogging. So that night I went home, put on some sneakers, a thick black tracksuit, that zipped up to my eyes, and gloves to protect me from mosquitoes and I went for it. (I looked like a terrorist.) I hate to admit that after a few minutes, I started to feel amazing. So free. So powerful. I enthusiastically, crossed a huge road called La Cienega… a road so big it had an island in the middle. The island had a tree on it. I swiped past the tree and eagerly kept jogging on the spot waiting for the lights to change.

bastard

Sadly, as I brushed past the tree I must have disturbed a hidden HIVE, and was descended upon by a SWARM of bees. Crawling all over me. The sound of a thousand drones. A cloud of Black. I couldn’t see shit. That familiar old feeling suddenly coarse through me. The maniacal and moronic instinct to run into oncoming traffic. Off I went into three lanes of speedy oncoming cars. Flailing my arms and spinning around. Three cars almost crashed and one slowed down just enough to only hit me at breaking speed. I go down. The bees go down with me. I can’t believe they won’t fuck off still. I am injured, but I’m drunk on Adrenaline again, so I get back up and keep going for it. I run down La Cienega and make a sharp turn onto Third street where I see a crowd of smokers outside a Mexican restaurant.

I don’t know it yet, but I’m about to face the ultimate test of my fundamental morality.

I fail immediately, and secure my seat in hell.