My name is Amanda. I'm a 38-year-old mom of two in Columbus, Ohio.
And for four months last year, I was slowly losing my mind.
It started with a single bite on my son Tyler's arm. Then another. Then a row of three on my own wrist that I almost convinced myself was a rash.
I called an exterminator.
He came out, charged me $400, sprayed everything in sight, and told me: "Give it two weeks."
Two weeks later, Tyler woke up screaming at 2 AM.
I called back.
"You probably missed some spots when you cleaned," he told me. "You need to be more thorough."
I had deep-cleaned my entire house for three straight days.
I didn't miss spots.
He did.
But I didn't know that yet.
So I went back to the store. Bought more sprays. Different brands. Stronger formulas.
Spent $300 on products that promised "instant kill" and "guaranteed results."
I sprayed my mattress so many times the fabric started to discolor.
I sprayed in the dark with a flashlight, on my hands and knees, checking every seam, every crack, every inch of my bed frame.
My husband started sleeping on the couch.
My daughter Emma stopped inviting friends over.
And every two weeks like clockwork the bites came back.