I Accidentally Pepper Sprayed Myself in the Face

I was nineteen, studying abroad for the summer in the UK. I had never been away from home for that long in my entire life, so I had lingering anxiety that made my stomach flutter and my skin physically itchy. I was worried I hadn’t packed everything and ended up overpacking — four pairs of shoes, twenty shirts and pants, all the toiletries from my bathroom, and all my makeup. I basically packed everything I’d ever need should I ever be required to grab a go-bag under immediate witness protection relocation orders and start an entirely new identity. It sounds insane and overdramatic, but I was worried I wouldn’t have something important like Q-tips while I was away from home for eight weeks. My suitcase was well over the hundred pound weight limit and my zippers were about to pop open at the seams when I had to drag it through the terminal.

So you can probably understand my relief when I arrived at my summer school and was finally able to pull my suitcase onto my bed to unpack. I yanked the zipper down the track and the contents inside of my suitcase exploded clothes, charging cables, towels, and other extraneous things. It looked like the donation bin at a Salvation Army vomited on my bed. As I was sorting through the massive pile of belongings, I picked up an item—it was pink, small, and discreet. It was pepper spray and definitely not the other thing you were probably thinking of, you pervert.

I pocketed my dorm keys, my wallet, and pepper spray (because you know, anxiety, and also you never know if people are weirdos or murderers. Don’t blame me, blame the movie Taken) before heading out to the orientation mixer.

A friend of mine from back home on the same program with me, *Julie, and I mingled with a bunch of other students and thought it might be fun to go bar hopping as a group in the evening. After we finished up dinner, we went to a pub and immediately pounded a bunch of B52s. For those who are unfamiliar, B52s are a shooter that you light on fire, and then chug the shit out of it (the Brits got a kick out of a bunch of rowdy eighteen year old Americans getting hammered since the UK has the obviously much cooler, more fun drinking age). The warm liquid dribbling down my throat and coating the inside of my belly felt nice, especially because it was raining and chilly.

After bouncing around to a hazy number of pubs and drinking an even fuzzier number of B52s, my new friends and I were walking back to our campus. At the time, I was drunk and confused, so I didn’t really know where we were headed. It was freezing despite it being July and my teeth were chattering, so I shoved my icy rock hard hands into my pockets when I felt something cold and sharp—my keychain. I traced my frozen fingers along the metal ridges of my keys and felt something plastic. In a drunken haze, I pulled out my keys to inspect. It was my pink tube of pepper spray. I held it up to about three inches from my face and stared right into the tiny hole where capsicum oil would normally eject. I thought to myself, Damn, I’ve had this thing for months and have never used it. I wonder what if would be like if I sprayed it in my face.

Then from deep within my conscience, I heard the faint, almost nearly faded voice of reason to which my drunk, curious side responded.

Drunk me: “I’ve never used it. What would happen if—”

Voice of reason me: “You actual moron, don’t do it.”

Drunk me: “But I’m SO CURIOUS. Come on.”

Voice of reason me: “Okay fine. But not in the face.”

Drunk: “Okay so the face then?”

Voice of reason me: “NO, NOT IN THE FUCKING FACE. Just… I don’t know. Spray it against a hard surface so the wind doesn’t blow it anywhere.”

As I provided both sides of my mental conversation like a completely sane, well-adjusted person, I walked by a shop window and noticed my reflection. I shot myself a smile and my mean mug in the dirty glass smiled right back. I rationalized to myself, I could pepper spray my reflection so I could have the thrill of using it, but also see what it would look like if I sprayed myself without any of the repercussions. Ha, that’ll show me. I’m a genius.

Somehow, this all made sense to me.

I clicked the little red plastic safety to the side, and then faced the window. I stood a little more than a foot apart from my glass, held my hand up to my reflection, and pressed my thumb down onto the button as hard as I could.

I initially thought that pepper spray would be like a floral perfume—a gentle, atomized burst of light, watery dew dancing carelessly in the air for a few fleeting seconds, and then landing listlessly on surfaces like a gentle kiss.

This was not the case.

I didn’t know that pepper spray administers a violent orange stream of burning demon piss. With my hand inches from the window, it ricocheted off the window and sprayed back at me EVERYWHERE. How could this have all gone so horribly wrong? I had walked through every step meticulously, and carefully considered every angle after eight B52s at 4AM. Some people are just unlucky, I guess.

The sensation started at my nose. It started to tingle like I had to sneeze, and immediately after I felt an instantaneous, crescendoing wave of burning heat like I snorted a line of dry, crushed Carolina Reaper seed powder. My eyes instinctively welled up and felt like I had acid in my tear ducts. I crumpled onto the ground and screeched. This wasn’t even a direct spray. This was a “wow-you’re-dumb” secondhand spray. For God’s sake, someone please save me from myself.

I tried my damnedest to keep from coughing, but my group turned around and seemed pretty concerned.

Oh my God, are you okay? Did you pepper spray yourself? How did that happen? Do you need water?

Meanwhile, my good friend Julie laughed and pointed at me like any rational person would.

I threw the pepper spray away after that. I don’t think it did a very good job protecting me from bodily harm.

*Names have been changed.