Mealy-mouthed....
It's hard to explain
why when I bit down
and felt a loose tooth quaver in place,
I quivered.
My knees loosened,
and I swooned to the side
saying,
"O.... o no.... please no...."
I mean,
in some ways I know
I don't have to explain
that part.
But the part where I gently cry
for 3 days straight?
The part where I am so proud of myself
for *not* crying on the phone
with the dental office assistant
making the appointment,
but then I am very suddenly choking back sobs
when I try to calmly explain
"I need a sedative, please."
and my whole façade falls apart.
I'm already panicking.
Not just the rolling tears of the last few days,
but panic-induced ugly-crying
interrupted by moments
of steely resolve
where I attempt to regain control self-control
which quickly fails me.
A decade ago,
a compassionate dentist
stopped physically fighting my dentist anxiety,
(which includes random acts of vomiting,
breaking their expensive chairs
with my tiny, but ironclad grip
and attempting to jump out of the seat
and run like a rabbit into the safety of tall grass fields)
and said with a sweet tone,
"Have you ever tried drugs?"
It's hard to know how to answer a doctor
who says strangely invitational things.
In the end, it turns out valium works.
If you've never tried valium,
it's exactly like this.
It lets anxiety exist,
(and the world burn around you)
without much **worry** about it.
Existential distance.
The sort I usually have in my day-to-day life,
where I can talk the butcher knife out of a wildman's hand,
or call the FBI when a friend calls and says,
"I'm never going back to prison.
I'd rather die.
That's why I ran."
But if I smell even a whiff
of that mixed plastic & metallic tang
that occupies most dentist offices...
and I am on the floor,
reduced to nothing
but shit, tears
and lizard brain needs
to FLEE.
The sound of the drill?
My ass tightens
because my stomach drops
and begins churning like a washer.
Regaining my senses,
I may have the wherewithall to consider
the financials of my dental needs,
atop my dental fears.
Thousands and thousands of dollars...
Price: To Be Determined
but.... Google knows
dentistry is a four-dollar-sign experience.
Paid at time of service.
I hyperventilate
(this IS me remaining calm!)
as if I've already got that valium on deck.
It's just 2 months gross pay.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just my worst nightmare,
relived ONCE MORE.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just shame
mixed with embarrassment
mixed with terror
mixed with horror.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just an uncertain future
for my whole mouth
and all of its bitey-parts
and half of it's smiley-parts
and half of its talky-parts.
IT'S STILL GOOD, DAMNIT!
IT'S FINE!
LEAVE ME ALONE
TO QUAKE WITH INTENSE FEAR
AND OVERWHELMING SENSE OF DOOM,
OKAY!?!
I've been to the dentist so much.
In my life... I've probably spent more on dentistry
than I have on all my cars.
Combined.
EASY.
Maybe even including all maintenance
and fuel.
It's not like me
and dentists
are strangers.
We are VERY well-acquainted.
This is the only thing
where I feel total
and out-of-control
panic.
Dentists.
My teeth.
I've never had "good teeth".
I have the genetics of an inbred European princeling of the 18th century.
A stack of congenital defects,
that have always kept my doctors guessing.
"Wow,... huh....
... and you live
like that?
And it's fine?"
I've been asked, incredulously
by reputable national experts
in Body-Be-Fuckedness.
About my leg,
my heart,
my lungs,
my vascular system....
I say, "Yup"
with an airy nonchalance
I really mean.
After I was raped,
I endured extra-extra invasive gynecological exams.
Not great, but... no fear.
When my IUD got lost,
and a PA came at me with
what looked like.... a long crochet-hook
covered in other crochet-hooks.
A device for fishing in my uterus
so horrible,
even google is apparently left naive to it's existence.
It sucked, but... so what?
I wasn't too bothered by it.
But crawl into my mouth?
We are in dangerous territory
because that is where
all my fears
live.
In there.
In my Cave of Wonders.
And it's... impossible to explain.
I can only weep uncontrollably,
as my brain tries to explain
that perhaps if I just leave everything
and RUN FOREVER
I can escape the meticulously planned torture
of trying to fix
the cascading problem
that is my mouth.
The thing is dentists are well aware that lots of people suffer anxiety
about this shit.
But unlike gynecologists or urologists
or other "Private Hole" docs
they don't seem particularly
patient or compassionate
(on the whole)
while I am:
vibrating
and
sobbing
and
non-stop crying
in their chair.
They stop,
and ask,
"Did I hurt you?
Are you ok?"
And I calmly respond
through the tears,
"No. It's fine.
This is just hell.
Please continue.
Thank you."
and open up my mouth back up
all wide again
for their metal and rubber invasion.
(Thanks, Valium!)
Tears collecting in my ears,
while my eyes desperately focus on some mid-distance
between their semi-hygenic drop-ceiling
and the crab nebula light-years away.
why when I bit down
and felt a loose tooth quaver in place,
I quivered.
My knees loosened,
and I swooned to the side
saying,
"O.... o no.... please no...."
I mean,
in some ways I know
I don't have to explain
that part.
But the part where I gently cry
for 3 days straight?
The part where I am so proud of myself
for *not* crying on the phone
with the dental office assistant
making the appointment,
but then I am very suddenly choking back sobs
when I try to calmly explain
"I need a sedative, please."
and my whole façade falls apart.
I'm already panicking.
Not just the rolling tears of the last few days,
but panic-induced ugly-crying
interrupted by moments
of steely resolve
where I attempt to regain control self-control
which quickly fails me.
A decade ago,
a compassionate dentist
stopped physically fighting my dentist anxiety,
(which includes random acts of vomiting,
breaking their expensive chairs
with my tiny, but ironclad grip
and attempting to jump out of the seat
and run like a rabbit into the safety of tall grass fields)
and said with a sweet tone,
"Have you ever tried drugs?"
It's hard to know how to answer a doctor
who says strangely invitational things.
In the end, it turns out valium works.
If you've never tried valium,
it's exactly like this.
It lets anxiety exist,
(and the world burn around you)
without much **worry** about it.
Existential distance.
The sort I usually have in my day-to-day life,
where I can talk the butcher knife out of a wildman's hand,
or call the FBI when a friend calls and says,
"I'm never going back to prison.
I'd rather die.
That's why I ran."
But if I smell even a whiff
of that mixed plastic & metallic tang
that occupies most dentist offices...
and I am on the floor,
reduced to nothing
but shit, tears
and lizard brain needs
to FLEE.
The sound of the drill?
My ass tightens
because my stomach drops
and begins churning like a washer.
Regaining my senses,
I may have the wherewithall to consider
the financials of my dental needs,
atop my dental fears.
Thousands and thousands of dollars...
Price: To Be Determined
but.... Google knows
dentistry is a four-dollar-sign experience.
Paid at time of service.
I hyperventilate
(this IS me remaining calm!)
as if I've already got that valium on deck.
It's just 2 months gross pay.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just my worst nightmare,
relived ONCE MORE.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just shame
mixed with embarrassment
mixed with terror
mixed with horror.
It's still good - it's still good.
It's just an uncertain future
for my whole mouth
and all of its bitey-parts
and half of it's smiley-parts
and half of its talky-parts.
IT'S STILL GOOD, DAMNIT!
IT'S FINE!
LEAVE ME ALONE
TO QUAKE WITH INTENSE FEAR
AND OVERWHELMING SENSE OF DOOM,
OKAY!?!
I've been to the dentist so much.
In my life... I've probably spent more on dentistry
than I have on all my cars.
Combined.
EASY.
Maybe even including all maintenance
and fuel.
It's not like me
and dentists
are strangers.
We are VERY well-acquainted.
This is the only thing
where I feel total
and out-of-control
panic.
Dentists.
My teeth.
I've never had "good teeth".
I have the genetics of an inbred European princeling of the 18th century.
A stack of congenital defects,
that have always kept my doctors guessing.
"Wow,... huh....
... and you live
like that?
And it's fine?"
I've been asked, incredulously
by reputable national experts
in Body-Be-Fuckedness.
About my leg,
my heart,
my lungs,
my vascular system....
I say, "Yup"
with an airy nonchalance
I really mean.
After I was raped,
I endured extra-extra invasive gynecological exams.
Not great, but... no fear.
When my IUD got lost,
and a PA came at me with
what looked like.... a long crochet-hook
covered in other crochet-hooks.
A device for fishing in my uterus
so horrible,
even google is apparently left naive to it's existence.
It sucked, but... so what?
I wasn't too bothered by it.
But crawl into my mouth?
We are in dangerous territory
because that is where
all my fears
live.
In there.
In my Cave of Wonders.
And it's... impossible to explain.
I can only weep uncontrollably,
as my brain tries to explain
that perhaps if I just leave everything
and RUN FOREVER
I can escape the meticulously planned torture
of trying to fix
the cascading problem
that is my mouth.
The thing is dentists are well aware that lots of people suffer anxiety
about this shit.
But unlike gynecologists or urologists
or other "Private Hole" docs
they don't seem particularly
patient or compassionate
(on the whole)
while I am:
vibrating
and
sobbing
and
non-stop crying
in their chair.
They stop,
and ask,
"Did I hurt you?
Are you ok?"
And I calmly respond
through the tears,
"No. It's fine.
This is just hell.
Please continue.
Thank you."
and open up my mouth back up
all wide again
for their metal and rubber invasion.
(Thanks, Valium!)
Tears collecting in my ears,
while my eyes desperately focus on some mid-distance
between their semi-hygenic drop-ceiling
and the crab nebula light-years away.