A Trip to the Dentist

I had to go to the dentist today.

Admittedly, I don't go out much anymore. Partly because I don't drive. Partly because I don't often feel well enough to go out. Partly because I worry about what will happen.

I sat down in the chair and had to tell the hygienist to beware of my twitching. It was mildly embarrassing to bring up but we just moved on and I willed myself not to twitch, especially not to twitch my head because I was afraid I might get stabbed by their torture tools. (Is it just me? Their tools are creepy and archaic looking, right?) Wishing and willing it not to happen doesn't usually heed the desired results but it is all I can do. I have absolutely no control over my twitching.

My head didn't jerk. Well, okay, that's not quite true. It didn't twitch at all while she had tools in my mouth. There were a couple head and full body twitches that happened behind her back. There were a number of subtle arm and leg twitches that went seemingly unnoticed.

But then my leg...Oh my twitching right leg.

The chair shook beneath the quake. The whole thing rattled. The overhead light teetered back and forth across my face. Her little metal torture tools clanked against each other on their tray.

"There's a twitch," hygienist said, matter-of-factly, and proceeded to ask me a string of questions about it.

I. Was. Mortified.

Twenty minutes later I had to go through the whole thing again with the dentist.

I wanted to hide in my closet for the rest of the day. My cozy, comforting, closed door closet where no one can find me and nothing can overwhelm me and there are no eyes nor ears to cast judgment.

Instead I wrote my sister a letter and cried.