bad teeth

(i have a major exam tomorrow so obviously i’m writing about my fear of dentists, my mother, childhood, nostalgia, and other things that have no connection whatsoever with my exam)

i never liked dentists. my mother is a dentist. as a child i would often go to her clinic for my monthly cleaning. her clinic was in the middle of the busy town market, across the butcher shop and vegetable stalls, on the second floor of the rundown apartment complex we owned. there she’d sit me up on her chair and probe and poke around my mouth with her foreign metal tools. every time i am there she would scold me for my bleedy gums and cavities, and how i always have cavities even though she reminds me to brush my teeth every night. up, down, side to side, the backs of the teeth, the corners, the in-betweens, the tongue, never forget the tongue! yet i still had bad teeth, worse than my brothers who never ate fruits and vegetables. from this she surmised that i was just that: a child who never cared about my teeth. but she was wrong. i was very much obsessed with my teeth. or, perhaps, very much obsessed with ruining them. i’ve lost five permanent tooths since then, mainly because of all the sweets i secretly devoured. i couldve given her the brightest smile, but instead i gave her rotten teeth. perhaps unconsciously i was ruining my teeth on purpose so i’d get her attention, because even though she’d scold me, i know she was still focusing on me. only me. and that was what i wanted. it was only during my cleanings with her that i found tenderness and closeness. she made me nervous and afraid when she’d sit on her stool in her white, characterless coat, wearing soury rubber gloves and a mask that hid the planes and features of her face. i would feel nauseous. i hated the clinical feeling of it all, but in my head she was still my mother. i was being probed and examined and i felt naked and guilty, but this was still my mother.

and perhaps why i never liked dentists was because i always thought the insides of my mouth were only for my mother’s eyes. and i cannot let others touch my teeth and see the worsts of my mouth because only my mother can know of my secrets. because it’s for her. i still don’t see other dentists. i don’t think i ever can, because when my mother examines my mouth and prods it with her tools and fills my cavities with filling, she is gentle and soft. and if it was some other dentist it wont feel the same way because they wont have tenderness for me and they wont have the softness of my mother’s hands, they wont have the familiarity of it all. because if i look up at them from my seat, i wont have longingness for them. because when my mother fills the hollowness of my cavities, it was her filling the empty spaces inside of me that have always been crying for her. because even though she’s angry at me for not brushing my teeth, i know that if i scream or exaggerate my pain, she would caress my cheek and soothe me with her voice, and here i’d feel her love.  because the only time i saw tenderness from her was when she’d wipe my drool away and tell me to gargle well and not spill, when she’d touch my cheek and my chin and ask me if it hurt. when, deep inside, i wanted her to ask me instead if her distance hurt more, if it hurt me more to be right there next to her and still feel her detachment, as if we were never umbilically connected once, because she doesn’t know that when i open my mouth for her, i am letting her love me, that this is me reaching out to her. and that when she works on me, she is so close to me that i wonder if i may just be able to hug her and touch her hair if i reached up.

and i always dreaded the time when she’d finish with me, when she’d take off my bib and push me up from the chair and make me gargle one last time, because i know it would all be over. and as a child i wished our cleanings would last all afternoon, but they almost always took only an hour, and then i’d have to wait another month again to feel her. it felt too fast and ended too soon, and being a child i figured that if i had more cavities, she’d spend more time working on me, being with me. because when it was over, i knew she would go back to her awkward person, unsure and uncertain of how to love me.

perhaps because i push her away, perhaps because i am something she cannot figure out, because she isn’t like me. or i am not like her, or what she wishes me to be. because when she asked for a daughter, she wanted a daughter the way she wanted a daughter exactly, and not what ever i was going to turn out to be. because when she prayed for a perfect and unique model, what she got was an ugly pastiche. because i am not a box she can put things in with whatever she wants and adorn with frills and ribbons. because i am a stubborn box that refuses to open to her. because i do not want to be like her, do not want her failures to be my insecurity and failures. but it happens the other way, and i find myself becoming more and more like her—the worst of her. and i hate it. i hate it so much. because i am more pigheaded than i believe, because i said i will be my own person, because i said i will break the cycle. because if theres anything i don’t want to be, it’s to be like her. but here i am, and i am just that: an awkward person, uncertain of how to love and show my softness and tenderness to other people, and so i stand here, helplessly wringing my hands.

i’m 20 now. i think i am a young woman now. i don’t remember the last time i had a cleaning with her. i have a cavity or two that needs checking and filling, but i am afraid to go to the school dentist because they will only scoop my eyes out and judge me for all eternity. and i am deathly afraid of reaching out to my mother, because i am not a child anymore. i cannot pretend to be in pain and demand for her caress, because i know she will smell my phoniness., most of all, i am afraid—really, really afraid— that if i sit on her dentist’s chair again, i wont find love and tenderness there anymore.



I saw my dad eating lunch alone on the dining table today so I sat with him because I hate seeing anyone eating alone, but we didn’t talk. I think it will always be awkward between my dad and I; we’re just not close, I suppose. I hate his aloofness and denial, his habit of brushing things off and pretending everything is alright, his black and white thinking when it comes to religion, and his tendency to make smalltalk just to fill the awkward silence.

I hate my mother and her coke and cigarettes, the disgusting smell of smoke every time I step in the door, how it lingers in all the crevices of the household and permanently stays there, always stinging my nose and dizzying me. It doesn’t matter where she hides herself, the pungent smell always finds me and it’s depressing.

I hate my younger brother and how he bars the whole world from him with just one slam of a door, always going home late from his friends’ house, his moodiness that always annoys the shit out of me, his warring emotions and wavering trust, how he can open his heart to me today and ignore me the next.

I hate my older brother for dropping out of college to pursue ministry, how he left home when i was just in high school, how the role of the eldest child was passed on and drilled to me by my parents, how we never talked again after he left, the estrangement thanks to the years we missed out on because he had to follow his dumb calling, and the reality that I don’t really know anything about him and he’s just as good as dead. I hate his self-righteousness and how he thinks he can preach over me, and how he will never understand that his god is only powerful to the next believer. and I’ve stopped believing a long time ago.

I hate my street, because even though it is called Freedom Street, there is really no freedom in it. And I hate my neighbors, how they act indifferent and uninterested but start whispering at the slightest hint of scandal.

I hate the daily commute and how I can never walk out of my house in peace, thanks to the omnipresent slimy stares of men.

I hate people and how no one is ever consistent with anything, that I am really alone in this life and no one can be trusted 100 percent, that i can never count on anybody’s word

I hate myself for my avoidant behavior, purposely evading responsibilities and tasks because i’m a piece of shit.

I hate my maladaptive daydreaming and how i believe whatever my imagination can conjure is better than real life

I hate my unrealistic high standards and expectations for myself, my hypocrisy for appreciating people for who they are, but cannot apply the same thing to myself.

I hate my warring emotions, torn between wanting to find someone who understands me and just wanting to be left alone forever.

I hate that I think too much and do too little, and I seethe about this all day.

I hate my mathematical incompetency, how I panic first when faced with a problem before actually solving it, but most times I just stare down at my paper, dumbfounded, because I am incapable of doing math, even the most basic of it. perhaps that’s why I’ve failed my math classes ever since.

I hate my impatience and inability to wait around for others. And I hate myself for never being able to sit still.

I hate my habit of never being content, of my never-ending desire to be better, and the nagging feeling that I’m never doing enough, that I will never amount to anything. I hate my desire to do everything, only to be disappointed because I know I cannot ever. It overwhelms and frustrates me.