This
story is about my struggle with my fear of dentists. I also tried to
present my relationship with my father in the story and hope it
doesn’t overshadow the representation of my greatest fear. I
struggled with finding the topic for this story when I remembered
this day from only a week ago.
The
glare of my eyes was internal, though my feelings could have been
read from my features if my father had known me at least a little. He
knew the version of myself that I presented to him; obedient, quiet,
and pretty. He didn’t know that under the mask I put up for him
was a fierce girl with ambition and full of chaos. The one thing that
didn’t slip past him, that I tried very hard to hide, was my
anxiety.
We
climbed up the stairs of the small rundown-looking mall, which was
filled with bars and stores. My pace matched his, even though he
huffed while he struggled to ascent. He had problems with both of his
knees and getting rid of his beer belly. It remembered me of the time
when we still understood each other, the time when I would snuggle up
to him as a little girl and pat his stomach.
A
lot of things had changed, our relationship and his status of only
having two children. What didn’t change, was his love for cheap
alcohol. I wasn’t the youngest of his children anymore, which
was why I was surprised he was finally giving me an ounce of
attention.
When
we finally arrived at the upper level, where the dentist’s
office resided, we had to walk down another hallway to arrive in
front of the wooden door. The white paint on the walls was peeling
and the stone floor was filled with small ants, which I hadn’t
noticed, but my father later pointed out.
“Oh,
I used to go to my therapist here,” the words escaped my mouth
before I could have stopped them. I remembered the first time he
noticed the scars on my forearm on a trip to grandma’s house.
It was three years after I stopped cutting that he finally noticed
the white lines staining my arm. He stared at me for only two minutes
after I told him that was ancient history. We never spoke about it
again.
My
father only grunted after my words, almost as if he was angry that I
mentioned going to a therapist. He hadn’t even known I went to
one and honestly, I didn’t even remember my therapist’s
name. I only went into the dark room three times, before I decided I
was going to heal myself. Those days were long behind me.
We
only sat on the soft bench in front of the dentist’s office
when I already started shaking. My irrational fear of dentists ran
far deeper than into my soul, it had reached into my childhood too. I
was later surprised that my father shared my fear of the dentist. It
felt weird being on the same side as my father after so many years of
feeling like he was a stranger.
“You
could put a tattoo over that. I saw one of a zipper that would fit,”
my father pointed toward the place where I had to get five stitches.
That scar was on my right hand and was there because of a removal of
a birthmark that would turn into skin cancer or something. I never
really listened to adults when I was younger, I only did what I was
told with voiceless nods.
I
ran my fingertip over the scar, “I quite like it like this. I
think it gives me more personality.” I shrugged as if his words
hadn’t affected me. They had almost gone over my head, but I
tried to focus on anything other than the dentist behind the door to
our right.
“That’s
not what I meant. I saw a picture of a zipper tattoo over a scar like
yours and mine. It looked cool.” He didn’t smile and even
if he did, his smiles never gave me comfort. They were almost
mocking, thin-lipped and taunting. He even turned to his right and
made fun of a woman that walked past us, saying something about how
old she looked. With his salt and pepper beard, he didn’t look
young either, but I didn’t say anything about that. I only
scolded him for his behavior, surprising him that I spoke against
him. My older sister was the one that took over the role of the
backtalking rebel in our family and had to face my father’s
angry episodes. I was lucky that he didn’t snap over small
things or my words would blow up in my face.
The
door of the dentist’s office opened, and a woman walked out.
After the door closed, I finally let out a breath I didn’t know
I was holding. My glare focused on my trembling hands before I
clenched them into fists. I turned back to my father to focus on
something other than drilling sounds and a light in my eyes.
“There
are so many ants on the floor, do you see that?” My father’s
complaints snapped me back into reality. There were no drilling
sounds, the door must have been soundproof. It was all in my
imagination. I glanced down at the floor, no ants in sight. His
vision had been better than mine ever since I hit puberty and was in
need of thick glasses.
The
door opened again, the head of a man in his early fifties popping
out. He wore glasses that made his eyes look three times bigger and
his greying hair reached past his ears. He offered a silly grin to my
father and turned his gaze toward me.
“How
grown up you look,” his friendly voice made my shoulders slump
in relief. For a second, I thought he would be the same as my last
dentist, who shuffled bad music on his speakers and spoke about the
bad quality of my teeth.
“This
is the younger one,” my father’s tone completely changed.
He seemed different than the person I knew him as. I didn’t
remember the man before us, yet my mother informed me that my father
was very close friends with him for many years.
I
always knew that some people weren’t meant to be parents and
that my father was one of them, even though he had one child more
than my nurturing mother. He may have been a good friend and maybe
even a good father to my younger half-brother, but he had made a lot
of mistakes with my sister and me before he became someone decent. At
least I hoped he was different, because I only saw him once every
month, maybe even less and I was still afraid of him.
After
we entered the office, which seemed like an updated version of the
hallway we waited in. There was green paint on the walls and the soft
bench had polished gold detailing. I offered the unfamiliar man in
front of me a wave and a smile, which might have been forced, but I
was good at concealing my feelings.
He
invited me into the room about which I had countless nightmares and
only walked into when someone dragged me into it. I uttered a curse
word, which was heard by my father, who let out a roar of laughter.
He had always been the one who supported foul language, but I never
felt comfortable using it in front of him.
“She’s
the same as me,” he spoke to his dentist friend. At first, I
didn’t know that it was a code. I didn’t know he meant
that I shared the fear of dentists with him. Which was why I turned
around and glared at him.
“What?”
I asked my tone one that he had never heard. I tried to play it off
as playful and he bought it. I guess he really didn’t know me
at all.
The
chair in the middle of the room and the tools to the right made the
scene look like one from a horror movie. Another thing I shared with
my father was my love for scary movies, which my mother hated. My mom
was a soft soul and had too much kindness in her heart, which was why
it took her so long to divorce my father. Even though my sister was
younger than ten, she had something close to a party when he left
with his bags in tow.
“Why
are you afraid of me?” I froze at that question. The dentist
stared at me with those big eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. My
hands started sweating, causing small tingles to spread around my
palms. I rubbed the skin against the fabric of my army green dress
and shook my head with a nervous laugh.
“I
don’t know if it’s a false memory or if I made it up, but
I remember when they would pluck our teeth out in kindergarten. I
remember waiting in line and walking to the table. The shiny silver
pliers on the wooden desk, a tremble going down my spine.” I
didn’t tell him about another unfortunate experience when a
woman drilled into my mouth and ignored my tears and whimpers. I had
to be around seven. I never had luck with dentists. I had to change
five dentists in the last year until my father finally caved and
called his friend.
“It’s
possible that happened,” a rock rolled off of my heart when he
uttered those words. Someone believed me. Even my mother, who
believed every single thing I told her, was skeptical when I told her
the story. The kindergarten teacher asked us if any of us had loose
teeth and pulled them out with the pliers.
After
that, he told me I had a lot of holes he had to fix, though he had
complimented my perfectly straight teeth and questioned if I wore
braces, which I did for three torturous, depressing years. He even
told me he had more seals in his teeth than I would have after he
would be finished.
When
I had to walk back into the waiting room in the office, with the
polished golden seating bench, a small smile grew on my face. Not
only because someone believed my story from kindergarten, but also
because I felt safe with a dentist for the first time in my life. I
was still sure that the dentist was on the list of the top most scary
things in my life right beside math, sports, and my father, but at
least my hands stopped shaking.
I
am from Slovenia, which is a country right beside magnificent Italy.
My nineteenth birthday will be in less than two months and I have
been writing seriously since my freshman year of high school. My two
best friends are my mother and sister, who will always be the first
to read any of my short stories or novels. Sadly, none of my projects
have been published yet. I am an average writer in my native language
and a bit better in English. I have applied to college and will major
in journalism. There are a lot of hobbies that I tried my hand at, I
even competed in dancing and was pretty good, but writing has stayed
with me the longest. Almost every night I fight sleep and read past
midnight while listening to music. The best things in my life are my
family, chocolate, my imagination, and trees.
