False Teeth
How do you explain to your dentist why you hate flossing?
Do you start at the beginning?
When I was a kid I was pushing my imaginary friend in a swing and she swung back too quickly and too forcefully, so much so that when the swing connected with my face my front tooth splintered apart.
Or do you start instead with a cheeky example of your adolescent dental rebellion?
My dentist suggested to my parents that we should consider getting me braces, there wasn’t a medical problem, but for cosmetic reasons — to clean up that smile. I told my parents if they tried to put braces on my teeth I’d rip those brackets right off and pull those wires right out. So they left me with my crooked smile.
Maybe you don’t hold back and you dig right into the truth — because this issue isn’t trivial.
When I was a kid I was molested by my neighbor. He told me I always had to smile whenever I saw him, and I always did. I smiled with a forced grimace that was crammed with jagged bones.
I will be pretty for no one.
But that is probably too dark and raw.
So instead, do you say something like, when bipolar disorder started forcing its pathology of interference into my existence, my relationship with my teeth became even more complex. Enamel lined with speakers and microphones, gums laced with poison implanted by shadowy forces that I couldn’t see but I could sense. Teeth told to crunch on anti-psychotics to keep me from flying too high or being completely buried.
My crooked teeth keep secrets from me when I’m crazy.
But diving into your history of psychosis at the dentist’s office, well, that might not be the appropriate venue.
Instead do you tell a cute and true story about your teeth and your family?
My mom and I share the same teeth. We also look alike, we laugh alike, and we hug the same. Our smiles are so similar with our equally crowded mouths; with our matching shark teeth. Our gums adorned with teeth that lean too far one way, too far the other way, some pushing past the other teeth both forwards and backwards, but they are such unapologetically aggressive incisors that they can drag you down to the depths. If you struggle we only clamp down harder. And we laugh unabashedly louder than anyone else because we are not ashamed of our overlapping pearly whites.
Maybe a love story would do the trick?
I always tell people that I never got braces because this kind of smile builds character. Cluttered teeth build confidence. When someone loves you, cramped teeth and all, then you know that it is real love. I say this jokingly with a self-deprecating laugh but the truth is I don’t want to be pretty for anyone. My husband has never really noticed my teeth; he is too busy leaving kisses on my lips.
However, I bet an adorable romantic embellishment doesn’t convey the seriousness of the situation.
It probably doesn’t provide enough of an explanation as to why you prefer to leave your teeth alone, to not interact with them as much as possible.
To give them space even if that means at the expense of pink gums.
Do you clear your throat and say, starting when I was molested and until I was a teenager the easiest way to self-harm was bite into the copper freckles on my arm?
My white arm was the perfect surface for capturing the imprint of 32 jumbled fangs. Each bite was just like making a mold of my teeth because I would clamp down on my skin with such conviction that after I blotted the blood away you would find indentations of slants and points and marks from my own built in bear trap. I bit through my skin when I couldn’t subdue the memories, when I couldn’t stop reliving the experience, or when I dissociated and drifted too far away for too long. The pain released me, I pulled away and it was easier to breathe, easier to be in my body. I don’t growl pleadingly into my arm anymore but I still remember how it felt and why I did it.
Do you think this statement will sum it all up for my dentist?
Taking minty, glossy threads and weaving them in and out, back and forth, working them through a chaotic cluster of off-white teeth in order to help keep my gums healthy is a challenge.
It is a challenge because my teeth are not just neutral towers of calcium and dentin; they are reminders of past experiences that still hurt even though I’ve made my peace.
Intimate moments with my teeth and gums remind me that the next time I go crazy I’ll mistrust them for days and I’ll run my fingers over their ridges and press my finger pads against their points because something sinister is buried there and I am inconsolable until the meds kick in.
Spending time with my teeth means spending time with pain that tore my heart apart. Just like the blood that spills from my gums, cut through by floss, that slicks red liquid across my teeth before sliding down my sink.
Despite all of this I do love my crowded smile.
Flashing it in a mirror, seeing it in a photo, imagining it when I laugh out loud, seeing it whenever I make my mom laugh, and how my husband tells me I’m beautiful whenever I jut out my snarled under bite to make a funny face.
My brave teeth prove how strong I am while at the same time remind me that I can’t completely escape my history, the memories, or the illness that I live with every day.
My relationship with my teeth is best explained by a long story of my experiences, details that are hard to share when the hygienist tells you to “sit back and open wide.”
I hate flossing. Does it make sense now?
