Today I went to the dentist already feeling defeated.
Losing so many teeth has been hard enough on its own. It’s not just physical. It gets into your confidence, your sense of self, the way you imagine your future. I walked in carrying more than dental pain.
If you haven’t been reading, a couple posts back will clear things up as to why I’m losing so many teeth.
They were having a hard time pulling the tooth, and it was painful. The instruments slipped a couple of times, which scared me more than it hurt. I felt trapped in that chair—already vulnerable, already worn down, already carrying too much.
Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore - I thought I was going to suffocate and waved for her to stop.
She did.
And the second everything paused, I broke down.
I cried right there in the chair.
Not just because of the tooth.
I cried because I’m losing so many teeth and don’t have the money for dentures or implants.
I cried because I’m so fucking lonely.
I cried because I miss loving someone and being loved back.
I cried because I’ve kept all of this balled up inside for too long.
I cried because I don’t know how I’m supposed to get caught up on my bills.
I cried because my car is breaking down and I don’t know how I’m supposed to afford fixing that too.
I cried because my body feels less reliable every year—chronic pain, knees giving out, mobility becoming harder instead of easier.
I cried because I have no more hopes or dreams.
I cried because nothing positive feels attainable, and maybe right now that’s true.
But it sucks.
It fucking sucks.
I cried because sometimes it feels like every direction has another wall in it.
What happened today made me realize something:
Sometimes we think we’re crying about the thing directly in front of us.
The tooth.
The bill.
The bad appointment.
The lonely night.
But often we’re crying about everything those things represent.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The accumulation.
The feeling that life keeps taking and asking for more.
That chair became the place where everything I’ve been holding in finally caught up with me.
And maybe that breakdown wasn’t failure.
Maybe it was honesty.
Maybe it was what happens when a person has been trying to be strong for too long.
So I’m being real in my journal out loud—as real as I can get.
Because I’m finding a strange comfort in writing, knowing maybe one or two people might read this and say:
“I’m there with you.”
Or:
“I’ve been there, and I know you can get through it.”
Maybe something like that.
Who knows.
So this may just read like: wtf, who cares?
And if you don’t, then move on.
This isn’t for you.
This is for the ones who’ve looked at life from both sides now.
Finally, when the tooth was out, another bout of tears came—and some relief that it was over.
I gathered myself as much as I could and sat there for a couple of minutes just wanting to be home with my dog.
I drove home with the music turned way up.
Pink.
Joni Mitchell.
John Williams.
Calum Scott.
Not bangers exactly, but enough for me in that twenty-minute drive home.
And that felt good.
I finally got into my apartment and hugged my dog.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror, saw the crater left by the pulled tooth, and decided to write about it.
To write about the tooth.
To write about the tears.
To write about feeling defeated.
To write about all of it out loud.
Because after all, that’s what this project is about.
My journal out loud.
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