HYPERHIDROSIS

The pen slides between my sweaty fingers. My palms drip, the self spilling.

I have hyperhydrosis, a condition marked by excessive sweating. My notebooks are smeared with inkblots. I wrap my pen with a handkerchief to keep my fingers from sliding. Sometimes I even carry two handkerchiefs, one for each hand. When I type on the computer, my sweaty palms irrigate the keyboard. My work area is littered with paper napkins. My pockets are stuffed with bits and pieces of soggy tissue papers.

My condition did nothing to abate my social awkwardness. Handshakes stress me. It’s never a welcoming sight to see me with my hands buried in my pockets squeezing a handkerchief. If I forget to bring one, I would panic and run to the restroom and cool my hands under running water, spending a considerable amount of time running back and forth between faucet and dryer. It’s really bad. I can never allow anybody to touch me once my palms and feet start sweating. Human contact would make me flinch the way one cringes at the sound of screeching fingernails and squealing chalk on blackboard. The slightest touch would ignite me, a tingly burning flash that swiftly spreads under my skin, white-hot, shooting all the way to my temple. My senses would become heightened and I would become aware of each copious bead swelling out from my pores. The mere thought of it moistens me. I can’t even let my own fingers touch each other; they want to get away from each other as much as possible. Even my toes are splayed out, webbed like a gecko’s.

It gets worse outside. I can’t wear leather or rubber sandals. A fine surface of dust on my exposed feet would instantly turn into grime and my muddied feet would slide out of my footwear making it impossible to walk. When this happens, I lose my balance. A curse for a writer and a traveler. Whenever I reach a home destination or I’m all set to depart, I stop at doorknobs. Will I be able to turn it or will my hands slip?

I grew up in heat and dust. I loathed how the seventies made me sweat, the double-knit and synthetic fashion of that decade, our fiery home interior, the ochre gauze curtains, the red abaca carpet, the waxed yellow tiles. It’s as if my own physical comfort, often dictated by a certain degree of coolness, depended on surfaces, fabrics and touch. My grip on the world relies on what I wear, where I am, and who touches me.

Hyperhidrosis is said to be due to an overactive Sympathetic Nervous system (SNS), which makes us fight or flee adverse situations. If I can afford it, I suppose I could resort to modern science’ remedy, undergo surgery, and have the right nerves desensitized with botox. Luckily, my armpits don’t sweat excessively. It’s a discomforting thought, a needle aimed at your armpit.

But there’s also something about the arterial quality of bodies of water that dogs me: a thirst, a longing to constantly flow, to leave and return.