The joys of being a high school graduate

I really appreciate Catherine's response to my June 23 post. It was nice to get some feedback from a reader. Plus Catherine reminds me of myself as a Catholic school student afraid to shake hands during Mass.

I had elaborate strategies for avoiding the "sign of peace" handshake during Mass:
1) position myself near some of the nicer students or those too polite to laugh at me
2) sit near the aisle for a quick escape before the handshake
3) stay home from school altogether.
4) make a joke out of it and give everyone the peace symbol rather than the handshake.

As you might guess, this was a lot of work!

Later on in high school, I began using Drysol. Though it helped reduce the sweating, it also caused my skin to itch and crack. I recently learned why this happened from www.sweatsolutions.org --my technique of applying the Drysol and wrapping my hand in plastic overnight is not recommended because it causes skin irritation--d'oh!)

Now I can go to a mass and shake hands without feeling anxious (OK, well maybe a little). My hands don't seem to sweat as much now that I'm less anxious--even when I'm not using the Drysol. Or if they do sweat, no one seems to notice. Older people (in general) are less likely to comment on sweaty palms than high school students.

More importantly, I'm a lot less worried about what others think of me now that I'm out of high school. I wish I knew than what I knew now: just about everyone in high school feels like a freak for one thing or another.

This is my roundabout way of saying to Catherine and other high school students to hang in there...it gets easier.

I stumbled on another blog written by someone who has hyperhidrosis. Gretchen's blog is not about her hyperhidrosis--rather it's about technical jobs at Microsoft, where she had worked as a recruiter until a few months ago. (Talk about a job involving lots of handshaking!) In one of her blog entries, she mentioned the sweaty palms she gets before conducting job interviews.

It's good to see a fellow person with palmar HH doing so well in corporate America...yet she still has the courage to talk about her condition in a public forum. Thank you, Gretchen!

The Balancing Act

Sometimes it feels a little odd to write this blog. Is this navel-gazing? Is it really useful to other people? Is this too much self-exposure? What about all the other issues in the world that are so much more important than my own emotional struggle? And what about all the other subjects and interests that occupy my mind...writing, art, being outdoors, social justice, peace, etc.? We are all so much more than the medical conditions we face.

When I was a child, I told my mother about my sweaty palms and how I was scared to go to church or to a school dance. "Just wipe them off on your pants," she told me. Then she would try to reassure me by telling me how lucky I am compared with other children because I have a nice home and enough food to eat. Or how lucky I am because getting good grades in school came easy to me. She had a valid point, but unfortunately, I ended up feeling worse. I felt guilty for feeling bad about my sweaty palms--there are starving children in Africa and I'm worried about a little sweat? The result was that I didn't get the help I needed.

I've come to see the importance of balance when it comes to dealing with hyperhidrosis. You have to get yourself the medical and emotional help you need in order to live a full and happy life. You need to acknowledge and let yourself feel the emotions that arise in response to your condition, whether that be sadness, anger, or fear. And not to judge yourself for feeling that way.

On the other hand, it helps to look beyond yourself. To see and feel compassion for the struggles of others. It helps put your medical condition in perspective.
Perhaps you might even take action to help ease others' suffering. You might appeal to your Congressional representative to take a stand against the genocide in Darfur, a region of the African country Sudan. You might pray for the people of Iraq and our troops who are in so much danger. You might focus on your local community, volunteering to tutor a student.

I'm no Mother Theresa, but I do volunteer a few times a month at a local assisted living facility, visiting an older gentleman who is unable to leave the building alone. He likes to have visitors. He teaches me chess, and each week as I lose yet another game to him, I "build character." (-:

When I take the spotlight off myself, I find that my social anxiety (and the excessive sweat that results) isn't so bad. My sweaty palms are the last thing on my mind when I'm getting my butt kicked in chess! When we finish the game, we thank each other and shake hands. This must be what they mean by the expression 'healing touch.'

What You're About To Read Is Very Poignant And Serious. Very, Very Serious.

Sometimes when I’m relaxed, my hands and feet sweat—even first thing in the morning before I get out of bed. Other times, I’m totally dry. It doesn’t make sense…my sweat glands seem to be on their own schedule. Like I’ve got an automatic lawn sprinkler, and someone rigged it so I can’t turn it off.

When I’m nervous, my hands and feet sweat even more. And when I know I’m going to be in a situation where my sweat might be noticed, well, that’s when the lawn sprinkler gets supplemented by a garden hose. I think it’s always helpful to have a scapegoat for these sorts of tribulations, so I blame the extra sweat on an imaginary bald, fat, retired, lawn care-obsessed gentleman with too much time on his hands. He is standing on my palm, watering me with a very pricey garden hose from Smith and Hawken. He wears a Hawaiian T-shirt and hums Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.” (Yes…Neil Diamond rocks!) The man cannot stand it that no matter how much he waters my palm, I do not grow AstroTurf. He is worried...will the neighbors scoff at his pathetic lawn?

It helps me not to take this disease too seriously whenever possible. Oh, any suggestions of names for my garden hose man are welcome. I was thinking Igor.

A Letter to My High School Religion Teacher

Dear Mr. S.:

You might not remember me, but I remember you. You were the new. young 9th grade teacher who wanted to be considered ‘cool’ by your students. You were my teacher for a semester, for the “Death and Dying” class, one of the most important classes I took in high school.

I remember the day my friends and I joked around with you in the hallway. I had been feeling very outgoing around that time of high school. My best friend at the time was so confident that she did handstands on the lawn in front of the school, leaving infatuated freshman in her wake. I went along with her for this joyride. I remember the exact spot where you spoke with me and my friends—in front of the Writing Center on the first floor. You responded to a joke I made by melodramatically shaking my hand. You thought this was funny—and it would have been if my hands hadn’t been so sweaty. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You just wanted to joke around with your students. I tried to snatch away my hand, but you shook it anyway, pumping it up and down several times.

“Eeeww!” you exclaimed in a voice that seemed louder than the school’s PA system. “Wet fish! Wet fish! Your hands so sweaty!” Everyone, including you, looked at me and laughed.

What you didn’t know is that I have a medical condition, hyperhidrosis. What I believed back then is that there was something fundamentally screwed up about me because of this condition. I vowed to protect myself by avoiding any situation in which my excessive sweat might be exposed—i.e., most situations involving social interaction. Not a formula for a happy high school experience.

This joke was at my expense, and I paid a big price. To this day, I can see you and several students laughing at me. You, a teacher, someone I was supposed to trust, mocking me in front of my classmates. If I couldn’t trust my teachers or my parents to help me deal with my medical condition, then who could I trust? Why couldn’t I have normal hands and feet? You weren’t the only one to laugh or cringe at my sweaty palms. And each time I was laughed at, I vowed never to this happen again. I would protect myself at all costs. So I faded into the background, where it was safe but lonely.

I don’t want to be 35 years old complaining about high school. I do not hate you, Mr. S. I know you cared about the students and did your best to be a good teacher. I just want you and other teachers to know how much an innocent joke can hurt a self-conscious student alone in dealing with her medical condition. And I suppose I need to admit to myself how much pain I felt because of these experiences from my schooldays. A bottled-up feeling has to come out somehow, whether in a constructive or harmful way, whether sooner or later.

In our “Death and Dying,” class we learned the five stages of grief, as defined by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. I am grieving, too. All the time lost feeling bad about myself because of my sweat. The friendships that might have been had I been able to open myself to others. And the adventures I might have had.

Many days, more often than not, I feel strong and confident. Today, I feel sad. That lonely, scared, angry teenage girl is still part of me, and she has some things that need to be said. Though these feelings are messy, I will let them come out because they must. And I am learning to receive them with loving kindness.

Stepping Out

I went to a professional group's meeting last night to do a little networking. The wording of this sentence sounds funny to me because I don't consider myself a schmoozy/cocktail party/networking kind of person.

I used to think that this is what people did at professional events:

I circulate around the party like a hungry shark sniffing surfers, perfectly comfortable in my suit and high heels. I see someone who looks important, so I plaster a smile on my face and approach for the kill. 'Hey, I'm Tiara...so glad to meet you!" in the booming voice, laying on a sweat-free, iron grip handshake, oozing confidence rather than sweat.

Now I must follow the steps in the self-help book:
1) deliver my 20-second elevator speech: "I leverage results through innovative partnerships!"

2) quickly find out if this person is important enough to promote my upward mobility so I can move from associate sales analyst to assistant sales analyst! Quickly...time is money!

"So, what do you do?" I ask. "I'm a sanitation management engineer," he says. "In other words, I'm a garbage man."

I choke on a goat cheese cracker. "Oh that's fabulous! Excuse me while I freshen my already-full drink!"

OK, I know that most people aren't so obviously self-serving, though if there's anywhere you get that attitude, it's here in DC, where many of us connect our self-worth with our salary band. In reality, most people would like a good conversation and a laugh and to feel that others are genuinely interested in them.

I used to avoid networking events because I just didn't want to be bothered with 'phony' interactions. I was the Holden Caulfield of D.C., thinking the world is phony so why involve yourself too much? Of course, much of my aversion masked fear of having my sweaty palms exposed. The wet handshake from me, the funny look from her...standing alone, making friends with the potato chip bowl. Ick! It was easier to say "that's not for me" and skip the events than to admit "I'm scared." Then I noticed my colleagues who enjoyed these sorts of events also tended to get more interesting opportunities offered to them.

Over the years, I've relaxed and learned to feel comfortable much of the time at professional events. I've realized that most people don't notice the sweating, and if they do, it's not a dealbreaker. Or you make a joke about it. Most people will still give you a chance. And if they don't, then you just move on! (as you can see, the confident side of me is in charge right now)

My goal is to go to approximately five of these events each year. And while I'll probably never be a total extrovert, I often do enjoy myself at professional events. It's best to think of them as adventures...a chance to meet people with interesting stories. Sometimes they're boring or I'm boring to them or I get left standing alone, but that happens to just about everyone, sometimes. (Except maybe Bill Clinton and Bono. )

OK, so my feet sweated so much that they were stained black by my shoes. But I also left with the business card of someone from a start-up company that is hiring. She wants to meet me for coffee. Plus I get to do an informational interview with someone who has a really intriguing speciality that I had never heard of before that evening.

For an introvert like me, the best part of all is going home after the event. Now you can really appreciate the chance to cuddle up with a book, your cat, and your boyfriend or girlfriend (and if you're really lucky, all three at the same time!)

The 'Trance of Imperfection'

I suppose that most people have a quality or qualities about themselves that they feel ashamed of. The human mind magnifies the severity of these so-called ‘handicaps,’ as well as their perceived impact on others.

I’m sure I could find some kind of book or class that would help me with my shyness in certain social situations. In Washington, there are an endless array of classes targeting self-improvement junkies like myself. Or I could join the Toastmasters or become a Mary Kay saleswoman or a Macy’s Elf or a duvet demonstrator.

On the other hand, why do we have to constantly change ourselves? Meditation teacher Tara Brach, author of “Radical Acceptance: Accepting Your Life With the Heart of the Buddha,” calls this the “trance of feeling separate and unworthy.” “We free ourselves from the prison of trance as we stop the war against ourselves and, instead, learn to relate to our lives with a wise and compassionate heart,” she writes. Brach quotes renowned seventh-century Zen master Seng-tsan, who taught that true freedom is “without anxiety about imperfection.”

Thanks to my yoga and meditation practice, I have moments in which I accept myself as I am—sweaty palms and all. I would like to experience these moments as the norm rather than the exception. When these moments do come, I feel so calm and content. And miraculously, my palms and feet aren’t sweating!

Let the Summer 2006 Footwear Games Begin!

Summer is rapidly approaching here in Washington, D.C., a city built on a swamp. The spring has been beautiful, and I've been spending as much time as possible playing outside and soaking up the sunlight and the songs of the birds. This week, however, the hints of summer humidity began creeping upon us. Soon enough the wet hot blanket of a Washington summer will envelop us ...merciless days when you feel like you're swimming in a steaming bowl of split pea soup. For someone with hyperhidrosis, especially women, the approach of summer brings a footwear dilemma. If you wear sandals, your feet will sweat so much the shoes might fall off. Or at the very least, you'll develop embarrassing sweat stains. And if you don't wear sandals, you're hot and uncomfortable...and if you wear a skirt, you'll need to wear nylons on a 95 degree day. Ick!

Today was the hottest, most humid day of the year to date. Even before I left my apartment, my palms and feet were wet. Though I wanted to go sockless, I wore closed toe shoes and carefully chosen knee-highs--the kind that are dark enough not to show the black stains left when my shoes meet my foot sweat. But light enough not to show the actual sweat. As I write about this, I can see how boring and trite these details might seem. With all the problems in the world...economic injustice, war, poverty, Britney Spears' car seat blues...here I am yapping about the selection of knee-highs. But this is what having hyperhidrosis is all about. You start obsessing over these small things. You know it's ridiculous, but it's hard to stop. You long to wear fashionable, affordable, flattering sandals that obscure the fact you're sweating like a pig. (Editor's note to self: Do pigs really sweat?). We all want to look beautiful, even as we are concerned about more important things, such the folks suffering in Iraq. Unfortunately, the more you obsess over small things such as knee-highs, the less energy you have for the big things.

Like today. I felt a little anxious about my sweaty feet, so for the most part, I kept to myself at the office. The friendly mailroom guy teases me that I'm always glued to my computer. Outside my cubicle, I could hear the glad handling and greetings of a board meeting. Corporate types congenially shaking hands. If I had a camera, I could have taken pictures of them and sold them as corporate clip art. You know, the kind of images displayed in the windows of banks or in motivational newsletters produced by H.R. departments.

The board members--mostly men but a few women--exuded a sense of comfort and "I belong." You've got to have that confident aura in order to rise in the ranks. And the corporate look...Women in red, tailored suits with sensible Hilary Clinton-esque black pumps. Men wearing their armor--black, grey, and navy suits--with comfortable, shiny shoes. I sense that this is not exactly my scene, but I sometimes wonder if I hadn't spent my life avoiding 'exposure' as a sweaty-palmed person (egad!) if I would have felt more comfortable wielding this kind of power.

Actually, the boardroom meetings are one thing I don't mind missing out on. Maybe hyperhidrosis has its benefits?

I've been thinking about the insightful comments that Bob S. made regarding my last post. Which comes first--social anxiety and feeling like an outsider OR sweaty palms? I suppose for me, feeling like an outsider came first. The sweaty palms, which started in junior high, made things worse for me. It started a cycle of sweaty palms and feeling anxious that has been so difficult to make. Maybe it would help to think back on when I first started feeling like a geek.

In kindergarden, I didn't know how to join in or make friends. I was a wild child with messy hair, food spills on my shirt, and dusty shoes. After years of having been ostracized by the mean girl down the street and her two cronies (who were really nice to me when Mean Girl wasn't around), groups of girls terrified me.

Plus, I didn't quite fit in. When we played house, all the girls wanted to play either the mother or the daughter. I always played the family dog. And I enjoyed it!

For Halloween, most of the girls dressed as princesses. I dressed like a horse. I felt glad about this because there was a prize at stake, and there was no way they would give it to a 'plastic princess' in a costume bought at a supermarket. As the parade started, I faced a dilemma: if I walked on all fours like a horse, I'd fall behind. And if I stood up, then I wouldn't be a very convincing horse! So I walked on all fours whinnying and shaking my tail. It was a blast! Suddenly, I looked up. The parade was over. Everyone was way ahead of me, filing back inside the school. I was all alone. I rushed back to the classroom to collect my prize for the best costume. And the winner? One of the plastic princesses.

This was one of the first of many clues that the world did not smile on girls like me. But when I think back on that tomgirl, I smile. I love it that I played a horse in the parade and ran wild in the woods and dug up my own vegetable garden and loved worms and frogs...I want to channel into some of that fearlessness I used to have.

I love the little tomgirl in me so much, even when she's making trouble. (-:

The Attack of the Slimy Shyness!

I'm sitting at my desk, pecking away at my keyboard, when one of my colleagues comes around rounding up people for a good-bye party for another colleague. She seems to be a soft-spoken person. Friendly, cordial, but not outgoing. Nice, but bland. She's from Idaho. Like a plain baked potato. Predictable, comforting.

When I walk in the conference room, 25 people are there chatting in small groups. This is when I panic. Who do I talk to? How do I know where I am welcome? I've worked at this place for two years, but no one seems very warm towards me. I do make an effort to be friendly around the office. What do I do? Am I looking uncomfortable, and is my discomfort translating as unfriendliness? Chances are, no one has even noticed me walk in. Chances are, someone else is as uncomfortable as I am.

Fifteen minutes of speeches about how wonderful she is, how much she will be missed. And how much she will miss all of us. I wonder if I left the organization, would they have a goodbye party for me? Would anyone care? I'd probably get a card signed by people in my division. "Good luck!" And maybe a lunch from my boss. If they held a good-bye party for me like the one they did for my colleague, I'd probably start weeping. When I leave the company, I would really like for that party to happen.

As soon as the cake is served, I take it back to my desk and resume my keyboard-pecking. I can hear the others in the conference room laughing and having fun.