Remorseless Sweaty Palms
Remorseless sweaty palms
despite being prescribed glycopyrrolate.
Though the angst riddled psyche of mine crafted youth, long since receded, ebbed in the past, infringement, impingement, and indecent wracking wrath of mental illness, that even as a middle aged mwm of lxiv bold faced roam min times, I can acclimatize, characterize, empathize, harmonize, italicize, and massage sympathy for prevailing physiological symptoms of =>
Sweaty Palms
an ur...bane curse
worse than mega death
aggravating enough fo' me
to resort tit take or meth
speed dilly, and then not
getting ticked off watching Seth
Thomas - thee clock man
ewe fact chore er, and his hands
incrementally inch to...
regarding the aforementioned
relentless frenzied state.
No idea when the chronic onset
of sweaty palms first burst forth
upon thy totally tubular
handsome grooves that criss cross
the flat skin surface of my hands.
These lines called 'palmar flexion creases'
develop before birth.
This modern day bipedal hominid i.e. human
primate attests (like the average person)
two main lines across the palm,
but some have a single 'Simian crease'.
Profuse outpouring of perspiration
(as if Biblical Flood gates opened)
oft times directly related to adrenaline
coursing through every pore
sans the underside of my hands)
reflexively followed by swiping
said clamminess (in vein)
on clothing or woolen pocket size cloth
brought along with me everywhere I go
(cuz a lamb might not part ways with mother
Mary (of story book fame),
and this chap would shear lee feel sheepish
toting extremely cumbersome
to tote in the event this intimation
predicated on decades worth of experience,
when in the throes potential
such ordinary action strongly shaking,
grasping or holding hands took place
occurred sopping wet
clangorous human clapper,
(which frenzied trickling akin
to a vicious feedback loop),
my psyche feels under staccato
rat-a-tat siege from an
unknown invisible enemy),
the natural inclination
to withdraw myself
from bad company of others helps
stave of self-consciousness.
This avoidance of socialization
subsequently impedes any promotion
of a hankering viz genuine friendship,
employment and desiring carefree
bona fide affectionate
bonding with family of origin and/or
thy two precious progeny.
Understandable per the human reaction
to shrink away and recoil quickly
when pressed to touch
what feels like a wet noodle.
Ah…courtesy of Google
I now know sweaty palms sports
a dignified name known as palmar
Hyperhidrosis.
Here all along (meaning the majority
of my LXIV chronological
hash tagged buzz feeding
orbitz around the sun)
this plague constitutes
a bona fide medical condition.
Also reassuring to realize,
this generic guy need not
count himself alone
in the sopping wet wilderness re: this plague.
Such problematic health condition
impacts, comprises, and affects
one to two percent of the world’s population.
One Doctor Rafael Riesfeld
purportedly knuckles down
and makes hand over fist handsome income.
Will power alone seems
a dauntlessly futile endeavor
to rid oneself of this disruptive condition.
Try as one might to put a lockdown
on the propensity for sweat glands
(synonymous with the term eccrine)
are pack within sub surfaces of
hands, forehead and feet.
As linkedin to the sympathetic
nervous system, the body electric
under stress activates said glands.
Profuse moisture dripping
like a faulty faucet
severely affected everyday activities
of my existence since a young adult.
Frustration to complete a simple task
such as opening a doorknob,
using the laptop, and even writing
concomitantly associated
with droplets of water soiling
green sleeves to appear near saturated.
Without fail interpersonal ambitions
hi-jacked when wet as a dishrag hands
found me disinclined
to experience social rejection.
Though sprung from overactive
predisposition to anxiety, these secret
tory organs get exacerbated
with the honorable privilege of
being gifted with panic attacks,
offers little consolation.
your prospective clammy handy dandy
blues clues budding friend
where chocolate candy
melts in my hands not my mouth.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
|