A ballooning sensation lurks within me day and night; it flows into my dreams; it brings with it vertigo and anxiety; it lies in ambush until its exasperating nature is roused to action; it then begins to fill my mouth with a claylike material that expands and stretches my buccal cavity; it oozes stubbornly from there to the crevices of my brain; the pressure doesn’t hurt but it nearly blinds me and completely silences me. Though I am rabid with panic, screaming is not an option because my mouth is stuffed with what can best be described as rapidly hardening asphyxiating putty. Before long, my head feels like it’s going to rip apart along the suture lines of my skull.
Suddenly, the pressure stops. I’m finally able to open my mouth and let the tension dart out. I can almost feel a breeze—a noiseless breeze, which failed to find its purpose—whizzing by my teeth. All the teeth want to do is bite the invasive substance, chew it, destroy it. But the adherent substance is not only an intruder, it’s also an excellent escape artist that can’t be bitten. It’s everywhere, yet it’s untouchable and indestructible, and therefore my teeth simply try to grind themselves together, acting like frustrated gatekeepers behind the lips. The cavernous struggle eventually ends, but there is no guarantee that the dreadful sensation won’t start up again the next instant and choke me to death. To test my fear, I slowly move my tongue; there is no denying that the brazen pressure is creeping up on me once again. I want to spit the gunk out, leave it in the bathroom, parade it on the side of the sink, let it float in a glass of water overnight, as if it were a beady-eyed pufferfish that enjoys greeting nighttime visitors with a toothy smile.