Hold my hand
Nobody wanted to hold my hand during Ring Around the Rosey because my hands were always sweaty. (They are sweating right now as I type on this keyboard.) “How gross,” those little girls would say, as I wiped my wrinkly palms on my pants. I agreed. ‘I am gross’ I thought to myself as I stared at my glazed-looking fingers. No playing patty-cake for me, fist bumps instead of high-fives please. I have a genetic condition called palmar hyperhidrosis.
You can read more about it here:
http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/182130.php
Everyone assumes my nervousness causes my hands to sweat, but more often than not it is actually my sweaty hands that cause my anxiety.
It impeded my interests in drawing and playing musical instruments growing up, but it didn’t prevent me from trying. It did however prevent me from reaching out to hold another person’s hand. Something I did not do until after high school, and even then I was still reluctant. Until I met someone who found my shiny palms interesting during our first date. I was expecting a typical, “how weird” or “how nasty” when he stared at my hand. But he said none of that.
No words of empathy can supersede the amount of acceptance I felt when he held my sweaty hand. There is no cure for this condition, only surgery.
But it’s funny how when I am with him, my hands don’t sweat anymore.