WARNING: The following entry contains some disturbing images.
I had always had some form of eczema, which is basically a highly irritable skin inflammation. The year I graduated from college, though, it was so bad for so long that by New Year’s Eve I had to wear sunglasses.
In New York.
Because I had woken up one morning to a brand-new area of irritation, and looked like a red raccoon. I could barely close my eyes (read: blink) because that caused the creases to uncrease and get irritated all over again.
And itchy. It itched so much that I felt like a scratching addict. If I had thought there were other people like me, I would have started Scratcher’s Anonymous. I know what you non-eczema sufferers think: just don’t scratch. Don’t do it. Do whatever it takes. Wear socks to bed. (That actually makes the scratching better.) Withhold. (Have you ever taken a lit cigarette away from a smoker?)
Here’s the problem and the irony: The sensation of scratching, even –especially– when it drew blood, felt so good. It feels great. I mean, it was better than anything.
So here I am, at a party in Brooklyn with frickin’ sunglasses on, and it’s because my eyes look like a cheese grater ran over them. At this point the ezcema was bad for a few months, and all due to stress. I wore turtlenecks to hide my neck, wrapped gauze bandages around my knees and elbows (it’s always worse where there is a crease), and had so many random spots all over myself that I know for a fact that more of my body was irritated than was healthy.
It hadn’t been that bad since I was three. Eighteen years before this New Year’s Eve.
The hardest part is that no one understood. I didn’t know anyone who had even heard of it. I could barely spell it. When I went to the clinic at my temp job downtown, the doctor was no help. He just told me that alcohol irritated it and I should stop drinking and smoking (I was indulging in both pretty heavily at that time). He knew what could cause it, but had no idea how to fix it.
At a particularly difficult time that January, I had gotten so bad that I simply couldn’t stop scratching ever. And I didn’t care. My skin looked so bad that I just didn’t care anymore. I had to scratch, had to feel the skin opening under my nails. Most of my clothes had blood spots on them. It was an addiction, a burden, my secret, what kept me from going on a date or opening up to anyone. I would go into public restrooms and wait impatiently, burning, until I was alone in my stall, and then I would scratch. I would wear loose pants so I could get anywhere I wanted. I would tear off restrictive clothing so I could get to that area that eluded me. I would focus on one spot until I was nearly out of breath and then another itch would just — be– out of– reach. I used my clothes to get a deeper burn. I wasn’t happy until flakes fell at my feet. My right hand was deformed, curled up into a claw shape because it was so dry and my fingers couldn’t stand to rub against one another.
It was horrible. It was uncomfortable to sit, uncomfortable to stand, everything I did seemed to make it worse. I couldn’t sleep. Everything my skin touched made me want to either scratch or scream. It was my evil secret, because no one knew what I would describe.
“Egg-za-what?”
Until a director I was assisting (still in New York) saw me scratching and saw how I acted differently than just a few months before, when we’d worked on another project together. I opened up to her, showed her my arms and my neck, and without provocation just started crying. She suggested I go talk to an actress in the show. This actress, she suffered from eczema and used to be as bad as me.
I nearly ran down the stairs. I didn’t say anything to this girl. I just showed her. She looked at me and said, “Scratching is better than an orgasm, isn’t it?” I tearfully nodded yes. “The main think you have to do,” she suggested, “is relax.”
As all the reasons why that was impossible careened into my brain, she went on:
“The three C’s,” She said. “Cortizone, Chamomile and Cotton. Wear nothing but cotton against your skin. It’s non-irritable. Go to any drug store and buy Cortizone. The gel form is great and suppresses the need to itch. Drink chamomile tea before you go to bed. Refrigerate the tea bags and put them onto your skin if you feel the urge–that need–to scratch. Chamomile itself is a natural itch suppressant.”
It seemed so simple. I got out of rehearsal and ran to the drug store to buy Cortizone, ran to the grocery store to buy Chamomile. I ran to the train and my ride was longer than it had ever felt before that afternoon.
It worked. I was so worried that the Cortizone would burn, but it went onto my wounds like salve. I overused it that day. I drank a lot of tea and soon realized that chamomile made you sleepy, as well. I threw out all the main clothing pieces I owned that weren’t made out of cotton. I became conscious of my habits that inflamed my skin and stayed away from those that hurt it. I started wearing clothes that showed me off again. I no longer worried what might happen when a guy went from touching skin to scales. It was amazing. That was ten years ago.
My eczema still flares up every now and then, mostly when it’s very hot or I am not drinking enough water. I am aware of it, though, so it’s easy to control. The same rules apply: just go back to The Three C’s.
If I hadn’t been able to talk to that one person that day, my suffering would have continued until who knows when. Talking to her outside of rehearsal burns so brightly in my memory that if I ever see her again, I would just have to hug her. Pass on the advice: The Three C’s!
