This guy.
I have eczema – or the more amorphous atopic dermatitis, to some. 1 in 10 people suffer from it, most commonly in the form of dry, itchy skin in places like hands and the crooks of their elbows. Babies often get it – called cradle cap – and lots of kids grow out of it.
But not this kid. I’ve got it covering about 40% of my body. It’s enraging, demoralizing, excruciating – and I’ve still got it a lot better than some.
What’s it look like? I’ll spare you the photos – image search it to see the more heroic cases – but I’ve got a potpourri of raised red patches, tiny bumpy infected hair follicles, dry scales that flake off, and (my personal favorite) hives whenever affected skin comes into contact with an offending cosmetic or fabric. It’s on my eyelids, neck, trunk, and arms. My ass and legs have been mercifully spared. I don’t know the cause, most treatments to control symptoms irritate it, and there is no cure.
I really don’t have much to complain about, outside of this nagging condition that manages to suck up an inordinate amount of brainpower. I’ve had an embarrassingly charmed life – I'm grateful for it, and I've spent it working to spread the wealth. To look at it through the lens of eastern religion, maybe this is my trial amid all that abundance, like karma in its most misunderstood sense. Western religion might say it's a plague I’ve brought upon myself for being a queer, fornicating, foul-mouthed, baby-killing, socialist San Franciscan.
I’d wager that it’s more environmental than divine retribution. And I’m playing detective to try and diagnose it so I can get on with my life – at least so my skin doesn’t wither completely before I’m 30.
I’ve wasted more time and money than I’d care to admit trying to beat this thing. Spent the lion’s share of my leisurely internet reading perusing other sufferer’s inane blogs. Given more credence to quack cures. Tried every hypoallergenic, non-reactive, radioactive, unscented, organic, synthetic, paraben-free, paraben-laden moisturizer imaginable.
A small fortune, all because I stubbornly resist developing a dependency on topical corticosteroids. It’s the one thing that numbs my skin and keeps me symptom-free during the winter – a least for a couple weeks at a time. And that's assuming I'm not already building up a tolerance to the high dosage.
So with everything I’ve consumed the least I could do is find some creative outlet for the angst it’s caused me – hell, I sat through the unbearable half of Julie and Julia thinking to myself, if this obnoxious, self-absorbed loser can get a publishing deal out of therapeutic writing, what's stopping me and my (literal) navel-gazing? I may not have Julia Child, but for anyone who's lived with it, discovering ways to cope with eczema can be pretty damn sexy.
So I might as well put this pseudo-expertise to good use and make the eczema work for me. And maybe, just maybe I’ll wind up helping a stranger who’s trying to tame their own dermabeast.
