It’s started spreading to my legs.
Pimply clusters, swarms of dots rising like a rashy bacterial bloom at the backs of my knees, my thighs – like that time I got poison oak after drunkenly stumbling into a bush at Bass Lake.
So there goes my latest hope in a battery of failed treatments: a daily regimen of kombucha with chia seeds that replaced priobiotics and omegas in one slippery, vinegary fell swoop.
The diagnostics are constant. Whip out the whiteboard, Dr. House. I’ve charted the severity of my flare-ups against stress level, sleep, point in my cycle, topical treatments, behaviors like exercise, and probably most importantly, food. This blog is just my latest attempt at tracking and running wholly unscientific diagnostics.
So what’d I do differently that made it calm down before it flared up? Less dairy? Better sleep? A decline in stress after that big meeting? Oh and the plane ride where I downed a box of cookies and a tube of Pringles couldn't have helped. I wore a wool sweater a couple days ago that made my neck and ears get hot and hivey. Took it off, and voila – no hives. Could it be as simple as the fabrics that I come in contact with this time of year? No polyester fleece or wool in the summer. Or if there is – this is San Francisco, after all – then at least I'm partly inoculated by the sun.
I’ve flip-flopped the hygiene routine I’d kept for 20 years – shower every morning before school/work. Now it’s a bath, a couple times a week, with sponge baths in between to keep water exposure and overdrying from evaporation to a minimum. No soap, or if I do it’s straight a olive oil bar, and I indulge in warm to hot water – despite how lobstery I get – and a loofa or wash cloth scrub to exfoliate that excess skin. I tried jojoba oil – rumored to be the closest to the skin’s natural oil – but I must be allergic to the nut it’s derived from. Nuts have always been suspect.
Before bed, there’s the obligatory Vaseline slick with a long-sleeved cotton shirt over it. A handful of formerly non-pajama shirts have been relegated to the grease-stained legion of bed protectors. Any exposed skin is in danger of trapping dust, which leads to hives, so morning applications are out, even if stains weren't an issue. Scarves are a known culprit but I can’t shake ‘em for fashion’s sake.
I've gone back to booze, coffee and dairy after a short hiatus, all known causes of inflammation. But here’s the thing – I eat the same shit during the summer, and my skin’s worlds better. And on vacation in tropical climates? Smooth sailing. All that sun and salt water does wonders, not to mention a lack of stress. But if it’s seasonal, that rules out stress. Stress is evergreen. Could it be purely environmental? Something about central heating rubs me the wrong way? Dusty winter clothing? Mold and mildew blooms in the city?
The speculation is the part that's so taxing, like if I could just stumble upon the right formula, I could move on. But it’s a process of elimination given a formula with infinite variables. And just when I think I’m onto something…it spreads.
At a certain point I give in. I take the drugs that are gradually losing their potency. Like when I'm looking in the mirror at the damage I did after scratching incessantly, unconsciously for 6 1/2 hours on a plane, without the energy or will power to stop. I go rifling through my drawers for that bottle of pills I'd sworn I'd never use. Or I consider the cortisone shot my coworker said kept hers away for months. And I wake up better, with more hope of warding it off next time.
At a certain point, when you weigh the side effects against the helplessness and agony of not being able to make it stop no matter what alternative treatments you try, the stress seems like a worse fate.
So right now, as I stop typing every few sentences to itch, there's the unsettling solace of knowing this miracle drug that likely cause long-term damage will give me short-term relief tonight and hopefully through the holiday weekend. And that sadly seems worth it.
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