Summertime and the living's greasy

So turns out summer hasn't brought the skin relief I'd hoped it would. Not that I'm all that surprised, a seasonal shift would require there to be seasons, and my town's usually pretty mild all year-round. Winter dryness is the bane of all eczema sufferers, though I sure could use a little more vitamin D in this foggy July.

January felt like a revelation -- no bathing! No products -- but 6 months and another failed elimination diet later, I'm back to needing to leave work to come home and bathe and medicate my skin, dressing it like a salad with apple cider vinegar (oh it BURNS so good) before soothing it with petroleum jelly. While being the only substance seemingly inert enough to not provoke a reaction, I've decided Vaseline just isn't an acceptable alternative to avocado, olive oil, grape seed oil and vitamin E. The cancer risk seems too great with the sheer amount of the stuff I slather. But all the natural alternatives cause eruptions. 

And it really did feel like an eruption today when the new polyester shirt I was wearing adhered to the ClearSkin-E Cream I'd put on my stomach this morning and I broke out in little red itchy goosebumps all over my torso. On a conference call. So maybe nerves had some role in the outbreak too.

I've been tracking all the possible variables in a diagnostic spreadsheet again -- indicators like mood, allergies/asthma, skin, all on a scale of 1-10 on the same axis as likely food allergies, water consumption, exercise, stress (at home and work), hormones, clothing. The idea is I gather enough data and I'll be able to plot it all on a graph and see some correlations. 

Trouble is that the variables aren't isolated since I went back to a normal diet after 3 weeks on the Whole Living 2012 detox(TM). My skin didn't fully clear up during that period, and it was pretty rough. I dropped 10 pounds in a matter of days on raw fruits and veggies (I quickly added meat since beans, nuts and other veggie proteins are off-limits), and felt sunken and exhausted. I was constantly in the kitchen, juicing, smoothie-ing or roasting veggies, and I spent a fortune on produce. And I didn't see the results I wanted. Skin was still patchy and dry (though I suppose that's better than the hair-trigger high alert it's on now).

So I fell off the bandwagon -- ate a salmon banh-mi after a particularly weak, light-headed day of physical exertion and seasickness. Decided I didn't react to the gluten (and who knows what the typical reaction time is anyway? Could be 20 min, could be 5 hours, so I'm never confident about pinpointing the cause). Then I went back to dairy, caffeine and booze over the weekend. All at once (stupidly). Felt like I'd been shot in the gut after a sugary vodka drink, so sugar was persona non grata in Heather land. Felt it after brownies too, and fried green beans, so pulses and oil were suspect.

The cure of the moment -- that salve or superfood that I research and shell out loads of dough on and pin my hopes to -- is raw milk. While controversial (to big agribiz), proponents have hailed it as a miracle non-drug for allergies, asthma and eczema, all things steroidally treated.  I figure I'll take my chances, give that overactive immune system something to do other than attack me.


If I go MIA, I'm either cured or dead.

No news is good news.

Writing about my condition has been a outlet for frustration, so logically radio silence would be a sign of improvement. And it has.

It's been about a month since I radically changed my self-care routine. Used to leave myself half an hour to shower every morning before work. Now I wake up early, brush my teeth, deodorize and make coffee and breakfast. I avoid full-body water submersion and wash my hair every other day -- usually at night -- using a hand-held sprayer so the rest of me stays dry. I use olive oil soap only where absolutely necessary. Evening full upper-body applications of Vaseline sealed with a cotton shirt keeps my skin criminally soft, and any suspicious itchy bumps get nipped in the bud with the most minimal touch of cortisone cream.

Haven't changed my diet, and only after 3 back-to-back meals with legumes did I feel a little itchy. But otherwise it's been smooth sailing. It's all about maintenance now that I've stabilized at a baseline level of skin appeasement.

Seems almost too good to be true, after everything I'd tried. Really? Who knew doing NOTHING to it (except slathering on "natural" petroleum products) would be the key. Every eczema treatment program calls for baths and oils. But those both made it worse for me. They're certainly not the culprit -- but clearly they were exacerbating a seasonal, likely environmental reaction, since winter's when it's worst.

And until I live in a tropical climate year-round, this routine oughta keep me sane.

New year, new (smelly) solution?

Whenever I'm at my wit's end, it's easy to forget times when my condition's improved. So for future reference: my skin's been clearer this past week without bathing than it has been all season, with minimal drugs and despite massive doses of probable food allergens.

I've allowed myself daily localized applications of triamcinolone acetonide creme (yea, Googled it) to treat flare-ups in small patches, but nothing close to a full upper-body coating of ointment. Seems to be under control for the time being.

A luke-warm bath this morning did irritate it a little. Might be best just to leave on that protective layer of oil and dead skin, no matter how unappealing. I bird-bath to get clean while keeping the majority of my skin dry. And it hasn't felt this soft in winter since Hawaii last year.

So in the ongoing saga of unscientific speculation I'm leaning toward stress and environmental causes, maybe even something in the office building since I haven't been there since the 22nd. We'll see how long it lasts this week once I get back into the old routine, and back at my desk.

Suspect #1: Coconut

Four days after the Christmas Eve Meltdown of 2011 and the ensuing immuno-shutdown sequence, my skin's clear and silky smooth, save a few craters I dug during the onslaught.

After eating a dish with coconut and nothing else that would be a likely allergen, I got painfully bloated. And as the old saying goes, as the digestive tract goes, so goes the skin. Yea, no one says that. But I used to use coconut oil before I tried Vaseline, and it was hive city. And where there's one nut allergy, there's bound to be others. And nuts seem to be in every other moisturizer.

You know, as much as I'm not fond of petroleum-based products, can I give a shout out to Vaseline? Greasy and inconvenient as it is, it's the only moisturizer that has been non-reactive enough to soothe my skin. Apparently it's been a Hollywood anti-aging beauty secret for years -- some women apply it every night to seal in moisture. Only reason I stumbled upon it was because I noticed it was the common ingredient in my steroidal ointment, Blistex medicated lip balm, and Neosporin, three things that soothed my skin more than any lotion, especially ones with lanolin and coconut oil.

So I'm covered in it now, since it's easier to keep skin at a baseline of health with moisturizer once it's healed than it is to bring it back from the brink. But I'm fighting the phantom psychosomatic itches and waiting for the impending flare-up. I haven't scratched in days. Haven't thought about it.

I saw a Vaseline ad the other day that totally had my number. It said something like "the beauty of healthy skin is not having to think about it at all." I know I'm easy, but I nearly broke down. When it's working, you forget it's there. Health is a privilege. Like Ani's "headache that you don't know that you don't have." When it's not working, sometimes it's all you can think about.

Click it, or -- aw, fuck it.

So much for mind over matter.

Inspired by this guy's skeptical quest for an alternative eczema treatmente (spoiler alert: antibiotics were what finally did the trick), today I tried the clicker technique.

Here's how it works: every time you scratch, tally it using a clicker that's just enough of a pain in the ass to use that you become annoyingly aware of previously unconscious blissful scratch attacks. The guy from The Guardian saw immediate results: he fought the itch addiction and gave his skin time to heal itself.

I started strong and after sugary booze and dinner with family (and maybe a bad egg or two at breakfast?) wound up in a Christmas eve tailspin, raking and gouging, lashing out at my concerned partner and crying into a salty oatmeal bath. Turns out stinging is worse than itching, so I broke down and busted out that hated tub of steroidal ointment and slathered way too much of it over most of my body.

Must be building up more of a tolerance, since it's not working -- still itches. Burns too. The anticipation of Christmas morning used to be the thing that kept me up tonight. I'm beat, but I'll be lucky if I can get any winks.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse

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.

What’s 5’9, covered in Vaseline, and red all over?

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.