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Member
Join Date: Feb 2008
Posts: 4
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My Skin (1600 words)
I thought my rollerskates were too tight. My ankles itched and a rash had developed on both of them. But when I laced them looser, I couldn't skate as well. The rash grew in circumference, a baseball-sized band around both ankles. The bumps would break open, bleed and secrete, and my rollerskates
became stained on the inside from this weeping rash.
I remember how it felt to peel off my socks after skating, pulling the cotton away from where it stuck to my legs. The rash would break open again,
bleeding and weeping more.
Mother took me to a dermatologist in Menomonee Falls. I didn't know what a dermatologist was. But I knew the way to Menomonee Falls, and I understood "doctor." We went down Pilgrim Road, over the metal mesh bridge that made the la-la-la-la-la sound. Instead of turning down the road where Uncle Norman lived, we went straight. Then I was lost. I only knew the way to Uncle's house in Menomonee Falls.
I loved going to Uncle's house. But then again, I didn't like it so much. My cousins, all younger than me, wanted only to play silly baby games. But Uncle's kitchen was a study in fascination. He had Fruit Loops. Mother allowed us only to eat Wheaties, which turned to mush in milk. But Fruit Loops had the brilliant colors of the NBC peacock and they stayed crunchy. I had to sneak them at Uncle's so Mother wouldn't see.
Doctor P. was surprisingly young. I wondered how Mother had found him, because she usually took me to grey-haired, wrinkly men. I liked him as he had a nice smile, and he didn't make me feel like I was 10 years old, which I was. Mother was in her element the next few months, exclaiming to all who would listen, "Tranquilizers! He said she has eczema from nervousness and needs to be on tranquilizers. I don't agree, but he's the doctor."
So began my life of hating the very skin that holds my body together. Ten years old and tranq'ed up.
I would go to Doctor P. weekly. After a couple of visits, I knew how to get to two places in Menomonee Falls. Uncle's and Doctor's. Although Uncle Norman
died years ago and I don't know what became of that dermatologist, almost 40 years later I can still find my way to where they used to be.
It became obvious the tranquilizers weren't the cure, so Doctor P. came up with another diagnosis. Eczema, he said, was an outward manifestation of nervousness. "She's bottling up her feelings and she's not being truthful with you about them. Let's keep her on the tranquilizers, and you do your best to get her to open up to you."
The daily questioning began.
"What's bothering you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, you are all broken out, so something is bothering you. What is it?"
"There's nothing bothering me."
"What are you lying to me about? Doctor P. said that you're keeping your feelings bottled up. You need to be honest with me. Tell me!"
"But there's nothing bothering me!"
"Look at your arms, girl! Would you have that rash if you were telling me the truth? Tell me what's bothering you!"
That's when I began to tell stories, and that's how I learned to lie.
Sometimes the eczema outbreaks abated, and Doctor P. would praise me. "You are doing such a good job!" Then he'd look at Mother and say, "You should reward her. Take her to McDonalds. If you reward her, she'll continue this behavior, and she will be cured."
Years passed. Eventually the tranquilizers were dropped from my cocktail of drugs, and other things were substituted. Heat lamp therapy. Shepherd's cream. This salve and that salve. This pill and that one. And the underlying theme was always that I was nervous, keeping too much bottled up inside, and when the rash wasn't as bad as last week, I'd be taken to McDonalds. Now I knew how to get to three places in Menomonee Falls.
X-Ray therapy. Sunlight therapy. Chlorine therapy. Everything was tried. Nothing worked. The eczema spread to my arms, my chest, all over my legs.
I tied my hands to the bed posts at night so that I couldn't scratch in my sleep. And my toes learned how to scratch. So I tied my legs to the footboard posts and my arms to the headboard posts. Thus I would sleep, spread eagle, chained to my bed. My parents never questioned why I had ropes tied to all four posts. Maybe they knew. Maybe they never noticed.
I grew ashamed of my skin. My betraying skin. I would not wear short sleeves nor shorts. Every day I would be covered, top to bottom, except when swimming or taking my "sunlight therapy." School demanded that girls wear dresses. Once home again, I would have to peel the pantyhose off of my legs, where the crusted eczema had trapped it, making the nylon part of my skin, fusing it to me. Then the rash would break open, bleeding and seeping again. And itch. Oh, how my skin itched! I hated my skin. I would go into scratching frenzies to try to relieve the itch. My fingernails would be caked with the gunk and goo of my skin. I was betrayed by me.
Sometime around the advent of high school, Mother gave up on the dermatologist and called him a quack. But she never gave up on the notion that I was lying to her. She was more often right than she ever knew. By then I was an accomplished liar, and telling her the truth was tantamount to a lie itself. She never seemed to understand how I became that way.
The shame of my skin and the misery of my clothing endured through elementary school became enhanced in high school. I was a freak, and I knew it. I become loud, outspoken, and assertive to turn attention away from my betraying skin. If anyone ever wondered why this girl was always in long sleeves and long pants, even on the hottest days, they kept such wonderment to themselves. Everyone pointed at me and laughed at me, but only in my mind's eye. It was imperative that no one find out what all the clothing hid.
"Stop scratching!" was the mantra of my youth, and it has continued into adulthood. Mother and Father would yell at me. I would yell at me. And I taughtmy husband to do the same.
Within a month after my son's birth the eczema outbreak on my hands forced us to have a nanny care for him while I healed. I could not feed my baby nor change his diapers, for my fingers were swollen, weepy and bloody with rash. Unable to hold my infant son, to comfort him when he cried, I was betrayed by my own skin. It was perhaps the lowest point in my life. I cursed God and I hated me.
A few years after my son was born, during another particularly bad outbreak and under duress, I made an appointment with another dermatologist. I swore to myself that I would not go back on tranquilizers, no matter what the doctor said.
Apprehension filled me, waiting for the appointment, then waiting for Doctor D. to enter the examining room. He walked in, and I noticed that he was grey and wrinkly. He looked at my skin, studied it under his magnifying glass. He made noises in his throat. Then he started to write a prescription. "I won't take tranquilizers, " I said, "so don't bother." He looked at me questioningly. "Why would I prescribe tranquilizers?" he asked. "You have atopic eczema."
"Atopic eczema?" I asked, rolling those words on my tongue, getting familiar with them. "I'm not crazy?" I asked. "There's nothing wrong with my head?"
"Of course not! This is a hereditary condition. It's genetic. Maybe your mom or your dad didn't pass along a certain gene to you. It's certainly not because of anything you did or did not do."
Could it be true? But this is because I'm nervous and I bottle up my feelings! "Don't worry," he said, and he patted my hand. "There is no cure for this yet, but we can control it for you. And this has absolutely nothing to do with your nerves, although nervousness can impact it. We'll get you healed up in no time, although you may always have some limited outbreaks. From time to time we may have to change prescriptions as your body develops immunity, but we'll handle that, too. You are not crazy, you know. At least not from this. You just have a genetic defect."
Just a genetic defect.
While my body walked out of his office and to the pharmacy, my mind raced. For most of my life I had believed that I was crazy, holding in feelings and emotions that made my skin betray me. I couldn't wait to tell Mother this bit of news, and I hoped it would devastate her. I hoped it would make her realize what a living hell my life had been, and how she had so thoroughly participated in it. I wanted her to apologize. Mostly, I wanted her to feel shame. I wanted to crush her.
"See?" I demanded when I spoke with her. "All those years of telling me that I was holding back my feelings, lying to you. And it was never that. Never. But you always believed Doctor P. You never believed me."
"Well, you are a liar." she responded.
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