The pain is unbearable. Some days I don't even want to leave the bed, as if my pain has swallowed my soul whole and it's not sick enough to be thrown back up. Other day's I don't even notice it; it's like the small dent in the side of your car, too small to even care about it today. My pain stems from the urge to scratch. This may seem weird to you that pain can come from something so common as scratching. But when you have no control over it, that's when the itch becomes your demise. You hate yourself. You seem to be embodied by this unquenchable urge and there is nothing else in you that can over power it. Your nails become your deadliest weapons, as you gouge holes deep into your skin. You can see yourself, astrally projected, as you pick off the largest pieces from your body and watch the blood flow free on to your fingers. You have no control over it. And it kills you. But, I digress.
Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I'm a black woman with eczema, who’s in her mid-twenties. I've had eczema my entire life and have battled my urge to scratch since I can remember. It's the first thing I do when I get up in the morning and it's a twenty minute process, at least. It's last thing I do every night before going to bed and I can't prevent it. I even scratch in my sleep; the only proof is the blood on my sheets. I have many creams —Vaseline, cortisone, and when I have the insurance, Elidel- all these things help to maintain it. But nothing takes the urge way. After a shower or bath, I really have to watch myself. I have to put that medicine on as quickly as possible, because my skin is at its most vulnerable then. And if I don't stop myself, it will be more than my pride that is hurt. Throughout the day I have tiny spurts and when the urge comes, I hide. I go into the restrooms, I run to my car, and, if there is no where to go, I divert my path from other people and I break my fast —pulling my nails across my skin until I can't bare it any longer. Control, for me, is going a full two hours without the urge scratch. I can't expect anything more than two hours. And the worse part about all of this is that I hate myself for it, but I can't stop.
I have scars that I created myself. I don't know anyone else who can say that. There were no accidents, no mistakes, and no "whoops I slipped". Every scar I have on my body came from my nails and my lack of will power. The discoloration is amazing. I don't even really know what skin tone my face is any more, there's so much scarring that is blurred everything. I don't wear make up for fear of the chemicals that most make-up companies put in their products. I don't know how it will react to my wounds. Will my face blow up like a balloon or worse, will I still see every imperfection. I keep my nails as short as I can get them, but even that isn't a deterrent sometimes. I'm so skilled with pulling skin from my arms or legs that I can do it without even needing the nail. I can do it without even have to visually see the spot. I can reach my hand around my back and pull from it, the skin that I know is there, demanding that I scratch it. That a sad thing to be able to say.
I have the worse days sometimes. My self-loathing becomes so unbearable that I don't even want to do anything. On these day's I've convinced myself that I'm hideous and no amount of prep work will change that. I've done so much psychological damage to my sense of self that sometimes I don't see anything else but the state my skin is in. But life still goes on, right. I can't hide away forever —no matter how much I want too. And on these days, these horrible days, I have the best partner to help carry the load.
I'm married to the most wonderful man in the world. Believe it or not, he's white. Yes, we are an interracial couple and have been married for almost six years now. My husband has done nothing but support me when it comes to anything I want to do. He's the best person in my life. But when it comes to my skin and my scratching nothing would make him happier than to take my pain away. I can see the hurt in his eyes when I've scratched a hole almost an inch wide in my arm without even a grimace. He's literally pulled my hands from my legs, looked me dead in the eyes, and told me "your going to stop now". At other times he distracts me, trying to keep my mind off of the itch that won't go away. I've become so desensitized when it comes to my scratching that I don't even notice I'm doing it any more. It's the best thing in the world to know that he's looking out for me this way. And the worst. He shouldn't have to worry about whether or not I have exposed the flesh on my arm. He even has his own medical problems, spinal issues (three spine surgeries before thirty). He really shouldn't have to worry about what may happen to me if I lose control. But he does and I do.
At twenty-six, I really should be focusing on my life with my husband, our want to have children in the future, and my determination to get my degree. But it never works out like that. Twenty percent of my life is spent scratching. I really don't have any control over it. No matter what I'm doing, if the urge to scratch comes, and it comes everyday, my life must be put on hold. It's not what wanted out of life, but it was the card I was dealt and I make do with what I have. But as Pink said, sometimes, I just wanna be somebody else.
