Adventures of Xzema Girl and Betty

I get it

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Thu, 24 Jan 2019 03:42:00 +0000

I'm not sure how to start this post.

I deliberately left this blog because I didn't want to think about eczema all the time. But, I want to talk about this.

Last summer, a 23 year old woman killed herself, and her parents. Because of her eczema. The thing is - I get it. I do not feel that deep despair right now, but I remember it. I am scared of it. I don't know how to get out of it, when I'm in it.

I do not endorse suicide at all. All I'm saying is that I understand THAT feeling.

The thing about eczema is that I'm hyper-aware of appearance, and the role it plays in all aspects of my life. Just skim through my blog and you'll see. Maybe you already know this and roll your eyes like I do when people don't want to admit of the full influence that appearance has. Taboo subject? Is it because it reveals we're shallow? Doesn't matter to me. I've fully bought into this theory, ever since I was a little girl with eczema in the folds of my elbows and knees. My belief in appearance's influence shows in the confidence I feel when my skin is even just 80% clear. I take selfies (many). I wear short sleeves. I go outside. I daringly eat gluten.

BUT, I get that feeling of being alone because of this viewpoint. And so, sometimes I've isolated myself because I cannot and do not want to explain myself to some nice-skinned person.

It feels like isolation is sitting on my knees, and he's fucking heavy. He makes my legs fall asleep, so that it's hard to get up. Then guilt, anxiety and depression take turns slapping the shit out of me. Guilt is the trash-talker of the gang.

Guilt has three heads. Each head is assigned an accusation to shout. They shout simultaneously. "You did something to deserve this!" "You didn't do enough!" "You did something wrong!" It's my fault. I failed on something that I'm not even supposed to care about - my appearance. What a mindfucking, gaslighting manipulator!

So, I started this blog 10 years ago because I wanted to know I wasn't alone in my feelings. My feelings. Who else was out there that got me? I just needed one person who understood, that I could be brutally honest with.

Screw the skin remedies, the lotions, the diets. WE KNOW THEY ARE THERE!!! Do you hear us? Just let us talk amongst ourselves and quit peddling cures to us. You're like those pop-up ads that won't let us read a fucking article because you're always there, hovering.

Well, there are no hovering pop-ups here. I get it.

The Immense Good of Eczema Herpeticum (An Update)

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 15:45:00 +0000

Something happened after I got Eczema Herpeticum, in exactly this order:

I started to feel really sorry for myself. You can see it in a couple of my videos.
It scared the shit out of me, especially when I found out that it could reoccur.
It made me mad!

This obviously didn't happen within a 24 hour period. It was a process that occurred over months.

Feeling sorry isn't really Step 1 of this process because I had already been doing that for quite some time, pretty successfully on my own. I focused in on my eczema like a sniper. I mean really. It was rare that someone would come up to me and point to my eczema out and announce it to a crowd like I was a sideshow. In fact, this never happened. Not in my adult life anyway. Maybe it happened when I was a kid, but it's been a long time since then. Focusing all my energy and attention on my eczema was all me, all the time. And as a result, I led everyone around me by example, and helped them focus on my eczema issues, even when they weren't.

Having Eczema Herpeticum was the start of a big change for me. It scared me that I was more likely to have it again, after having it once. That August in 2010 when I first had it, I cried. And cried. And cried. The day I went to the hospital for the 3rd time, I whispered to my husband, "I'm sorry but I can't live like this. I can't be ugly and disgusting. I'm so sad." I did get better, as you know. The EH did clear up in a couple of weeks.

And when it did clear up my sadness turned into anger. Why was I stressed and itchy and ashamed and hopeless while nice-skinned people around me had the nerve to wear shorts and short sleeves?! Damn them! Damn me and my eczema! Knowing that stress was a huge trigger for my eczema and desperately wanting to prevent an EH recurrence, I made a pact to take charge for good.

I am happy to say that I have not had a recurrence of EH. I have not ever taken the prescription of Valtrex given to me nor have I needed to. I have also weaned myself off those topical steroids prescribed to me by every doctor. 80% of my eczema has cleared up. And if you remember, I described having a bodysuit of eczema covering me.

Yes, I could have just got lucky with all of this. Or maybe the change in my lifestyle, self-perception and attitude is really a huge factor in clearing up my eczema.

All I know is that I feel better and I do things now that I would have never tried 2 years ago. And I love it!

A letter to you

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 17:52:00 +0000

Eczema vs. Funhouse Mirrors

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 23:19:00 +0000

My eczema is like a funhouse mirror.

It totally distorts my perception of how I see myself. I look up close and my features spread 3 inches wider. I step back and my waist expands 20 inches. I step back further and now I'm a 3 foot tall OompaLoompa. The only difference is that I know the OompaLoompa staring back at me is just a grossly manipulated version of how I really look and myany times, my eczema will not let me see myself in a normal mirror, in flattering light, at my best angle.

First, I have a love/hate relationship with mirrors. I need them to see examine new and old patches of scaly, red skin, but I hate them because they show me what I don't want to see. Secondly, my flattering light? Dim. Or even better, dark. My best angle? The back of my head, of course, with my hair down (eczema on the back of the neck, you know).

Sometimes I'll look at past pictures of myself, like this weekend, on Facebook. I like to see the progression or regression of my eczema over the years. I should have a frame for every stage I go through, like they have for your kids. You know, like those frames that have one for each grade, so you see how they're grown?

I saw a picture from four years ago, from when I went out with my girlfriends for my Stagette (a.k.a. Bachelorette or Hen Party). I remember being so self-conscious about going out that night. I was agonizing over what I would wear to hide my eczema. I worried that my face be flaky by 1 a.m. and I wouldn't be close to any of my moisturizers that I didn't carry with me, because that would be awkward to carry while you're dancing, wouldn't it?

Also, I knew the bouncer would check my purse at the club doors, and I didn't want him to see anything embarrassing or revealing about my personal hygiene. Why, I could never dance there again if that happened. Passing out shit-faced on the dance floor is totally okay, but to have the bouncer see a jar of Vaseline in your purse? Completely unacceptable.

Anyway.

I look at that picture now and think I looked great compared to now. What was I so worried about? Ironically, back then, there were plenty of times that I let my self-consciousness rule my world. I would turn down getting together with friends and going out because I thought I looked like a freak. I would get myself so depressed and so focused on my negative self-perception.

When I feel self-conscious or feel myself slipping into "negatism", as my aunt calls it, I try to remember that I can stop looking at myself in the funhouse mirror and just go enjoy myself.

Besides, my eczema funhouse mirror? Not so fun.

irRASHional (irrational) Fears

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 08:37:00 +0000

Things and situations that I have tried to avoid because they made me self-conscious, anxious (which, of course, when I get super anxious, I get it itchy/scratchy....sigh)

summer
winter
being invited to go to the beach
wearing a ponytail or short hair
tanktops
no quick access to mirror--can't check for falling skin
forgetting Vaseline
having Vaseline found
being caught putting Vaseline on (Vaseline is like my crack addiction which I feverishly try to hide)
sleepovers
sweating
massages
handshakes
throwing caution to the wind and eating that one thing I love and being totally anxious immediately after consumption about the impending flare-up
sex in the light
sex
dating
holding hands
going to first base
going out with friends
making new friends
going to the gym
did I mention tanktops?
black clothing
getting that stupid stamp on my hand so I can get back into the club
makeup department makeovers
trying on clothes at the store. (soooo many ill-fitting clothes I have gotten as a result)
rings
stupid, typical wedding close-up picture of husband's and wife's hands with wedding rings
manicures
pedicures

White Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 03:27:00 +0000

My skin is so flaky, I leave a little dusting of fine white skin flakes wherever I rest my body. I feel like Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown. You know that kid who's always surrounded by a cloud of dust? Maybe we're distant relatives?

I have this dark brown, microsuede couch. I thought it was really cool material when I bought it. Well, not really. It was just cheap and in my price range. Every time I get up from it you can see an outline of my bottom in fine white skindust. Attractive, no? At least, if I'm ever the victim of a homicide, they won't have to do a chalk outline.

Another bright side is that I've got enough flakes for a white Christmas any day, so every day with me is like a holiday!

Eczema Ethics

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 15:33:00 +0000

My skin was infected. Again. I tried to make it disappear with hope and tea tree oil, but it got worse anyway. So, on Friday I caved in and went to go get antibiotics at the walk-in clinic.

I got the same doctor who advised me to "get pregnant" because "it might" make my eczema better. "Well hello!" Dr. Dummy greets me brightly. "You're back. What can I do for you now?" Golly, she makes me feel special.

I explain to her that my eczema is infected again. "Again?" she repeats accusingly, but friendly. How does one retaliate to that tone?

"Well, just so we don't see you back here all the time, I'm going to prescribe Fucidin, which is an antibiotic cream." Guess she likes to see me as much as I like to see her.

I sigh. I think for a moment and ask tentatively, "Remember, last time I was here, you were going to prescribe Prednisone?"

"Yes?" Dr. Dummy nods without looking up.

"Well, I had Eczema Herpiticum in August and I feel a cold sore coming on. I was thinking that.."

"You want to do a short course of Prednisone to clear up your skin quickly for the holidays?" She finishes for me, abruptly.

She's not exactly right. I actually have a job interview on Tuesday and I really don't want to get Eczema Herpeticum again, ever. I figure I can clear up my eczema quickly, and hopefully, EH won't come a knockin' on my door. If I do start to break out into EH, my back up plan is to take my prescription of Valtrex, which is expensive.

Prednisone is a strong oral steroid. It works quickly. I know she only wants to give me the Fucidin, but I back my request up with reason. "I don't have a drug plan right now and I know Prednisone is cheap. Can I have that and the oral antibiotics this time?" She looks at me. I add, "I can take a prescription of Fucidin too and just fill it when I need it later."

She writes the prescriptions for the oral antibiotoic, Prednisone and Fucidin. It wasn't too hard to convince her at all. I don't feel completely right for some reason. It was too easy. She never once examined my skin. It's almost like she really didn't care, as long as I got better somehow, and wasn't in her office all the time.

As for my part in this dirty, little exchange? What can I tell you? Sometimes, price has more to do with my choice of self-care than anything else.

Eczema Sufferer's Guide to Holiday Eating (Not)

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 15:50:00 +0000

My friend, Alice, called me on Sunday. She was driving to work and talking on one of those car speaker phone thingies. It was cutting in and out for the first minute of our conversation. I was cooking dinner when I picked up the phone, " Hello?"

No answer, just static.

I know it's Alice, so I try again, "Hello?"

Then rising out of the static, "Hello? Can ear now??"

Sigh. "Alice? I can barely hear you."

"HELLLLOOOO??!!" Ouch. Yup, Loud and clear now.

Then Alice "complained" about all the holiday get-togethers she had to attend over the next few weeks. "I have something to go to every weekend. I even have something on a Thursday." I joking explained, "That's the price you pay for being a social butterfly."

Dinner or any kind of social event that involves food stresses me out a little. The alcohol, the food intolerences, the post-holiday flare up. I always promise myself before an event, that I will be good about my food choices. I am in control.

I am in control getting ready for the event, on the way there and, many times, up to the first plate of appetizers. I drink water and load my plate up at the vegetable tray. As I crunch on my baby carrots, no dip, I faintly hear begging. I stop crunching, to get a better listen.

"Come on, please. It's the holidays. How often do you indulge?" It's my damned, inner voice. I pick a broccoli and start crunching to drown out the persistent voice. Broccoli may be a good source of vitamins C and K, but it's leaving me open for a TKO. "One glass of wine won't hurt. Just drink lots of water after. Ohhh and that filo pastry thingy with the cheese. It smells so good. Did you notice what they have for dessert? Cheesecake. And pie. And brownies!" My inner voice already sounds giddy and drunk on just the thought of eating all these things.

My inner voice has a point. It is the holidays. Time for celebration. I'll indulge responsibly. I have glass of red wine. Lots of antioxidants. No problem. I take a filo pastry thingy with cheese because what's-her-face made them. It would be rude not to try them. I take three off them instead, to show her how much I appreciate her effort. Ohhh, that is cheesy. I wash it down with another glass of wine. At dinner, it seems so inappropriate to refuse more wine with my meal. When I empty my glass, it's refilled magically. Better finish that off too. Now the desserts! I have never been able to resist dessert of any kind. I get weak in my knees and my mouth starts to water.

Now this is a celebration!" my inner voice exclaims. She's giggling madly, as I lift a forkful of cheesecake to my mouth.

60 Seconds of Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 17:36:00 +0000

Today, I am going to take a cue from the 365 Days of Gratitude Photoblog. Obviously I am a wee bit positivity-challenged. I don't like to use the word handicapped or complainer because they're such negative words, aren't they? Besides, it's a good place for me to start -- at my pessimistic self-labelling-- practicing optimism.

I don't know why or when Negativity decided I was her best friend. She's a total drag. She never offers to help, never has anything good to say and she's sooo loud, that I can't hear myself think. And, between you and me, she has the worst hygiene and eating habits (so embarrassing!)

I'm going to list everything I'm grateful for in 60 seconds. It'll be interesting to see a) how many things I am unaware of, that I really am grateful for b) how fast I can type.

Ready....

Reality TV
Jersey Shore
my husband
my son
my curly hair
my ability to laugh uncontrollably once I get started
for cake
for Japanese food
for shoes

Hmmm, interesting (My husband teases me when I say this. I say it a lot).

Observations...

Nine things! I honestly didn't think I'd be able to come up with that many.
It's funny that numbers 1 and 2 are listed before numbers 3 and 4. It's so funny, I'm gonna number 6.
In my mind, numbers 1 and 2 are different things.
I would have tried too hard at this exercise, if I didn't give myself the scant time limit.
This list is amusing and does actually make me feel better
Now, I have a craving for number 7 and number 8
I need to practice my typing.

Ay Ay Cap'n (Crunch)

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 07:53:00 +0000

It's 2:20 a.m. and I'm not sleepy. I am, however, hungry. For something sugary.

Did I mention that I'm trying to avoid sugar for the sake of clearing up my eczema? It's like picking one bad boyfriend over another. They both treat me like dirt, but one of them is at least way better looking.

I was oh so bad, but it felt so good at the time, last week. I made myself two pieces of toast and butter almost every night. I was sick (again) with a cold and I was a little down. I've been pretty good for the last month, eating healthy, unprocessed food and working out regularly. I'll get back on track. It's just toast!

But toast doesn't have the same comforting quality as sugar. I wonder why. Toast is somewhat comforting, like a comfy blanket on a cold night.

Sugar though, is like a warm, glowing fireplace, with a cup of hot chocolate, with that same blanket wrapped around you, with Mr. Right cuddling with you. Who doesn't want that? So, I sprinkled sugar on my toast.

Hmm..veggies or sugary cereal?

Right now though, my naughty 2 a.m. indulgence is Mr. Right Tonight.

Actually, it's morning and he's a Captain. Cap'n Crunch.

What can I say? I can't resist a man in uniform.

Ups and Downs

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 17:11:00 +0000

Is it me or do I seem to be more of an emotional yo-yo than everyone else I know? Can I attribute my yo-yoness directly to my eczema or am I just using my eczema as some kind of excuse for my frequent, extreme range of emotion, mood and confidence?

Even when my skin is as clear as my skin can be, I struggle with my self-worth, confidence and bad emotions (which would be my unwanted bffs, anger and sadness). Hurt people hurt people is so cliche, but many times, for me, it is exactly appropriate in summing up how I treat myself and other people. Even the corniness of the words suits the ridiculousness of my motives.

I am a bitch to family, friends and strangers just because I am feeling bad. Here's a secret though, that I am ashamed of, and ironically makes me act bitchier. I am going to tell you and I hope we can still be friends after and you won't hate me. When I am feeling low, a big part of my hurting others comes from a resentment and an envy of the problems I think they don't have. I know. I know. Everyone has problems, I'm being a selfish brat and it's absolutely no excuse to be Queen Bitch, but that's why it's my secret.

Do you hate me now? Funny thing is if you do, I will be devastated. Yes the bitch gets her feelings hurt very easily. The tears of a clown. I hate clowns.

So why am I whispering my deep dark truths to you in this virtual confessional booth? Because I want someone or something to assign me the 10 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers to make me okay. I want that miraculous or magical antidote to instantaneously cleanse me of my bad thoughts, feelings and behaviour. It's easier and quicker than repairing myself through my own devices.

A quick fix helps me to keep denying the hardest truth of all. I am responsible for and have control over the way I choose to look at and treat myself and others. I am choosing to be a bitch.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually who are we not to be?.....

Your playing small doesn't serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking

so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine as children do.....

It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And when we let our own light shine,

we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,

our presence automatically liberates others.

- Marianne Williamson

Paranoia

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 19:03:00 +0000

as defined on Dictionary.com .......

Psychiatry . a mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others, sometimes progressing to disturbances of consciousness and aggressive acts believed to be performed in self-defense or as a mission
baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others.

This doesn't seem to be an attractive picture painted by a reference that millions would consult to find meaning. I'm taking this personally.

Great. Maybe I am paranoid.

Okay. Let's break this down. Definition number one. "A mental disorder..." That's a little harsh. Everyone has problems don't they? We all suffer from mental disorderly conduct at some time or another. Right?

"..characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others" Do I blame or take out my issues on people who are only supposedly mean and not really mean? Not all the time. Maybe sometimes on cashiers and stupid, insensitive strangers. Hey, at least my delusions are "systematized". That means I'm an organized person, right?

"..sometimes progressing to disturbances of consciousness and aggressive acts believed to be performed in self-defense or as a mission" But if you're gonna get hurt, at least be the first one to do the hurting. That's what they do in boxing matches. And they get a belt for it. The disturbances of consciousness never happens, so that definitely strikes out definition number one.

Definition number two is "baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others." I resent that. I just don't have tangible proof of their motives. It's the way they said it or how they looked at me. How do you prove that? They could just lie.

This is a stupid exercise.

What Came First? The Chicken or the Eczema?

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 17:26:00 +0000

What came first? The chicken or the egg?

What comes first? The depression or the eczema?

I don't know. I heard you're supposed to avoid chicken and egg when you have eczema. Maybe that's key.

Wish I knew.

Stupid Things People Say... (a continuously updated post)

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 19:11:00 +0000

I have had a lot of stupid things said to me about my eczema by the ignorant and/or tactless.

To be fair, many comments or questions people direct at me are obviously not meant to offend me....but, many times they do rub me the wrong way.

I can't help it. I am self-conscious about my skin condition and the last thing I want is someone to direct their full attention--and my attention--to it. Geez, I spend most of my life trying not to focus on it after all.

Besides, would you say such things to someone who's a paraplegic, who has cancer, who has a lazy eye, who's buck-toothed???!!!! C'mon now folks.

I'm going to start listing the stupid things people say, here. If you have something to add, please email me or leave a comment below.

_____________________________________________________________

Went to the doctor today, because my eczema is infected. After writing out a prescription for antibiotics, she stared at me and said, "Wow, it's pretty bad. Well, your nose looks good." Gee, thanks doc.

Same doctor's visit as above. "Maybe you should have a baby, it may clear up your skin." There's some good advice to share with all teenage girls who have eczema.

"Just stop scratching." I'm trying too!!!!! Arggghhh

"Are you doing anything about your eczema?" Uh no, I like it the way it is. I'm always doing something about it dummy!

"Don't touch him! That's contagious!" -- Mother to her 4 year old daughter who went to the same daycare as my son, who had eczema. She knew he had eczema and claimed she knew all about it. I wanted to cry and slap her at the same time. Clearly, she knew nothing about eczema.

"Your skin looks good...today" -- My aunt, every time she sees me has to give me a brief report on how my skin looks. Uhh thanks. How bad does it look every other day that it merits your report on my good days?

Swimming - Hope Floats

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 16:40:00 +0000

I went swimming yesterday!!!

At a public pool. Where there were at least 20 other people. In a bathing suit.

Actually, it wasn't really a bathing suit. It was a bathing suit tank and my husband's shorts. I do not own a bathing suit because I never put myself in a situation where I would ever (EVER) wear one. Why would I want to wear something that exposed most of my skin? Why can't they still have bathing suits like from the 1920's?

http://www.fashion-era.com

I'd be a little more okay with beach and pool situations if bathing suits still looked like that. Just a little more okay. Not completely okay.

My son, J, does not know how to swim. He's been a little afraid of water after a water slide incident when he was about 5 years old. I've put him in swimming lessons three or four different times since "the incident" and he's never made it past the first level.

J's in ninth grade now and in Phys. Ed., they are doing water polo. They just started last week. He tells me on Thursday, he's in the group of boys that don't know how to swim. I can tell he's not crazy about being in that group, because he tells me, "Even the blind kid in my class can swim." Not cool, I guess, if even the blind can swim and you can't even float. So finally, he seems really ready to learn how to swim.

This is perfect, I think. We'll go to the public, indoor pool on Sunday. J can get comfortable in the water and we'll spend inexpensive, quality family time together. Win-win situation, don't you think? We don't have to go to the movies and spend $60 (when the hell did we get to the point that we spend $60 for a movie?). We'll only spend a thrifty $5 total to go swimming, Also, we don't have to sit at home while my husband, Z, watches football, J plays football on his PS3 and I get annoyed at the fact that they are "doing nothing" and pop a DVD in to watch a chick flick.

"But hold on," warns insecure, alter-ego, Xzema Girl, "Going swimming requires wearing a bathing suit. People will see you."

"But it's not about me. So shove aside, selfish insecurity" I insist, but not sure if I truly feel that way inside.

I force myself to focus on all the reasons why we're doing this activity: 1) it could be fun 2) J needs to get comfortable in water to learn to swim 3) Swimming can be a life-saving skill 4) our family needs to do something together 5) J has been looking forward to this since I mentioned it on Saturday.

Reasons why not to not do this activity: 1) I feel self-conscious and insecure about being in a bathing suit.

My little pros and cons lists get me through packing our change of clothes and getting into the car. In the car, there's no turning back, even if I want to. When we get to the Community Center pool, there's no snatching the car keys out of my husband's hand and diving into the driver's seat to race home. That would be a bad example to J. Why did I suggest this as an activity? We could have went for a fully-clothed walk!

I forcefully re-focus on "why" we're doing this and I get myself to the change room. I forcefully re-focus again, to get myself out to the pool deck. "Those boys aren't even out there yet! I thought girls were supposed to be the ones that took long?!!" I guess I can't hide behind them now. I forcefully re-focus again, to walk by myself, to the edge of the pool. "Who's looking at me?! People are judging!"

I slide into the safety of the pool. The water's only up to my waist. I sink down to cover myself to my neck, but I feel ridiculous pretending I'm 3 feet tall. I scan the pool area, to confirm that people are staring and pointing at me. No one's even paying attention to me! People are actually swimming! The lifeguards are looking bored and daydreaming. I don't feel safe that they're so spaced out, but what's important is that I don't feel self-conscious anymore. Yes!

We stay at that pool until our fingers wrinkle like prunes, our eyes are red and J teaches himself to float/dog-paddle across the width of the pool. Even Z, who thought swimming in late October --even if it is indoors-- was an insane notion, had fun.

J wants to go again next weekend. I'm thinking that I to need to buy a bathing suit. One piece, of course.

Eczema Exorcism

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 22:36:00 +0000

I have not blogged or posted Youtube videos in about a month or more.

Why?

Because I feel like whenever I'm having a really bad flare-up, blogging or making videos about my eczema makes me think about excessively (if it's possible to have it on my mind more than it already is). And, when I can't think of anything else, I have even more trouble getting over the flare-up, than usual.

Know what I mean?

Linda Blair and demon friend

It's sort of like watching a really scary, horror movie late at night, like The Exorcist. That movie, as old as it is, still scares the living shit out of me. I go to bed, and I can't get it out of my mind. Every noise is a demon. Every shadow is an evil spirit waiting to use my body as a host to expel pea green vomit violently out of my mouth. I say to myself, "Betty, it's just a movie. It's pea soup, not Satan throw-up. Linda Blair is fine. She's an actress. She's not a scary, demon child. In fact, you saw her on an episode of The Dog Whisperer. Remember? She owns that doggie help center place thingy?

Linda Blair and doggie friend

However, thinking about not thinking about it is actually thinking about it obsessively. Get it?

Itching to go

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 11:17:00 +0000

It's 6:58 a.m. I have exactly 32 minutes before I have to leave for work. I wonder what I'll do today to keep myself busy in between the scanning, photocopying and stapling. I crave excitement. Not bungee- jumping type of excitement, but how about some catering to order for a meeting? Ohhhh, the thought makes me tingle all over.

Great, the stress of an unfulfilling work day is making me itch. Must keep typing until itch subsides. I should call in sick. I'm allergic to work.

It's 7:04 a.m. I really should be getting ready to go. My hair is sticking straight up and I've only got my pants on. But wait, I have to check the weather. Frank on Breakfast Television says to bring my umbrella. Thanks Frank. A high of 27 degrees Celsius. I'll be inside almost the whole day anyway.

Okay Betty, It's 7:08. You only have....shit I can't do the math that quick.....22 minutes left. I'm getting anxious, I can tell because I have a strong urge to suddenly go to the bathroom. Happens every time I'm anxious or nervous, like when I have to go on an airplane.

(I ended up accidentally unplugging the laptop in the middle of this post yesterday and being very late for work. Seeing as it's 7:16 a.m., it looks like it'll be the same story today)

Eczema Herpeticum - Progress in Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 02:59:00 +0000

Pictures of my progress, after getting Eczema Herpeticum. I am soooo glad the worst is gone.

Day 3

Day 5

Day 7

Day 11

Flair for Flare Ups

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 21:16:00 +0000

I am annoyed. Actually I was mad, but Lisa happened to call me just now asking me if I would be a reference for her husband. Thankfully, and divinely timed, the subject of her call was so far removed from what made me grit my teeth in anger, that I have calmed down. Slightly.

After an emotional punch in the face this past week, dealing with this Eczema Herpeticum/misdiagnosis/why me?/I am worthless and ugly/I give up what's the point ordeal, I started to heal.

I'm not sure at what point my mind started to change about my outlook. (long pause because I'm trying to figure it out)

I remember. It happened this past Wednesday, after 4 days of not knowing what was wrong with me. The dermatologist, Dr. Andrews (she reminds me of Julie Andrews) took my face gently in both her latex-gloved hands, leaned in to peer closely at my face, and simply, almost affectionately, said, "Eczema Herpeticum." I swear I almost kissed her. Maybe I should have been upset, but I was so damn happy! I actually slapped my hand on my knee, like a bad actress, grinned and shouted, "I knew it! I did some research on the Internet and knew this is what it was!"

It is much easier for me to tackle a problem when I know what it is. The not knowing or not being sure always (always) is what eats away at my mind, heart, body and soul.

The Monday and Tuesday before my Herpeticum party at the dermatologist's were the lowest, darkest emotional days in my personal eczema history. It is the new "zero" on my eczema-related mood ruler. I never want to be there again. My husband is a calm, logical man, but I know I scared and worried him. He's not a "freaker-outer", like me. I let my skin have such control over me and my life and my happiness, that on Tuesday morning, as tears broke through my swollen, crater-covered, pus-lined eyes and stung down the side of my face into my ears, I whispered to my husband, "What if I stay like this? It may not go away. I'm sorry, but I can't live with this. I can't." I meant it. I planned for a closed casket funeral with only the most flattering pictures of me. I am/was ashamed to feel this way and at the same time, thought it was a logical way for me to feel rested from feeling ugly and depressed and hopeless. No one was going to figure out what I had and if they did, my skin is still fucked up for life anyway.

My mom always used to tell people, "Don't tell Betty what to do. She doesn't like it. If you do, she'll just get mad and do the opposite. She like to do things on her own." There's a little rebel in me. She rose up from the dead at that dermatologist's office. She's crude and brash and likes to stick her middle finger up at people or situations she thinks are unfair, stifling or plain wrong. But. It's all done in honour of ME. I like her.

So, when I receive a comment on Twitter saying "sad thing is u might now get flair ups the rest of your life. plus your skin could discolor/scar..which happened to my 5Dd ", my 'lil rebel..(wait she's me)... I get mad.

The tweet sounds like a vow to accept hopelessness and she is trying to share with me like a damn poisonous cookie! I'm annoyed, too, with the misspelling of "flare up", because "flair" means to have a knack or talent for something. Great. So, I should expect to have a flair for flare ups??? You almost had me. I cannot lie. And I love almost all cookies.

But, please take no offense.This is directed at your tweet, not you personally, because this acceptance invaded me earlier this week and tried to kill me.

'Lil Rebel wants it OUT!!!

Eczema Rollercoaster

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 05:59:00 +0000

I am trying to watch Jersey Shore to keep my mind off my ballooning face. I am trying hard not to cry over my face. It's just a face right? It's what's inside that counts right? Right?

Riiiiiigggghhhttt??????

So why am I crying? I swear my face is getting worse not better. I just burst into our bedroom, turned on the light and stuck my face abruptly into my husband, Z's face and cried, "It's getting worse isn't it? My face is swelling more. Isn't it?!" I didn't even wake him first. He just woke up startled to my blistery, swollen, red face with my weepy, red eyes, desperately demanding his assessment. "Huh. Ummm..no, it looks the same."

"Are you sure?" God, I sound so pathetic. Please tell me I look okay and that I'm not ugly. Yes, I know it's natural for me to be worried about an infection on my face getting worse. Underneath that though, I am really worried that I won't get my face back. See? See how pathetic that is?

"Okay. If your sure, I'll wait 'til morning to see if it really is any worse." I want to assure him that I'm not panicking. I don't want him to know that I'm looking in the mirror every 10 minutes counting the blisters and measuring the expansion of my face by millimeters.

It's 1:46 a.m. and about 15 minutes since I looked in the mirror. I don't know why I can't just tell Z I want to go to Emergency now. Am I a vain, shallow person to be embarrassed to sit in the Emergency waiting room and have people stare at me? I know. I know. My logical mind tells me, people in Emerg have much more important things than my face to be concerned about--like their broken leg or their heart attack. But still. This is what goes through my head.

This irrational, stupid fear is there.

GUEST POST by Toribeth

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 03:41:00 +0000

Toribeth tweeted me today. She had read my post, Makin' Love to Eczema and had a story to share about her first sleepover at her boyfriend's (now husband). I love other people's personal stories. I love the extraordinary ordinary stories of their lives. I love how someone's story, like Toribeth's, makes her unique and, at the same time, just like me. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just nosy and insecure

Thank you so much Toribeth for sharing your story and letting me post it here. I totally get it. :)

XGB

Congratulations, you vixen—you've finally spent the night. You've
successfully woken up in an unfamiliar house next to your snoring
boyfriend. But now you kind of have to pee, and it's beginning to
occur to you that you should take off last night's makeup and make
yourself look all kinds of appealing so that your man doesn't take off
screaming when he wakes up.

So you sneak out of bed, scuttle your scrumptious, sexy butt down the
hallway and quietly close the bathroom door behind you. Your first
thought is that half of your makeup is smeared all over the
pillowcase, and you've absolutely got to get the rest of it off your
face as soon as possible. After splashing some warm water on your
face, you look down, scanning the sink for face wash.

There is no face wash on the sink. A quick but through search proves
that there is none available in the medicine cabinet, in the drawer
under the sink, in the shower stall, or on the shelf above the toilet.
There is absolutely no face wash in the entire bathroom.

Okay, no facial cleanser... but you could take off your make-up with
lotion, right? You look around. There is no lotion, not even a tub
of that greasy, gooey stuff that lumberjacks supposedly use on their
hands. Your choices appear to be between an aged, cracked bar of
Irish Spring soap in the shower and the pump of antibacterial soap on
the counter. Cautiously pumping a little of the antibacterial soap
into your hand, you notice that it's bright purple and smells like a
rainforest. After carefully rinsing the soap off, you begin to root
around in the medicine cabinet for a tube of Neosporin.

You finally locate the ointment and start rubbing your hypoallergenic,
doctor-approved, fully organic mineral makeup off your face with a wad
of toilet paper (there are no cotton balls, you've checked—but at
least your man buys soft toilet paper.) God, your face is itchy. You
peer into the mirror to make sure you've got both the makeup and the
Neosporin off your face, and you absentmindedly reach down to scratch
your leg.

Look at you, you sexy bitch! You make a pouty face in the mirror.
Wow, your leg is really itchy. It kind of feels funny—oh, shit. Oh,
shit, shit, shit, shit. Your entire thigh is red, and you've just
scratched a big hole in it. Now you're bleeding. Shit! Where are
the band-aids? Shit! You can't just put a band-aid over it, you've
irritated your entire thigh. Shit!

You turn and look at your other leg. Also red, also itchy. It slowly
occurs to you that your shoulders are a little itchy—shit, now you're
thinking about it, and they itch a lot! Your hands! Your feet!
Shit!

It dawns on you that you should start thinking about the culprit here.
After all, you weren't itchy yesterday. Yesterday, you were minding
your own business, washing up with your all-natural,
super-moisturizing body wash and your prescription steroid shampoo,
applying your dermatologist-recommended lotion and putting on your
clothes washed in ultra-gentle, hypoallergenic laundry detergent.

...laundry detergent.

You reach for the nearest towel, pick it up with your fingertips and
sniff. It smells like a cheap imitation of lavender, and from the
feel of it, your man doesn't know what fabric softener is. What you
smelled in the bedroom last night wasn't an air freshener, it was the
sheets. The sheets that you slept on. The sheets that touched your
feet and your legs and your arms and your hands.

At least he let you borrow a shirt, so the rest of your body didn't
touch the—shit! The shirt was washed in crap detergent, too!

...you're going to have to have a little talk when he wakes up. Shit!

Fists of Flaky

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 07:04:00 +0000

Hands. A show of hands. A helping hand. "I've got to hand it to you." Handstand. Handshake. "Put your hands up." "Put your hands together for our next guest." The hand off. Healing Hands.

I am sick and tired of hands. My hands. I try to make fists with both my hands and the deep red cracks that are starting to heal (again) threaten to stretch open and raw (again). I thought I would do it this time. I thought I could do it this time. I thought that this time, I would heal my hands.

It seemed to be going good for a few days. I applied that stupid all-natural ingredients cream religiously, 3 to 4 times a day, all over the back of my hands, my fingers and wrists. I denied that I felt any torturous tingling, crawling, prickling. "Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Mind over matter." I chanted encouragingly to myself.

I think it's working. There's that one spot, though, just under the last joint of my left thumb that tingles and prickles louder than all the other areas of both hands. I must shut it up. I press my right thumb firmly on this spot, shutting up the loud itch. "mmmfff ss ss!" The itch screams against the pressure of my thumb. Shut up itch. Tonight you're my bitch for once and you will obey me. We've done it your way for too long. I rub my thumb hard against the itch to muffle it's insistent screams. I will erase it's existence with my little, but powerful, right thumb by rubbing it to death.

"Mmmfff ss ss!" What the fuck?! Okay itch, you asked for it. I lose my mind and start clawing at the itch. Gotcha. Aahhh. Sweet pain. Relief. Taking advantage of my momentary loss of focus, the itch deftly races to the inside of my wrist, waiting for me to seek it out. I take the bait. I claw at the itch now attacking my wrist. "You will not win this time!!! I control you!!" I cry desperately.

The itch stands over me now. Mocking my words, in a screech that scrapes painfully across my entire hand, "NO. I CONTROL YOU BITCH." I desperately claw and dig at my left hand, fingers and wrist trying to rid it of itch. It jumps to my right hand and the fingers on both my hands are a blur as they furiously and simultaneously scratch and rub the opposite hand into a swollen, cracked, bleeding mess. I am a goner. Defeated. Again.

Makin' Love to Eczema

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 03:56:00 +0000

Right now, my husband, Z, is practically sleeping on his face, but still manages to snore loud and deep. How does he do it? I want to put a pillow over his face to mute the sound. But, that seems unkind.

We went over to Lisa and Scott's house to hang out and have dinner. As usual, the boys had to drink in each other's company. The two of them are like a dysfunctional couple who need to drink to get along with each other. They get along when they're sober, but for whatever reason, alcohol makes their bond stronger. Lisa didn't drink because she's five months pregnant. I didn't drink because 1) I'm trying to clear up my eczema situation and 2) who the fuck would drive us home. (I have such a potty mouth.)

We left at 8:30, which is earlier than usual, but I had promised Z this afternoon that we would have sex tonight. Yes. Sex. No. Not make love. We already have love and we are not making more of it tonight. I'm too tired for that and I have to get up early for work tomorrow. I just promised him, that's all.

Eczema sex is definitely not a sexy, sultry, steamy affair. I hate it. I mean, right now, I have itchy hives on my chest and my inner thighs as result of all that looove Z was making to me.

Love hurts.

April Showers

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 04:54:00 +0000

I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm depressed as hell!!! Even April at work noticed.

It's 3 p.m. and I reach into my bottom desk drawer where I "hide" my purse. Oohhh thieves would never look there. I dig into my Coach wallet with the broken zipper for a five dollar bill. I'm not digging through wads of cash. I just have mounds of crap in my wallet, like crumpled receipts, ATM statements and unidentifiable grey fuzzy stuff. That's all the money I have in there.

I never have money. I'm broke like a joke. My Coach purse and wallet are both presents. You think I've got money like that to spend on an expensive brand that's ironically named after the cheap seats on an airplane? Hmph! My friend, Chantal, spent $500 on her Coach purse. When she pulled out her new purse, which was the size of a diaper bag, at that Japanese restaurant last year, she rolled her eyes, and said "I know" as in "I know, isn't it ridiculous how much I spent?" Umm yeah. I think I bought my first car for that amount.

Whoever says, "the more money you have, the more problems you have" is an asshole. If you have so many problems, get rid of your money asshole. I'm such a good Samaritan, I'll take half of your "problems" to ease your mind.

As I spin around in my swivelly chair, to get up and leave, April says, "Mind if I join you?" Oh crap. It's like when your mother, who you moved as far away from as possible, as soon as you were legally allowed to, suggests having lunch together, "just us two". I know something is up. We line up in Starbucks and April warms me up with general questions then gets progressively interrogative.

"How was your weekend?" "What did you do?" "How's work going?" "How's the workload on that project you're helping with?" "Is it too much?" "I've noticed you've been a little off the last week. Are things okay with you?" Whoa there horsey! You're trotting little too fast through Feeling Forest and your questions are whipping me in the face like branches. "I just haven't been sleeping well" I answer. Then, I babble about how late I stay up, how it's stressful to not sleep, blah blah blah until we get back to our desks. I try to keep talking so she can't get another question in. It's amazing how much nonsense you can tell someone, if you really put your mind to it.

Like really now. What if I had told April the truth in the middle of Starbucks? Would she really be interested? I always think it's such strange custom when people greet you at work with, "Morning Joe/Sally/Betty/Whatever. How are you?" as they continue to walk swiftly past you. "Good/Fine. You?" we call out to their backs, already halfway across the office.

"Well, April. I'm feeling a little depressed lately because I turned 37 years old and I feel I haven't accomplished much. I'm only at this job on a temporary basis. I don't get benefits and I don't get vacation. In a week, my son is spending the rest of his summer with his dad and I feel I've spent no quality time with him. However, I don't want to ask for vacation because I can't afford not to work and I'm hoping to secure full-time employment with your company. It seems I won't be successful in that though, judging from the coded conversations you have with Mary, that I eavesdrop on, which you think I don't understand. Am I five years old April? Are you going to start spelling words you don't want me to hear? "Mary, I think that B-E-T-T-Y isn't a good F-I-T here." My son has had four teeth pulled out and he needs braces. I'm trying to keep up with the bills. I lay awake on the couch or in bed with depression and anxiety as my loud, chatty, night owl bedmates. The less sleep I get, the worse my eczema gets, the more depressed I feel, the more anxious I feel, the less sleep I get, and so on and so on."

"How are you?"

11 Year Old Girl Finds Cure for Eczema

noreply@blogger.com (Xzema Girl and Betty) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 00:25:00 +0000

I just watched a YouTube video by jdomakeup, who gives an update on her eczema. At one point she describes how she put honey on her face and body and how it was so sticky and uncomfortable, but her mother wanted her to sleep like that. Oh sweet eczema!

I remember the first time I tried my first eczema-be-gone remedy....

I am 11 years old and my last haircut was inspired by Liza Minnelli. My aunt says it's cool. It's not. I have a library card and know how to use the microfiche. No one says this is cool. It's not. My favourite shows are Little House on the Prairie and Three's Company.

During summer vacation, I ride my bike, in the morning, to my swimming lesson. Right after, I ride my bike to the library and spend hours there. Again, not cool. I borrow so many books, my plastic bag is stretched transparent over the corners of them, threatening to spill the load onto the sidewalk. I hook the bag of books over my right handle bar, and I lean way to the left to balance the bike.

I have eczema on the backs of my knees and inside my elbows. Eczema sucks and it's a definite factor of my uncoolness. It's itchy, it's ugly and it hurts and no one else I know has it, except for my grandma, who has it on her ankles. My grandma also has a lip that looks sewn up the middle to under the tip of her nose, a dog bite-shaped hunk of flesh missing off her calf and teeth that she puts in a glass. So that's no one I know really, is it?

All I have to do is stop scratching to make it better. But it's not easy! Sometimes, it oozes and makes my pants stick to the back of my knees. I don't care about wearing shorts. People always tell me how skinny I am anyway. "You're so skinny, don't you eat?" Yes I eat. McDonald's Happy Meals with milk. I'm not allowed to get a Happy Meal, if I don't get milk. And rice. I like rice. Plain with a little margarine. Just like my spaghetti. Now stop staring at me.

"Oh what's that rash? Do you have a cream for that? You shouldn't scratch it dear." I'm shy, so I look down and just nod. Besides, it's rude to answer to adults with, "It's eczema, dummy! Of course I have cream for it. My grandma sticks her finger in a small, brown, glass jar every day and rubs this cream so hard into my skin it feels like she's touching my bones inside. And I don't scratch. Not with my fingernails anyway. I'd get in trouble. I rub the backs of my knees really hard through my pants. The fabric is rough and it scratches my eczema-- not me-- stupid!"

I need to get rid of this eczema now. I need to get rid of it before I'm old (23) because no one will marry me. Skinny I can live with. Ladies always wanna be skinny. I don't know what to do. I can't stop scratching. I've got it! I walk casually into the kitchen and open the drawer that holds paper, pens, menus and the cure to end my eczema forever....

Plastic wrap.

I grab the long, yellow box, peek around the corner, like Charlie's Angels do and run into the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the tub, roll up my pant legs, and smear the cream from the brown glass jar all over the backs of my knees. Next, I wind the plastic wrap around my knees. Or try to. Plastic wrap sticks to everything, including itself, except to what you want it to stick to. Who the heck invented it? It folds over on itself and clings to my fingers, but if I wrap 3 layers around my knees, I get decent coverage.

I roll my pants back down, put my ear up against the bathroom door, listening for spies. All clear. I run back to the kitchen, plastic wrap crunching with each step, and put my arsenal back in its place. This is it. It's going to work for sure. I can feel it. When I unwrap my knees, they'll be as smooth as the top of my feet. (I always admire how perfect this spot of skin is).

I am such a child genius. I'll probably win Science Fair this year.

After a while, the backs of my knees start to feel hot and sweaty. I try not to think about it. Great. It's starting to itch. Bad. I try to tear off the plastic wrap, but I have too many layers of it around my knees. So frantically, I roll the enemy wrap down my legs.

There are two clear, sweaty plastic wrap O's staring up at me from the floor, as I scratch madly at my legs, fingers sliding from the built up sweat. Anyway, Science Fair sucks.