The skin that encases my body is not only imperfect: it is utterly fucked.
Its imperfections have played a leading role in sculpting my thoughts and feelings about myself and body image throughout most of my life. It has been the leading source of discomfort in an ultimate battle for control. Overall, it has contributed to more than I wish to give it credit for.
My mom often regales with me accounts of my skin issues from those early years I can’t recall: rashes and hives, reactions to fragrances, dyes, and foods, as well as cradle cap – a condition in babies caused by the overproduction of sebum, which produces yellowish scales and flakes on top of the head. A taste of what I would be living with further down the road. As I grew, I became resilient. In my younger years it seemed I was an invincible, tough little thing. My playtimes were spent outside, the bottoms of my feet became callused, my skin was brown from the sun, and nothing mattered. I was plagued by few conditions, but it was short-lived.
Painful cystic acne spread itself all over my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and back when I went through puberty at age 11. I shot up tall and chubby, with greasy, oily skin and hair. I sprouted tits. I got my period. All of this rapid change happened within the span of what I estimate to be one year. I was teased about my skin relentlessly. I was teased about a lot of things. For the most part, I’ve pushed those experiences behind a wall in my mind and don’t really allow them to come out until I feel like dealing with them.
Acne has turned out to be only one of many straws I’ve drawn from the pile of chronically fucked up skin conditions, though it has diminished significantly from its pimply prepubescent beginnings. From the moment it all started, it didn’t stop – and still, the hits just keep on coming.
Seborrheic dermatitis (basically extreme dandruff that doesn’t always restrict itself to my scalp) is a sleeping tiger–flaring up and receding at times, but ever-present. The same applies to my chronic urticaria, or hives, that come on and leave as they please without any proper trigger. I used to think it was a temperature-based reaction, then I thought it was pressure, sunlight, or sweat…now I’m ready to believe it could be anything.
On a daily basis my skin is delicate and sore, speckled with blemishes, scabs, wheals, and welts. My head and face produce sebum at alarming rates. My scalp, neck, forehead, hairline, and ears have been flaking more than ever as my seborrhea flared up rather suddenly and has not ceased for a solid three months. I could attribute its arrival to mounting life stressors goading my anxiety disorder, or maybe the shift in weather from spring to summer–but I’ve given up trying to decipher the triggers. The hives are more elusive. Sometimes if I put pressure on my skin in certain ways, it can produce welts. A little scuffle with my cat in the morning means her tiny scratches on my arms will inflate with puffy redness by the time I get to work.
If I accidentally pop an aspirin or a tablet of ibuprofen, my entire body is sure to break out. Acetaminophen only causes an outbreak about half the time, which I’ve never understood. A day spent outside in the sunshine might mean a flare-up hours later. A hard work-out or a particularly active afternoon will end in a cold shower, an attempt to keep the hives at bay.
But then there are those days where I’ve done nothing but wake up to find they’ve wreaked havoc on my body. Or while working diligently at my computer, I might become aware that my nails have been making contact with my skin more often than they should be – because a constellation of burning hives have formed without warning, stretching across my skull and down the back of my head.
Not knowing what makes it happen is the most frustrating thing in the world.
There is a reason why a lot of people living with chronic skin conditions tend to also live with mental illness–dealing with this shit can be mega depressing. Yet I’ve often been dismissed as overreacting or being “too sensitive” about everything, especially regarding my skin or my body. What’s almost worst are those hopefuls who think they can save you.
“Have you tried going without gluten? Or dairy? Have you heard about this vitamin, or that one?”
I know such suggestions are backed by good intentions, but not everything can be magically solved with a diet or supplement. I know. I’ve tried. I have been shopped around to dermatologists and specialists like a guinea pig my entire life. I’ve tried everything and anything from Retina-A creams that made my skin fall off, to “acne-fighting” systems like ProActiv, and various other medications I’ve lost track of. I would build up trust only to watch it fall, as each thing I tried yielded few results, and I failed to gain control.
My anxiety and depression went undiagnosed until I hit college, but looking back, I see the ways it affected me and the ways in which I coped. Certain coping mechanisms have followed me into adulthood – namely, a tendency to pick and pick at my skin compulsively, a condition called dermatillomania. It started when I would read in bed at night as an introverted adolescent, squeezing pimples, popping zits, scraping bumps, and picking scabs, then pressing the pages of my book to my forehead to blot the blood away. My childhood books are filled with a sprinkling of dried-brown spots of blood. It was my little secret.
Now it is a thing I am hyper-aware of. I know how counterproductive the picking is to treating my conditions, but my conditions exacerbate it. The scars that litter my body will not let me forget. I can name it and fight against it, but the act of picking puts me in a trance that is not unpleasant – especially in times of elevated anxiety.
I often lift my hands to my head impulsively to find a source of comfort, searching for imperfections to pull or scrape away. Before I know it, I’ll be in that place for hours; I have been late for work or missed sleep due to my picking habits more than I’d like to admit. It isn’t until there’s dried blood under my nails that I realize the damage I’m doing to myself. And honestly, sometimes, I just don’t care enough to stop.
When I do, I control my skin-picking by keeping my hands occupied. “Idle hands are the devil’s play things” applies twice over when you find an odd and compulsive satisfaction in detaching scales and gouging at bumps. So I direct my hands to focus instead on things like petting my cat, crafting worthwhile things, writing, doodling, designing, nail-painting, origami, and poking at games on my iPad. I am always on the look-out for new ways to keep my fidgety fingers away from destructive habits – I just need to maintain the strength and sense of awareness to choose the alternatives over the picking.
When in doubt, I will turn to products for help – but never a solution. Right now my routine in the morning and at night includes using a keratoplast cream facial cleanser that has many sensitive skin-soothing properties, a mixture of chamomile extract and water as a toner, and rose hip oil to reduce flakiness, along with Cetaphil moisturizers. As for make-up? Mineral foundations only.
I’ve tried several antihistamines to try to deal with the hives, none of which really made any difference. One antihistamine actually caused a flare-up, so that was rather fascinating. When I’m not rubbing a cocktail of different medicated shampoos and foams into my scalp during the most desperate of times, I find using natural products to be very soothing for my seborrhea, if not not a cure-all.
A few tablespoons of apple cider vinegar with a couple drop of tea tree and lavender essential oils, diluted in a couple cups of water, makes for a fantastic ph-balancing and anti-fungal rinse. Followed with a non-drying paraben-free shampoo and a bit of coconut oil to rub into sore spots and the ends of my bleach-damaged hair? Even better. I may never feel true comfort in my skin, or have any control over how it treats me–but I can put all of my control into how I treat it back.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m playing at chemist, performing tests of trial and error every day. Products that work now may not work in a few months, so while I may feel as though I have the upper hand while I smooth and apply, I know I need to be realistic. It’s unlikely any one thing will solve all my problems. Sometimes I hate my skin with a burning and fiery passion of everything that is in me. I let it fill my heart until I feel sick. I cry and yell about it until I no longer have a voice to project. I acknowledge my feelings as valid and let them exist within me.
And then, eventually, I move on. Some days I do self-care photo shoots where I enhance all the blemishes on my face at that moment, just to see how I feel about it. Or I’ll stop wearing make-up for a while to see what happens, how I handle it, and how the world doesn’t end when my bare skin is on display. As I let myself feel things, express them, and let them pass–I can reach a place of indifference and come to even accept my skin at times. I still get very frustrated, and that frustration turns into hate and anger towards my body and my skin for letting me down, but at the end of the day – I can let the frustration dissipate.
Because there is nothing else to do with the things that are always there, except to learn to live with them.
ohmygoodness. I would ask if you were me, but I definitely don’t have the eloquence or emotional capacity to discuss my skin in any way except rage-shrieks and angry hand gestures.
(P.S. Having gone gluten-free, I can officially attest to the fact that it does Jack and Shit about skin oiliness or breakouts. Ahahahahahahaha. :sob:)
Icthyosis here.
From the sounds of it relatively benign by comparison but… oh that count down every winter to the first time some one new notices it.
“what’s wrong with you’re legs” — it’s icthyosis it’s genetic, it just means i have really dry skin
“are you contagious?” — I just said it’s genetic
“have you tried ___?” — no I have never heard of this ‘lotion’ thing please explain
always followed by them sort of compacting into themselves in an attempt to get away from me with out actually having to flee.
“Idle hands are the devil’s play things” applies twice over when you find an odd and compulsive satisfaction in detaching scales and gouging at bumps.
Oh yes. This speaks to me.
I’ve mostly controlled my dermatillomania, but in times of stress it always resurfaces, because it is deeply, darkly satisfying in a way that’s hard to express.
It makes everything else go away. Peeling off a piece of skin, cleanly and completely, blanks and mutes the harrying world like dropping into sleep or knocking back three shots of whiskey in a row. It is pure peace, for one flicker of a second.
And then I see what I’ve done and the world comes buzzing back, only now I’ve made it incrementally worse for myself, by re-starting a cycle of minor self-abuse. (I’m lucky: my compulsion is mild and manageable.) So mostly, I force myself to control that urge. But I understand it. Oh, I understand it.
Yes.
I have permanent scar patches all over my scalp from picking.
It just…feels so good.
Sometimes I wonder if I could get similar satisfaction from a scratching post…
Once, in order to self-medicate my self-diagnosed minor oral fixation/nail biting/picking/etc., I bought a teething ring. Like, the ones you buy for your infant, except I was about 15. It took me about two weeks before I had destroyed it (incredibly satisfying and temporarily alleviating) and was back to chewing.
I understand it, too. I’m always picking at the dry flakes of almost-healed pimples, trying to make my skin smooth but usually just making them bleed and take longer to heal. I try to focus my compulsion on places that are less visible, such as my back and scalp.
When I had bad chicken pox a month before my junior prom (for which I’d already bought a dress with spaghetti straps), I directed all my scratching and picking to my scalp. Now I have an abundance of itchy, raised scars on my scalp, which gives me something else to pick at. I’m curious to see what my head would look like bald.
I also compulsively pull out my gray hairs, not because I fear going gray (I think it’s beautiful), but it makes everything go away, like you said. I’ve got a lot more of them than I did a few years ago, so sometimes I’ll pluck one or two in front of the bathroom mirror before I shower, only to go into a sort of trance and realize I have no idea how long I’ve been there. Five minutes? Ten?
This was a very interesting read, and while I could relate to quite a bit of it, my problems are so pale in comparison. I’m looking forward to reading more of her work about body acceptance.
I wish I had known, when I was a teen/20-something, that dermatillomania was an actual problem/issue that other people had to contendl with, and not just me being a Gross and Hideous Freak who is Gross.
Everyone is gross, it’s just that some people are able to hide it.
brb stitching this on a pillow
I made this for you!!!
WHAT. PERFECTION.
How is it that you keep making me love you more?!
This is better than a pillow, because we would definitely make that pillow gross with our gross skin flakes and oil. 😉
Me, too. Mine is mostly confined to my hands, but before I got it under control — before I knew it was a thing and therefore treatable — my fingertips were often a scabby, pulpy, bleeding mess.
Just learning that it’s a recognized disorder did something to calm the thrumming anxiety I’d been carrying around about it. I started to recognize and short-circuit some triggers for the behavior, instead of assuming it was just ME.
It’s odd and… let’s call it problematic, I guess… that I felt better knowing it’s A Thing, but for whatever reason, that helped immeasurably; it allowed me to stop worrying about what it might mean about me and just focus on ceasing the undesired behavior.
I started to recognize and short-circuit some triggers for the behavior
for example: I have a mostly-healed cut on my fingertip and another on my thumb. Healing scabs or cuts give me the urge to pick at my skin, but I’ve resisted bandaging that finger because I know FROM FAR TOO MUCH EXPERIENCE that this kind of flaky scab will disappear faster if I leave it open to the air.
Also, I am going to my mother’s tonight. Because I am a walking cliché, being around my mother tends to awaken my dermatillomania. Even if I arrive with perfectly smooth hands, on a bad night I’ll leave bleeding in at least one spot.
So before I leave the house, I’m going to bandage the everliving fuck out of my finger and thumb to keep from tearing them open, and I’m not going to feel guilty or weird or gross about it because it is just a disorder that I’m attending to as best I can, TA DAAAA!
… it occurs to me that my mother has never, ever, in my entire life expressed any interest or concern or even curiosity about the almost-permanent bandages I wear on my right hand. (“Almost-permanent” from her perspective, because I wear them preventatively almost every time I see her.) Never. Not once. That thought is a rock I’m choosing not to peer under today.
Right? I remember hearing the word for the first time and feeling like all the lightbulbs turned on. Oh. What I do has a name! Not that that’s made me any better at NOT doing it, and since I got an IUD and went off the pill I’ve had gnarly hormonal acne that is impossible for me not to poke, but… man, I feel less weird knowing I’m not the only one.
Yeah, I think it was Jane Marie who mentioned having it on the Hairpin, and until then I’d just thought it was my own stupid compulsion to pick at my bad skin. Knowing that it’s a Thing sometimes is enough to push me to less destructive forms of anxiety relief. (Luckily, mine is pretty mild, though I often worry that it’ll get worse.)
Yes. Yes. YES. Your description is so deliciously on-point.
I always wonder about other people’s compulsions: does it feel the same to them? Is it a pocket of quiet in a spinning world? Is it that delicious blink of blankness? Is it peace? Because for me, that’s what makes it hard to stop.
I’m trying hard to create constructive behaviors that give me a similar sense of clarity and peace. Writing hard, that moment or minute or hour of falling fully into the blank page, is almost as good. An exercise high is almost as good. Laughing with friends I really, truly love is almost as good. And all of those last longer and feel better in the long term because I don’t regret them after they’re done.
I second the recommendation of origami, it is wonderfully soothing and compulsive, and easy ones like crane, box or butterfly will not upset you by coming out wrong!
In idle times, I make beaded jewelry. Working with the pliers, threading tiny seed beads onto whiskers of sterling, matching and balancing all the elements — that’s good busywork for hands. Sewing and woodworking and upholstery also keep my hands busy. But for me, it isn’t my hands that need the crutch most; it’s my busy brain.
It’s the massive POW of gratification, when the world slips away and everything goes quiet, that I need to recreate. Writing, laughing, exercise, and sex all work pretty well so far.
Yup I make friendship bracelets. The only situation I can’t figure out is movie theaters… my cuticles/nails are a serious mess after a movie.
I’ve started painting my nails just so I can let it dry and peel the varnish off. It actually helps sometimes.
I make flapping birds all the time, in any situation, so long as I can find paper. I’ve been making them since I was little. I know how to make other things, but they are not as satisfying for some reason. I suppose because once it’s done and if everything is folded correctly, you can actually pull on the tail and make the paper wings flap. ^_^
“Because there is nothing else to do with the things that are always there, except to learn to live with them.”
Amen.
My Dad was like, so obsessed with curing my acne when I was a teenager. It wasn’t even THAT bad, in comparison to a lot of other people. But he made me try everything — like herbal supplements, going to derms, proactiv. Nothing really worked, because mine is entirely hormonal, so once I started BC when I was 19 it pretty much went away. But he like, cared about it more than I did. I think it was because of my back, having scoliosis and such, maybe he felt it was something he could actually fix? I don’t know.
I know exactly what you mean – they did seem to care about it a lot more than I would. My parents would chase me and pin me down, just to pop my zits. Always pointing out a fresh one, suggesting this or that, like it helped. (It didn’t. Saying nothing at all and simply loving me would have been enough.)
They would pop them!? *tinyscreams
Yes, they had a strange fascination with needing to pop them. I know they didn’t mean harm, but it was kind of traumatic.
I feel like you wrote that in perfect Angela Chase vernacular, and I love you for it.
Wow, I can definitely understand the link between these conditions and mental distress – to have to put so much work into something that most people barely even have to think about and to not even have found a solution yet… This is one of those pieces that makes me examine my own assumptions and reactions to other people; we don’t know what is going on in someone’s mind or what they’ve done or plan to do, but so often we think we do, and we think other people are really different from us.
Thank you so much.
Thank YOU. It is also worth knowing that many skin conditions (including mine) often don’t have solutions at all. They are chronic and ever-lasting, no matter how we try to manage them – hence the mental distress. <3
People who say you are “too sensitive” are THE WORST.
Oh lord, this is so perfect.
I’m having several weird skin conditions right now that are making me pretty miserable. I’m going to a derm in a month, and I cannot wait. I don’t think anything will be solved (I’ve been through this before), but hopefully I’ll find out what’s going on, so I can stop self-diagnosing.
Somedays, I wish I could just hide out in my house, where I can ignore the mirror and my skin.
This post compelled me to finally write a comment, which I’ve never done before though I’ve been reading The Toast (and the Hairpin) for ages.
If I weren’t reading this at work, I’d be crying. I’ve dealt with terrible cystic acne since I was 12 and still have it at 34, and like you, I feel like I’ve been to every dermatologist in the area and tried every pill, lotion, and cream available. My face is scarred and pitted, and I hate looking in mirrors because of it. It affects my confidence at work and in my social life–always wondering what people are thinking of me because of it–but most of all, it affects my dating life (or lack thereof). When I have a date coming up, I’m a wreck, wondering how my face will look that day. How do other people deal with this?
Haley, thank you for putting your story out there and for making people feel less alone.
I’m dealing with cystic acne right now, and it is really hard to deal with. I’m jumping through all the hoops with my dermatologist to get on Accutane, and I’m spending big bucks at CVS on concealer. And I’m trying not to pick, but that’s challenging. And I’m trying to ignore it when people stare at my face and then realize they’re staring and look away. And I’m trying to be gracious when people give me their home remedies (gluten-free, dairy-free, oatmeal-cinnamon masks), or tell me it’s all psychosomatic and if I just relaxed, my zits would disappear.
Thanks, Haley (and Meg), for your stories – take care of yourselves. You are amazing no matter what.
More than almost anything else, I would give a princely sum of money to someone to make my skin problems go away. And whoever solved them would be worthy of some sort of international prize, for real. Nobel level? Perhaps. Close.
Fairy godmother request, number one.
Longtime skin sufferer and -tillomaniac here, too. (I pull hair, though—trichotillomania.) Right now I’ve got several eczema patches around my scalp, eczema + pimples in parts too delicate to mention, perpetually angry legs that flare up in hot weather, and some kind of seborrheic dermatitis around my lips that only responds to corticosteroids (which are simultaneously thinning the skin on/around my lips and causing those lovely old-lady lines at age 33). In short, I feel your pain, and I hate that there are so many of us dealing with this crap.
My sister has trich. When we are together, she is usually swirling and twirling the hair right out of her head, while I am searching and poking around for skin to pick. I hate the pain and discomfort, but love that we can come together and understand one another so beautifully. <3
*strides silently yet purposefully up to Haley Cue and performs the secret handshake that is only for people named Haley who contribute to The Toast who have turquoise hair in their profile pics*
*also who are graphic designers* *also who have crazy-ass skin problems*
OH HELLOOO, so sorry to have kept you waiting and so pleased to know you! Let us join together in solidarity as artsy-fartsy aqua-haired Haley’s without wandering i’s and extra l’s floating our names. <3
I’m typing this right now and feel tinges of discomfort as my fingertips strike the keyboard with their cracked, peeling, shriveled pads, and I’m like fuck you skin! I remember vacationing overseas for the first time as a teenager, and every time I washed up, a swarm of mysterious red itchy bumps would magically appear, and I fast realized there was no escaping my skin, which was such an insightful prediction because it remains true to this day. It dictates how much fun I have, which sounds ridiculous, but new experiences outside of my home means a new environment, and my skin will always assert itself in rebellion. It’s the worst relationship I will always have because there really is no solution, is there? And no dear parents, it’s not because I didn’t eat enough veggies when I was a child.
I'm typing this right now and feel tinges of discomfort as my fingertips strike the keyboard with their cracked, peeling, shriveled pads, and I'm like fuck you skin! I remember vacationing overseas for the first time as a teenager, and every time I washed up, a swarm of mysterious red itchy bumps would magically appear, and I fast realized there was no escaping my skin, which was such an insightful prediction because it remains true to this day. It dictates how much fun I have, which sounds ridiculous, but new experiences outside of my home means a new environment, and my skin will always assert itself in rebellion. It's the worst relationship I will always have because there really is no solution, is there? And no dear parents, it's not because I didn't eat enough veggies when I was a child.
My goodness, the timing of this post is amazing (for me personally, obviously—call me Captain Solipsism): I’m in the middle of a horrible cellulitis episode brought on by underlying perioral dermatitis. In English: my face is a disgusting, red, seeping mess. This was, ironically, brought on by the steroids I used to treat my chronic, severe urticaria. Hurrah for the universe’s sick sense of humour.
No-one seems to understand how painful and miserable-making skin conditions are. You get ‘sympathy’ from people who say ‘it must be terrible to have to go to work looking so bad’ (girl, please, the way I look at the moment is the least of my concerns, JUST MAKE THE BURNING STOP) or ‘yeah, I know, sometimes I have a really bad pimple and I don’t want to leave the house either’. Meanwhile I’m bawling and alternating between the two icepacks I keep on hand in the freezer.
After bursting into tears on the phone to my doctor’s receptionist, I have an emergency dermatologist appointment today. I still hold on to the completely irrational hope that there is a magic silver bullet that will cure it all. Yours in itching camaraderie!
They would pop them!? *tinyscreams
I”m sure you’ve looked into this, but just in case (cause it was a revelation to my allergist)–when I was 18 i started getting random hives ALL THE TIME, and it would be for similar stuff–little cuts would swell up, sometimes it’d just be in small places, other times my whole bodies. I could never tell when they’d arrive, what would set them off. And the only reason I mention is cause you said about taking aspirin that it caused reactions–and I finally discovered that I have a salicylate allergy–which means I’m allergic to aspirin, as well as any aspirin containing medications, salicylic acid meditations/skin cleansers, and also certain foods which are high in salicylate content. Anyhow you can look all this up, and it’s not an exact remedy, but when I figured it out, I was able to reduce them, and now, miraculously, i’ve discovered that a daily zyrtec helps a lot (who knows for how long, but it’s been about five years, and my skin/reactions are negligible!). Also, turns out that my grandmother has the same allergy, so could be genetic, but anyhow, my allergist had never heard of it about 10 years ago, and now i have a new allergist who knew ALL about it, when i mentioned it to her, so i guess more and more people are having or talking about salicylate allergies
I actually looked into this last year but couldn’t find an allergist or any tangible help aside from internet resources. It does make a HELL of a lot of sense, I just felt odd diagnosing myself. Will definitely need to find adequate help. Thank you for reminding me about this.
This is me too, in the last couple of years. Random hives, seeming allergies, flaky bits, dry bits, rashes… I just went to the derm last week to get a blood panel and was SO HOPEFUL that I would turn up an allergy but I got it back yesterday and… nothing. My newest thing in the last few weeks is tiny pinpoint blisters on my knuckles that get bigger and merge into ugly bumps. I don’t know.
I’m so sorry for you …I know exactly what you go through everyday ..your story sounds exactly like mine. I could have been reading about myself (but I’m a male) We have to try harder & harder each day to live with it ..but I know how hard that can be. My thoughts are with you & all people in our itchy, flakey, scratchy world.
My parents would also chase me, pin me down and squeeze any blackheads, whiteheads or spots. They did the same thing to my sister. We both have obsessive compulsive skin picking. I don’t know if it’s inherited or learnt, but it is horrible and I do feel ashamed. It even extends to others because if I notice a blackhead on someone else I can’t stop thinking about it and I mean that even years later I can recall them……
Hi haley, came across your blog today….just wanted to tell you that i suffered from seb derm of scalp for years….the thing that helped instantly was massaging scalp with hot coconut oil …just about a couple of teaspoons or even lesser.. massage well for 15-20 min into scalp all over ,keep it on for 30 min or as long as you want then shampoo it off…you will find your scalp squeaky and the seb derm will gradually reduce or go away…you can also massage your body with a bit of warm coconut or olive oil ,and then wash off with a gentle cleanser and warm water. it will soothe your skin and cause less inflammation.
Male here and I am in the same boat..It just sucks to get up in the morning, looking at my patchy skin and go about as to nothing’s really wrong. I work in a highly stressful job and bad habits do creep in, But it gives me hope, seeing that there are others who have had similar experiences with their skin and their psychological well being…I am sure it will get better.
Also, where is everyone based out of? Has anyone thought about meeting each other to talk about such experiences.. Cheers !