From the time I was born until about five minutes ago, I had keratosis pilaris. Even if you don’t know what this is, you have probably seen it. A person who has it gets little bumps all over their arms and legs, and sometimes face, that often look like little pimples. This is great when you’re eight years old, let me tell you, and you have no idea what’s wrong with you. I was really nailed with it, too, and the other kids were always asking me why I was covered in zits. I didn’t know. My response was to turn red and get quiet, and later to never appear anywhere in a tank top or shorts that hit above the knee, and would dread occasions that involved bathing suits.
I asked my mom about it. Now that I have children, I have no idea if she was incurious about what was usually going on with me or just busy. I asked her why my skin was like that at a young age and she replied that she didn’t know, but that I had been like that since two hours after I was born. I remember being in the car at nine or so and saying that my skin condition bothered me, and she said she got them sometimes, too. Years later I told her how much better that made me feel as a kid to know I wasn’t alone, and she told me she just made that up to make me feel better. I am guessing that I could have had answers in about thirty seconds at one of my annual pediatrician check ups, but it just never happened.
Of course, I never noticed that people around me probably had the same problem. I just thought I was defective. I developed some kind of bizarre Victorian idea that if I could find a way to be more morally sound, maybe I would stop looking deformed. I stole things, set small fires, and was a chronic masturbator. Were my outsides reflecting my charred black innards? Probably. My vain ass used to lie in bed and contemplate prayer as an answer. Not actually pray, just contemplate it. I had no idea how to do it, really. I decided that if I was granted three wishes the first one would be redeemed by fixing my skin. Fuck world peace and all that.
The really bad news was that I was (and still am, to some extent) one of those people who is always fiddling with myself. I twiddle my hair, if my lips are dry I chew on them, and I go apeshit if my skin dares to form a tag. Recently my dentist observed that the enamel in my front teeth is thin and asked me if I am a pen-cap chewer, which I am not. “Pen caps! How disgusting,” I thought to myself. When I got home I looked at my fingers, red and scabby, and realized I had been biting my hangnails for years, and that was probably the cause.
Of course I went after my skin. The excess keratin would rise to the surface and sort of float there like unruly whiteheads. When I got old enough to really start worrying about it, at about five or six, I started brushing it off. Then I got bolder and started picking at them. I learned how to pop them and they would come flying out. But I could never keep up, and sometimes they would form scabs. I would pull the scabs off again and, until my skin absolutely rebelled, and they would last for weeks until they became larger and got inflamed, and then became too painful to rip off one more time. Sometimes I just let them heal up. Winter was better, because I was usually in long sleeves.
Stress was a factor, and became intertwined with how I treated my body. I would scratch away at myself until I was inflamed and bleeding, and then feel ashamed that I couldn’t gain control of this habit. Sometimes I didn’t even realize I was doing it, as if my hands were acting of their own accord. At times, people have watched me do things to myself, like the time I pulled a wart out of my hand at sixteen on my parents’ back deck, or the time I did home surgery on my back.
“Doesn’t that HURT?” people would say.
“Er…should it? Yes?” I would reply.
I don’t know if I was born this way, or years of fiddling has short-circuited something. All I know is that it probably has made me the weakest superhero. “Don’t worry children, I will walk…into these blackberry bushes…and retrieve your ball.” “OOOOH.”
Of course, there had to be consequences for mangling myself for years. My stepfather tried to stop me by making me wear mittens during the day, which made life for a voracious reader a real bitch. Also, mittens are not a very cute look with shorts and tee shirts. I would sit around, trying to flip the pages of my Michael Jackson biography (1985 pre-Bubbles edition) with bemittened hands and crying, until my mother took pity on me and confiscated the mittens.
When I was nine we moved into a house in the woods, where I was always outside, digging in the dirt, collecting sticks, and poking strange plants. My hands were probably always filthy. Of course, this didn’t stop me from torturing my poor skin, and I paid for it with something that could have killed me.
******
More later, I promise. I am tired again. I am like consumption lady or something. “Reginald, move me to the veranda!”
Better today, though. I sleep on my face, usually, which probably explains a lot about my looks. My nose was running so much, but it is so comforting for me to sleep on my face that I put a cloth napkin under my nose, propped up my forehead, and tried to make sure my mouth was unblocked. I’d call that talent, but it was really pathetic. My plan for today is take Strudel out, as it’s cold but sunny, and wade through my four krillion emails. Sorry, everyone! AGGH.
I apologize for reading this whole thing and going, “Yeah, of course but then what did you cure it did you cure it?” because… of COURSE you felt crappy. Of COURSE you barely brought it up and then when you brought it up it didn’t get better. Of COURSE you picked at it ’til it bled. There wasn’t any other way for that story to go, right, since you’re clearly telling a thinly veiled version of my own.
Moisturizer helps, but it’s so counter-intuitive I have to make myself use it. “Slather butter on oil, great idea, yawp.” I welcome a better idea that doesn’t involve pate-ifying my liver any more than I already do.
Thanks for ‘splaining what the bumps on Toddler’s legs are. (And why they don’t hurt.)
I am sorry that your mom was such a bitch to make you endure that for so long. I would have taken you to the best doctor I could find until we had an answer if I was your mom.
Glad you are a little better. I missed your stories and silliness. Feel Better…I hear that this sun – even though it is hella cold – helps.
The picking, it is an almost universal biologically based behavioral imperative:
http://dir.salon.com/story/mwt/feature/2003/08/11/grooming/index.html?source=search&aim=/mwt/feature
The difference between you and most people is that you are talking about it.
I am glad you are feeling better. Leelo and Mali both have KP, and their otherwise truly wonderful pediatrician never mentioned anything about it until I asked her directly. Then she just said, “Use lots of lotion.” It does help.
Strudel got it, Franny dodged it.
I moisturize and gently washcloth her. She talks about them sometimes.
I’ve suffered from that crap for years-mostly on the backs of my arms.
My parents used to make a mixture of Keri bath oil and propylene gylcol and put it on me when I was still damp from the shower. It works but it makes you stick to everything.
These days I use the Neutrogena Sesame bath oil or Ginseng Miracle Oil (My other half refers to it as “Nubian Princess Juice) followed by the Shea Butter Lubriderm. I was embarrassed about my arms for years, but I’m not a picker in that regard.
I get these weird things on the bottoms of my boobs that I pick at every chance I get. It’s like..hair follicles that are producing little bits of..something? I squeeeeeeeze ’em and squeeeeeze ’em but they come right back.
“I moisturize and gently washcloth her. She talks about them sometimes.”
Try washing her with Cetaphil. I’ve done that off and on for awhile and it helps a LOT.
What does she say about them?
She says, “Look at my bumps!” Very three, I suppose.
Awwww! Bless her little bump pickin’ heart!
I’m glad you’re feeling somewhat better. I picked up some kind of projectile vomit thing over the weekend which totally kicked my ass and made me want to die. I hope nobody else in the history of the world gets it, ever. However, I’m trying to piece together a blog post about corelation and causation and what I’ve been reading and how sick I’ve been.
I guess sometimes sickness leads to clever blog posts? Well, in your case at least. I’m looking forward to the end of your story.
You know, I’ve had those little bumps (mine are red) on my upper arms for years and never knew what they were. They didn’t really bother me, so I never really thought about them.
Now, on the other hand, I pick at my skin constantly with all the other things that show up.
Your face is cute.
Good old, Body Focused Repetitive Behaviors:
http://www.slbmi.com/anxiety_center/trichotillomania.htm
I have them too.
You know, I know what you mean, but that does not sound good out of context, hee.
How did you know that I needed needed needed to read this today? I am currently having the Psoriasis Flareup from Hell and while I’m sorry you had to go through all that (and am waiting to hear the end, very patiently, really, I can wait, you just go rest) it is nice to not feel totally alone in having weird skin stuff.
Hurrah for you feeling well enough to write! I have the same thing, but it’s mostly on the backs of my arms and shoulders, where I couldnt see. Therefor, I didnt pick. But I’m sure if I could see them, I would. I chew my fingers (not just my nails, my fingertips) and my lips too.
I have it too, but just on my upper arms and OCCASIONALLY my legs. I scratch at it…not enough to make it bleed, but enough to make me satisfied. I never even thought to ask a doctor about it…or a parent, for that matter.
I have been getting some similar bumps around my decolletage area for the last few years and have never been able to get rid of them. I bet it’s the same thing.
Also, oh my god, the picking you are describing! I have always done that, too. At some point I managed to quit biting my nails, but I just transferred the aggression to my cuticles, which are (and have been for my entire life) in a messy state of shredded, dry, crusty nastiness. In the spirit of your post, but subconsciously so, I found myself picking at a dried zit-remnant on the side of my nose while reading. Sigh.
P.S. Just found your blog relatively recently and am currently checking out your archives — good reads!