Allergies

My skin likes to complain. Loudly. And often.

Years ago, I stood proud on the fact that the only thing I was allergic to was wasp stings. I could eat anything, take anything, wear anything… you know, except an angry wasp. Life was good.

I’ve always had a bit of an ongoing battle with my skin. My skin is the reason I’ll never model again. It would take extensive and expensive cosmetic surgery to make my canvas appear normal to the heaving masses. I’m scarred from years of OCD-flavoured skin picking and bouts of dryness. But it wasn’t until I got sick that I started to display some really crazy skin allergies.

So far, no one’s been able to pinpoint any specific thing that causes it. Sometimes it’s soap, or perfume, or wool, or aerosol, sometimes it’s nothing identifiable, or currently, the bane of my existance, my resident population of bedbugs*. Every night I go to bed and wake up looking like I’ve been beaten with a thorny bush. And they ITCH. Like you wouldn’t even be able to understand. I’m taking insane doses of Fexofenadine to control the worst of it, and liberally applying Savlon and hydrocortisone cream whenever I think about it. The only thing that concerns me is just how long it’ll be until I start developing an allergy to them too.

There really is nothing fun about getting up every morning and realising that you’d rather boil your skin off with hot tar than tolerate another day of itchy skin.

*Yes, they do exist. They are evil bloodsucking little vampires, and they live in my bedframe, and I can’t afford an exterminator. I bet you’d just love to be me right now, eh?

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~ by surprisingme on March 18, 2010.

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