A Treatise on Atopic Dermatitis as it Relates to Minor Depression:

I miss the way my skin was when it didn’t itch. When I didn’t have the incessant need to scratch at it until little red bumps inflame and I bleed. There are scabs and reminders there now. Lotion doesn’t help. The sight of my feet, my calves, thighs and stomach, it makes me anxious. Which makes me scratch and itch all over again. Histamines.

I have eczema. It gets worse in the winter typically because the air is so often so dry and it triggers something. As the spring opened up, the snow finally melting into the grey city rain dripping off scaffolding and window sills, I hoped my skin would re-hydrate. That the moisture would cling and the itch would get better, as it typically does come this time of year. But I think I was worse on myself this winter. I’m still itchy.

The problem is that there is always this itch somewhere, and unlike other sorts of stimuli (public restroom smells and the blinding morning light,) this I do not get used to. The itch at the moment is in my right knee, on the right side and a little towards the top end of the patella. There is itch on my left wrist right above my tattoo and just below the hem of my sweater’s sleeve. There is itch on my abdomen. Close to the hip where my body when standing would just start to curve back out, but when sitting hits the peak of a roll of flesh curved over.

I want to scratch my skin off. Literally. When I start to scratch the itch, and the itch inevitably gets worse, I scratch harder, and faster. You can hear the scraping of my fingernails worse when I’m over the bone. It’s so stupid. But I keep thinking at those moments, if I just had some steel wool, a pumice stone or a fork. Perhaps if I angled the sharp edge of a knife just right I could finally cut away the itch without slicing down to the muscle. Of course, this is terribly not true. My logic luckily gets the best of me. I do not grab sharp objects (except occasionally pencils or the crisp edge of a folder). I slather on more prescription strength triamcinolone and pretend it’ll work, that the violence will no longer tempt.

I do not mean to cause the damage to my skin. I do not want to. It’s terrible and embarrassing the way I will suddenly start clawing both hands at my ankle, the top of my foot, or just above my underwear line. Roommates who start off with a, “Yah get it!” quickly morph into grimaces. They are uncomfortable with my intense display of discomfort. I get it. “Stop it.” They’ll say and swat at my hands meaning all the best, “You’re ruining your skin.” They just don’t want me to hurt myself. I know and I’m sorry, it just itches so goddamn bad. When I scratch it feels so wonderful, painful and relieving all tethered together and lovely. I stop and the itch is worse, layered on top by the sting of broken skin. So I keep going until I can will myself to stop.

It is way harder than it looks. It’s just so easy to put your hands down and stop. Really it should be, and technically it is. But the itch doesn’t listen to technically, the itch just itches. At work and other professional places, even sometimes at home alone, I can manage. I wear clothes that cover my skin and make the itch difficult to access, I’m busy with other things like smiling at customers and repeating our mantra, “Oh no, the registers are over there. Don’t worry it looks similar, happens all the time.” But sometimes, I’ll admit, I walk calmly to the backroom, look around and scratch—my skirt hiked up and my tights running thin beneath the friction. I’ll repeat this, it’s stupid.

I promise you, I do try. I have three different tubes of topical treatments, and a massive push cap bottle of “healing lotion” I apply generously after every shower and when I can feel myself on the verge of scratching too deep. I scold myself and smack my own hands away from the trouble spots. I rub gently with my palms instead of dig in with my nails. I tell other people to hold me accountable. But just a few moments ago, when I took a quick bathroom break, I used it as an excuse to hack at my upper right thigh. Kept thinking that if I just let myself itch right now, then I’d be satisfied and it’d go away. I scratched off another scab, stopped the bleeding with some Kleenex. I was ashamed and proud. This was just five minutes ago, so if that tells you how it is…

Sometimes, no that’s a lie, most days I feel I am making this up. This is not eczema. This is a girl who scratched herself itchy and now can’t manage to stop. Partially, that’s true. When you damage the skin the skin reacts and that can make a cycle. It’s all mixed together now so it doesn’t really matter. Sometimes I’m afraid the itch is a lie, but still it is all my skin can comprehend.