Wednesday, May 1, 2013

George is a Douche-Canoe.

Oh, did you notice me rubbing my hands?  Sorry, I can't help it.  They're not sore.  Sometimes my knuckles curl my fingers into stiff claws, making movement difficult and painful, but they don't hurt much today.  Today they're just itchy and tight with tiny blisters, and I'm feeling self-conscious.

I've gotten the blisters often enough now that what used to be tender skin on the sides of my fingers are now thick with calluses.  But the blisters creep farther and farther into "good skin territory" all the time, and the trail of hardening skin follows.

On top of my fingers, running along my nail beds.

The outside of my hands, slithering up towards my pinky and down past my wrist bone.

The web between my thumb and forefinger.

Starbursting outward from the center of my palm.

When the blisters dissipate, they'll peel off in thick layers, sometimes for weeks.

It's an itchy process, beginning to end, but that doesn't bother me so much as the fact that it's ugly.  It's not terribly noticeable, but people who do see it assume it's contagious or a fungus.  It's neither, just my body going just a little out of whack, but it makes me feel dirty and embarrassed.  Maybe a little ashamed on bad days.

I have an "undifferentiated autimmune disorder."  I call it George so that I don't have to be mad at my body for being gross, but at George for making me feel gross.  And I have it mostly under control; I haven't required regular meds in almost ten years, and have only had a handful of short, mild flares in that time.  The blisters are one of the few symptoms I can't kick.

It's really not so bad.  I know I'm lucky.

But today?  This tiny reminder that my body will never function normally?

It's fucking pissing me off.

(True:  I have a happy "Hops in the Right Direction" post for you tomorrow, courtesy of my friend/cousin Dianawesome.)

1 comment:

  1. I sort of understand how you feel. I have an itchy blistery condition that I get on one hand; took about a year for the doctor to find an ointment that works. Nothing as severe as your disorder, but I know how it feels to be scratching until you bleed, while people look at you as though you're Typhoid Mary. And you know what? The hell with them, they're only jealous. That's my story to which I am sticking. While scratching.