scratching the itch

The infuriating, inexplicable itching began in February. At first, I scratched the itch* as often as it arose, almost unconsciously, and nothing seemed unusual about this arrangement. But then the urge to itch became more and more frequent, and more and more intense, until I found myself scratching incessantly for what felt like hours, running my too-stubby-to-be-truly-effective fingernails up and down my legs until the flesh beneath them began to burn. And then I’d cease scratching and sit in torturous self-restraint while the itch continued to attack. This happened at least once a day, and often at night—I’d wake up from an otherwise restful sleep to find myself already scratching away at my frustratingly inflamed flesh. It all started ten months ago and, unbelievably, it hasn’t yet stopped, even rousing me from bed last night for an extensive scratching session.

To accompany the itch, I’ve been plagued by a slowly-spreading rash that first appeared on my back at the beginning of March. The rash itself doesn’t itch, but it’s certainly not something I’m happy to have, as it’s not a particularly attractive addition to my generally decent-looking person. Luckily, it’s not dry or flaky or painful—it’s just red. Which compared to the alternatives (see: dry, flaky, painful) isn’t actually all that bad. Still, the need to explain my condition any time I don a bathing suit (which, thankfully, hasn’t happened in many months) or decide to get frisky with a fella (which, thankfully, has happened often in recent months), can really put a damper on the mood—aquatic or otherwise.

My oh-so-smart and naturopathic-doctor-y sister suggested a while back that both my symptoms may be caused by food allergies, specifically an intolerance to gluten. Curious to discover if perhaps my sister’s inclinations were correct, I stopped eating gluten entirely for two full weeks in September. And I began to feel better. The itching disappeared almost entirely and I had more energy than I’d had in months. But I was hesitant to conclude definitively that gluten was the culprit.

Avoiding gluten required me to carefully control every aspect of my diet and, almost by accident, I ate nothing but good-for-me items for most of that two-week period. A girl’s
bound to feel good in that situation regardless of food allergies, right? Not to mention, the rash never fully went away and, in fact, flared up a few times for no reason during my gluten-free trial period. So, the combination of my seemingly inconclusive results and my desire to once again indulge in my previously daily dose of deliciously glutenized granola led me to abandon my sister’s food allergy hypothesis altogether.

Now I’m back to where I started, it seems, suffering from uncontrollable and annoyingly persistent itching, tracking the comings and goings of an inexplicable rash, and feeling mostly crazy on account of my mysterious physical ailments. The truly crazy part, though, is that I have yet to visit even one doctor for a professional diagnosis of my condition. That right there is insanity, and I can’t quite comprehend why I’m so resistant to the idea of seeing someone who might know how to help. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s laziness (after all, going to the doctor’s office can be sickening and exhausting in itself), but I assume that at some point in the near future I’ll have to get over myself long enough to take the plunge and (potentially) be cured.

Plus, all this incessant scratching is starting to make me look like a drug addict. Not really what I’m going for here.


*I know what you’re thinking and, no, this is not a sexual metaphor. I’m talking about good, old-fashioned, mosquito-bite variety itching.