PSORIASIS - How I invented the second skin and killed the mummy.
Because the content is too long (it’s a short story), I only posted an excerpt here. If you decide to read the whole story, simply click “Continue Reading” at the end of the excerpt to pick up from where you left off.
Foreword
Why would I write about psoriasis?
Because I have it. Because I think that if I share my experience, it might help or inspire someone. If even one person benefits from it, then it was worth writing about.
But first, let’s clarify a few things – and issue a few warnings:
I will NOT provide you with a solution, or technical information. This story won't cure your skin. In any case, it isn't about the cure. Instead, I will tell you how I've dealt with this sh*t (oh yeah, another warning: sometimes I'll be using strong language, because this story depicts real events—if you are not comfortable with that, do not proceed beyond this point) and how I found my way.
Through this story, I hope to bring a bit of confidence, support, and a smile to those who, like me, have suffered from this crap.
This story is about how I made it, how I survived; how I reached the edge but, in the end, managed not to give up.
This story is what I desperately needed when I was a kid, a teenager, and even as I grew older.
This story would have helped me greatly when I felt so very low and when my mental health was ruined to the point where I thought about taking my own life.
But there was no one to write this story back then.
If you live with psoriasis, read this. It won’t harm you, and it will only take 30-40 minutes of your time. If you don’t like it, that’s cool too. Just delete the file and forget you ever saw it.
If you don't have psoriasis, read it anyway; you might then help someone who needs your support.
PSORIASIS
How I invented the second skin and killed the mummy.
Experiments
20th July, 1971.
- The first McDonald’s in Japan, opened by Den Fujita, officially began operations in Tokyo.
- London's Aldwych Theatre in the West End was designated a Grade II listed building.
- The USSR said it would support China's admission to the United Nations.
- The number 1 song in the UK was Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep by Middle Of The Road.
- And most importantly, I was born…
…with psoriasis. I've had it since day one. Everyone in the maternity ward thought I was crying because Claudia, the midwife and a great friend of our family, gave me a hearty slap on my arse. That wasn't the case, though. I cried because my tiny balls were so itchy from psoriasis, and yet no one even thought about scratching them. Psoriasis grabbed me by the balls well before Claudia slapped my bum.
Then it claimed my feet. Next, it was my arms, and the palms of my hands. When I turned seven and went to school, my normality was different from the other kids’. I was constantly wrapped in bandages, like a f***ing Egyptian mummy. My arms, my hands, my feet—me, Tutankhamun and Lenin all kept our flesh together thanks to bandages. Every morning and evening, my amazing mum would wash me, apply tons of embalming ointment—or should I say mummification balm—followed by baking paper, and then carefully wrap me in bandages to keep these layers and my disintegrating skin together.
As I walked to school, I could hear this feckin' baking paper crinkling and rustling under my socks and shirt. And my hands—my palms must've looked really funny. It would have been like shaking Tutankhamun's or Lenin's hand after their mummification.
So, imagine, you stretch out your hand to shake mine, and what emerges from my sleeve is actually a creepy, rustling scroll of bandages (because of the baking paper) instead of the anticipated hand.
Then I had to deal with a whole barrage of questions like, "Hey buddy, what the f*** is wrong with you?" or "Are you an idiot?" or "Is this a stupid joke?"—this last usually followed by a punch, which I would typically return with a kick.
I would normally lose a fight. Because usually, there were more of them, and I was on my own. The skin on my palms and feet would be cracked deep inside the flesh, bleeding and causing unbelievable pain. Every move I made felt like walking on burning glass mixed with nails, while cutting my hands with thin rusty blades. So, I couldn’t fight properly and couldn't evade the fight either, because that would involve running. My running abilities were somewhere between a lazy slug and a sleepy tortoise. When I tried to run away from a fight once, I made everyone laugh. Feck. Such humiliation. I’d have preferred to get the sh*t beaten out of me instead. It was such a disgrace, it hurt my young pride so much… But my hands and feet were tied—yeah, you guessed it—with bandages. Psoriasis was trying to kill its host. So stupid of it.
My poor parents. I mean it. It wasn't until I grew up that I actually understood what they had had to deal with. They suffered more than I did. I realised this when I had my own child. They were doing everything they could, and even more. Now, when I chat with my mum, we often go back to those times and have a good laugh. But back then, it wasn't funny.
No, it really wasn't. Especially when all kinds of shamans, healers, sorcerers, sorceresses, witch doctors, and qualified morons performed their pathetic rituals. Some would jump around me shouting and shaking their hands. Some would shake me and put nasty sh*t-smelling stuff on me. Some would tell me to lie down and then start drawing crosses, dots, and various weird symbols on my forehead. I don't know what that stuff was, but I couldn't remove it for days! I was a laughing stock at school. When I looked in the mirror, I laughed at myself too. Through tears, but I laughed.
Some would look at me in silence for long, long minutes. One woman decided to spit in my eye in the end. I spat back at her. Jeez, she went berserk! You should've seen her! Her wrinkled face distorted as if it was under the liquify filter in Photoshop. Freddy Krueger would have had a heart attack if he had seen her at that moment. She went straight to hit me on the cheek. I was faster though… My mum had to intervene and protect her from me, as I was trying to wrap my bandages around her neck. The woman left, promising that I would never be cured. Feck… Nothing new there—psoriasis is incurable.
My poor mum. She felt so helpless back then. I love her so much. She is the best.
A few more professional morons and witches visited our small apartment before my poor parents realised that they should keep them away from me. It was for the safety of those morons, after all.
Doctors couldn't help me either. There were never-ending visits to hospitals, different ointments, more bandages, more mummy oils, more bandages, more UV… more God-knows-what. Nothing and no one helped me. So, I decided to take matters into my own, bandaged hands.
Kids of my time, you see, were different. There was us, and there were the thugs—and our paths would cross very often. We used to shake hands with each other, kiss snails and frogs, eat ants, lick mud, and swallow earthworms. We threw stones at each other and sometimes missed, breaking a few windows… Well, much more than just a few. We built benches, walls and birdhouses, and hunted rats. We would go up the hill near our neighbourhood to catch snakes, then bring them back and put them in our mums’ flowerpots and thugs' pockets.
We played outside all day long. By the end of the day, our knees were a bloody mess. We sometimes cried, but we wouldn’t go home. Instead, we used our saliva as an adhesive to patch up our knees with plantain leaves. We made chewing gum from tree resin and vine leaves. We respected girls, women and our mums. We held doors open for them and carried heavy shopping bags for elderly ladies.
We were real. We were like shampoo, three in one: Spartans, knights, and viruses. Today’s pathetic and spineless snowflakes wouldn’t survive a minute in the environment where we thrived.
As a kid of those times, I would have done anything to scrape psoriasis off me. Anything.
Because I never lacked creativity, I started experimenting with different approaches. The first was—you will never guess! I challenge you! Try for a minute, before reading on… C'mon… Give up? Ok. I first tried gunpowder. Don't even ask me where I got gunpowder from. Man! That was something! I never excelled at chemistry until my sister finally decided to beat it into me. But this was long before she conducted her tortures on me.
I removed the bandages from my left palm, put some gunpowder on the psoriasis, and had a match ready… I think you get the picture. Yeah. The smell was awful. I was lucky to close my eyes in time… My mum never knew it was gunpowder. I told her I just burned it. When she asked how, I said something like "on the gas burner" or "the iron". She was so terrified at the look of my hand that she didn't pry further.
After my hand healed, I burned the psoriasis with the red-hot bottom of a tin can. Didn't help either. Yeah, you guessed it—my poor mum…
I conducted more experiments on my left hand. I am right-handed, you see. I figured if sh*t happened and I lost a hand, it should be the left one. That probably also answers a stupid question: which hand would you prefer to lose?
Yeah… my poor parents had to deal with the outcomes of my failed experiments. More doctors, more medication… and my amazing mum running after me with a kitchen towel in her hand.
