I would like to dedicate this story to:
My amazing mum and incredible (late) dad. They saved my tiny arse so many times. I love you.
My amazing mum and me.
My incredible (late) dad and me.
Everyone who struggles with psoriasis, especially kids. Don't ever lose your grip! You are much stronger than you think.
Everyone who supports and helps those who struggle with psoriasis. You are very much needed.
Thank you, good people.
I want to thank Justi Carey, the editor, for her invaluable assistance in editing my story. Without her help, it wouldn’t have seen the light of day.
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.
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.
The Bitch
All my experiments failed. Good news—I kept the hand. Bad news—I kept psoriasis.
But then something happened. Something that, although it didn't cure the psoriasis, showed me the way. Not then, but years later, when I was in my late thirties, it would kind of save my life.
My dad took me to another doctor. Yeah… another one. But you know what? This man didn't look like any other doctor I'd met before. He was different. He was a wise man. Back then I felt he was wise; years later I knew he was.
It was summer. We were standing outside the hospital, on the street. My dad was holding my hand while speaking with the doctor. I looked up at him. Dressed in a white lab coat, his head was crowned with a big white heap of hair that looked like it had been electrified. He was taller than my dad. And older. Much older. The doctor looked like a mad professor. A crumpled short cigarette protruded from under his thick silver moustache, which looked like a waterfall covering his upper lip. He squinted, looked at me, smiled, and patted my then-hairy head. This old man was different from the others. His eyes were filled with kindness.
I don't remember the whole conversation, but I do remember him saying:
"Psoriasis is a bitch. The more you fight it, the more it fights back. He (the doctor meant me) has to learn to live with it." (He actually didn’t say ‘bitch’. He didn’t curse. But this is the closest translation of what he actually meant.)
He looked at me again, smiled, patted my head once more, and added: "Drink lots of carrot juice." (This is when I started to hate carrots, because my mum forced them on me daily for months to come.)
My dad wasn't happy with what the doctor said. I saw it in his eyes. But he accepted it. He was a wise man too. And years later, I told him that that doctor was the only one who had actually helped me. But unfortunately, my dad couldn't remember either his name or the hospital we were at that summer day, so I couldn't even write to thank him.
But the worst was yet to come.
I noticed over the years that my personal 'bitch' had its patterns. Two to three years of flourishing, followed by two, or rarely three years of remission. After each remission, this 'bitch' would come back stronger, more aggressive, and greedier than before. My life was limited… Wrong—I limited my life to the remissions only. That was a great mistake… But we learn from our mistakes, don’t we?
Time passed by. Remission was gone before I even had a chance to enjoy it. The 'bitch' was back. Just like that. A tiny silvery-rose spot popped up on my foot. Feck… After a month, this tiny dot had morphed into a Sahara desert, covering its usual lovely places on my thin body. Plus, for the first time, it claimed my fingers.
Now, when shaking hands, as we did all the time in those days, I had to face a completely new question: "Wow! Is this sh*t contagious?" Some just walked away. Some waited for me to say, "No, it's not contagious," and then walked away. Almost no one would believe me. I kinda don't blame these people. Seriously. Put yourself in their shoes. They live in a different universe. They carry their own crosses. And then they meet a living, walking, and talking mummy that looks like me. Feck… Imagine you’re going to the shops and see Lenin slowly crawling the streets, with bandages hanging off his tattered body. Would you shake his hand? No way! So, these people got puzzled when they saw me. And they got afraid too. Remember, there was no education about this stuff back then.
I won’t even mention the compulsory medical examinations at school. The moment at which I would be told to drop my pants, and the way the so-called doctors would look at my tiny curled bean covered in psoriasis, was priceless. Judging by their faces I was almost sure they saw a three-headed snake with at least seven penises and two buckets of balls… And the snake could talk, sing, dance, and tell stories—all at the same time. One ‘doctor’ used a pen, or was it a pencil, to slightly lift my tiny instrument. She then looked at that spot for a brief moment and asked, "What is this?" Yeah—she shouldn’t have asked. Because I was so angry—humiliated, and really furious—I almost shouted, "Are you blind?! It’s my dick!" Yeah, I know, I know. I’ve exaggerated more than just a bit. It wasn't anywhere near that big. At most, it resembled a shrivelled bean scorched by the sun. I guess that's why they called my mum to school.
The Man In The Arena
Actually, once, my psoriasis saved a girl… and me! That was an encounter any boy would dream of!
Imagine, she is in trouble, surrounded by thugs. You know, like in movies from the '70s and '80s. Then you show up. You're so confident, walking slowly, like Van Damme or Chuck Norris. Or… who else walked slowly with confidence? Ah, of course! My favourite—Clint Eastwood! Anyway. You get the picture. So, you walk slowly up to the bad boys. Not raising your eyes, you say something like, "Please, don't make me kill all of you at once. Have mercy on yourselves. Leave this innocent soul alone and go home to your mums."
Of course, they would laugh; someone might even push you or spit on your shoes. But you, still not raising your eyes, repeat that line once again. Then they get rough… But you are Van Norris Eastwood, remember? The local hospital will have their hands full trying to put back together the human Legos you left behind, while taking the girl to safety.
If you're a boy, haven't you dreamed about this? If not, you are not my friend… Cos I did. You know the saying: be careful what you wish for? Oh yeah. Be careful. Because I got what I wished for.
That girl was against the wall. Two guys were nagging her, pushing her, pulling her ponytail, and trying to snatch her bag from her hands.
And here I come. Yeah… A living mummy. They didn't give me a chance to tell them to go home to their mothers. I didn't even notice that right or left hook. I got myself in really deep sh*t. On a bright sunny day, I was kicked while lying on a dusty footpath. The girl, covering her face, cried. Somehow, I managed to get up. It was almost symbolic. I was like that man in the arena Roosevelt talked about, "whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood."
At that moment, I learned that walking with confidence alone wasn't enough. Those lads were laughing their heads off. They left the girl alone and focused on me. I don't know what I was thinking when I went ahead to save that would-be princess of mine. My heart made the decision before my brain kicked in. But I didn't regret the decision. So, I had to come up with something that would save not only her, but me as well. I am a creative, after all. Physically, as I’d already figured out, I was nowhere near Clint. But when those two tough lads in old shorts started their final approach, I had a moment of enlightenment. How could I forget my secret weapon?!
I quickly stretched my hands out, spreading my fingers so my psoriasis would flash like a disco ball at a '70s dance party, made sure those two gentlemen saw it and shouted: "If I f***in' touch you with this, you will f***in' die tomorrow!!!"
I must’ve been really persuasive—their faces now wore masks of terror. Reflecting back on the event, I think I should've stretched out only one hand, because even my would-be princess believed me. She stopped crying and looked at me, her eyes now as big as the moon. I think she was even more terrified than her oppressors. Then those two gentlemen, along with my would-be princess, ran away from me like I was walking death itself, which I guess I was… for them anyway. I never understood, though, why none of them asked a simple question—how come they would die tomorrow, but I had lived with it for 13 years? I guess my princess wasn't that bright after all.
So, even psoriasis can have a positive effect once in a lifetime. Once…
60 Metre Run
Then I fell in love. Again. She never knew that I was watching her strolling down the street from my second-floor window. She never knew how my heart would race each time I saw her. I learned her weekly patterns and would be sitting by the window, waiting for her to go by. Those few seconds were so precious to me. Once I decided to run after her. Run tortoise, run… Heck, by the time I made it to the front door, the day had turned into late evening. I was also reminded that I was a living mummy. My feet started bleeding; pain pierced them with the power of a million needles. So, I went back to the window, but she was long gone. I accidentally bumped into her a few times on the street, near the school. Yeah, my heart then turned into a Ferrari engine… but its body lacked wheels.
Another year or so passed before a long-awaited remission came, lasting, as far as I recall, quite a few years—perhaps three. I quickly forgot about the ‘bitch’. Believe it or not, during that remission, I won the junior athletics competition in the 60m run, came second in the 100m, and almost died in the 400m. Yeah, the 400m was a mistake. But heck, with no ‘bitch’ on my feet, I could run 400m at least 400 times!
I got into sea kayaking. Often a rough sea. Yes, I know Rough Sea Kills. Wrong—Sea Kills. Any type of sea can kill. But still, I had a fabulous time and lots of adventures! I even almost drowned once, but my friend saved my life.
In competitions, I would always finish first or, rarely, second… counting from the end, of course. But I didn’t care. I was so happy!
I got into university to study architecture. I also got into yachting, and almost got my competent crew certificate at the age of 17… almost. That’s when the ethnic cleansing started, but that’s another story. I enjoyed every single— I repeat—EVERY single step I took, every single object I could hold with my bare hands. I was like an alien touching earthly objects for the first time in my life! I savoured every single second of living outside my sarcophagus—no baking paper, no mummies’ oils, no f***in' bandages! Just me, my life, and freedom… It was the right time to fall in love. Which I did.
But the ethnic cleansing ruined all my plans, just like psoriasis. Almost everyone I knew, that we knew, fled the country. Including the girl I loved. I went to the train station to see her off. I wrote a long letter to her, and asked her to read it when she landed in New York. Yeah, she didn’t wait until New York—she read it a few hours later on the train.
With her gone, I felt empty. You know how it feels being empty. But, because I was still in remission, I could run like hell to let the anger, helplessness, and rage out. So, I did. Oh man, if only I had run like that in the 400m competition… My name would’ve been carved on every building in the city. It’s such a great feeling to lose your love when you’re in remission and have the ability to run. I highly recommend it.
Desperados. Two-Front War
Then it was my turn to emigrate. The ‘bitch’ emigrated with me and decided to come out for sightseeing. End of remission. I'm back to the sarcophagus, baking paper, and bandages. But now, it was like in computer games, when after finishing a level you are presented with another, more difficult one. Except this time, it’s real life and you only have one life, unlike in Mario or Desperados (by the way, I love Desperados 1).
So, my next level started in student accommodation, sharing a room with two other guys. Yeah, that’s called ‘the end of privacy’.
My everyday mummification process became an underground activity. For four more years, no one (except a few friends) even suspected I had the ‘bitch’ on me. But at what cost? I had to wear a smile with every step, accompanied by cracking skin and bleeding feet. But the years of experience in dealing with physical pain weren’t wasted after all. Unfortunately, at this stage my mental health began to show the first serious cracks, similar to those on my feet and hands. (More on this later…)
A few more years and another remission later my psoriasis came back again. And, as usual, it hit me hard, much harder than before the remission. I had this 'bitch' in all her usual spots, plus on my back, neck, butt, legs, knees, backs of my knees, and head. My head… That was really unfair! My head was supposed to be off-limits! But the 'bitch' patiently waited until I lost my hair, and then it paraded out. FFS! That was a nasty kick! Like in classic boxing, if your opponent kicks you right in the crotch. Not fair! And you know what—the universe didn't care. It didn't give a damn. So, I had to wear a hat in the summer.
I had an appointment with a dermatologist. She looked briefly at my hands and feet, then quickly wrote something on a prescription form. With the words, "This will make psoriasis go away," she smiled and handed me the prescription. I was puzzled. How could a tiny piece of paper with a few scribbled words make my 'bitch' disappear after all these years? But the idea seemed so sweet, I went straight to the pharmacy and exchanged the paper, along with some cash, for a small tube filled with magic ointment.
I applied the substance to my hands first, just to see what would happen. A few days later, my skin was clear! I sat on the toilet and cried. The magic ointment then travelled all over my affected skin. After a month, the tube was empty. A few days later, my psoriasis began making its glorious comeback. I went to the same dermatologist again. She looked at my skin and gave me another prescription.
After the third tube, the magic stopped working on me. It even seemed like I had really made the 'bitch' angry. It came back ten times stronger than before. This is what happens when you use steroids. Lesson learned. My psoriasis became totally and utterly uncontrollable and really angry.
I couldn't walk normally anymore. I, who loved running and had won the junior athletics in the 60m, couldn't walk. I could only walk around my apartment at the speed of a one-legged tortoise. And going out was a real challenge. I worked over an hour's drive from where I lived. And no, there were no social services back then. You were on your own, bro. Find a way or die.
I found a way. At that time, I was really close to taking my own life. But I knew I shouldn't. Yet, at the same time, I wanted to. Now I had to fight on two fronts—physical and mental. Looking back, I don't know which was harder. Both were f***ed. This was when I tricked my brain to stay alive. I don’t remember how or exactly when, but I learned to live in my dreams. I tricked my brain into believing that my real life was actually a dream, and my dreams were my real life. It worked for a year or two, but my whole life turned upside down. I was having the same dreams over and over again. My new ‘real life’ in the dream-world was so f***ed up, weird and unreal. Having the same dreams all the time was really wearying. I got confused, feeling pinned to the wall with no way out. I lived in a looped universe, so I started killing myself in my dreams, which I had convinced myself were real. My brain got so tired, but I couldn’t get back to my real ‘real life’. And to be honest, I still didn’t want to. With each passing day, I was turning more and more into a mummy.
On The Edge. Three-Front War
At that time, I sort of knew that I had a ‘mild’ case of psoriasis.
What is a mild case and how much of the skin area is affected, you ask? Let's see. There are no consistent data on psoriasis severity, but one can assume that:
"Aproximately 50% of psoriasis patients have mild disease (< 3% body surface area involved)
78% of patients have mild or moderate disease (< 10% body surface area involved)
Only 2% of patients have more than 50% body surface area involved." - link to source
When the ability to walk stopped being a viable option for me and became a real challenge, I ended up in hospital. I was sitting in the corridor, waiting for yet another appointment with yet another super-professor. Then I saw a woman. She was in her late 40s, perhaps early 50s—it was hard to say. Dressed in a hospital coat, doubled over, she was slowly moving down the long, dark corridor. She actually seemed to float over the dark floor rather than walk on it. If my case was ‘mild’, then hers must have been hyper-severe. Man, she didn't have an inch of skin free of psoriasis that I could see. She looked at me. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes said it all. The envy in her gaze was so clear. Damn… She would have paid anything to be in my shoes. I wanted to disintegrate, to cease to exist at that very moment. I felt so ashamed. I had never, ever in my whole life felt that way. She finally took her eyes off me, but the shame her eyes brought me remained all over me. She looked away and continued floating, doubled over the dark hospital tiles.
That brief encounter taught me a valuable lesson. It even changed me to a degree. Suddenly, I realised that I had to walk. If she could do it, I could too. I left the hospital on my own two bleeding feet, skipping the appointment with the super-professor.
I was in my late twenties.
Another remission was followed by another emigration, and shortly after, another relapse. It was bad. Worse than before. But that wasn't anything new. I knew the drill and the patterns. I still remembered that poor woman in the hospital corridor. But in 2010, my mental state reached a tipping point. Even the memory of the woman didn't help. I looked in the mirror, and it seemed to refuse to reflect my image back, as it was too ugly. That's how I saw it.
Psoriasis had claimed my whole neck, cheeks, head, ears, eyelids, temples, and parts of my forehead. And the country was in a deep recession; the whole world was. I was 39, had lost my job, and I didn't sign up for the dole—too proud. I ended up in a small room in Castlebar.
I never feel sorry for myself—not me. Never. Quite the contrary. Never complain—not me. That's not the way my parents raised me. It’s not who I was and still am. I was a fighter. I still am. But back then, I simply lost my grip. Covered in psoriasis, almost immobile, I couldn't even drive my car. I had to fight on three fronts—physical, mental, and everyday life. And that omnipresent itchiness… Everywhere.
A friend told me that I needed help. I dismissed that statement. The word "help" had a strong negative connotation for me.
Fighting the three-front war, however, was more than I could take. So, I began my descent. I gave up on my mental health, as I saw no reason to carry on. I was extremely tired of the roller coaster of my life with psoriasis by my side. All I wanted was to wake up to a bright day (which was almost impossible in the west of Ireland), with clean skin, make my art, and finish a few books and stories I had started… and yes, have a girlfriend, and go with her somewhere far away for a day or a year.
Yeah… the three-front war killed me. I didn't ask for help. And in all fairness—who would I ask? Those were really bad times.
So, once again—you’re on your own, bro. Find a way or die. This time, I chose the latter.
I was figuring out what and how to tell my parents… no, I couldn’t tell them. Send a letter? Email? Maybe just leave a note on my desk. The police would contact them. But my parents don’t speak English. Sh*t. For sure, the police could find an interpreter. At that point, I was ready to go…
The Tough Guy
It was another rainy night in Castlebar. I was walking—well, slowly crawling through the night. No one could see my face in the dark and I didn't mind the rain. I liked it. Never had an umbrella. I'm a tough guy after all. That’s what I thought that night—tough guy. For the first time in my life, I called myself a tough guy. I know, it kinda contradicted my decision to give up on life. My shoes were full of water. I was soaked to the bone, and I was enjoying it. I had a long stretch of road in front of me. It suddenly reminded me of a track lane. F***. A track lane. I had missed it so much! How badly I had missed that 60m run! I'm an atheist to the bone, but it's on the tip of my tongue to say—only God knows.
I don't know how it happened, but something inside me erupted and I started to run. All I saw in front of me was the 60m track lane from my childhood. The rainy night suddenly morphed into a bright day. I was running. My brain tricked me—it made me see and hear things from the distant past. I ran and ran, and when I finally stopped at the end of the road, the night fell back in again. I was exhausted. I sat down in a pool of water. I didn't care. I was running my 60 metres! And my feet didn't hurt. I finally got it. The rainwater! The rainwater in my shoes had softened my skin! I stood up and ran again. Did you hear me?—I RAN again! I outsmarted that stubborn 'bitch'! I ran for a few hours that night, in the heavy rain. Got back home half dead—but half alive. I suddenly remembered that old doctor with kindness in his eyes: "Psoriasis is a bitch. The more you fight it, the more it fights back. You have to learn to live with it."
That was the answer. I had tried EVERYTHING. Every medication, ointment, remedy, steroid, sh*t, witch, witch's saliva, moron, doctor, gunpowder… Everything. Nothing worked. I saw no way out and then I gave up.
But psoriasis didn't give up. That's the attitude we should learn from it—never ever f***ing give-up! And this is what psoriasis has taught me. I'm dead serious now.
The next day I got sick. Flu. But I didn't care. I had a plan.
Fix The Leak
Do you know the definition of insanity? 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'
I had tried everything and kept trying the same thing. I was insane! But then I saw a new light in the old tunnel. I didn't try to learn to live with that 'bitch'. I am a fighter, so I decided to explore a completely new way, unknown to me.
I was really excited— I love challenges. However, there was a dilemma in my way: how would I start my new chapter in life?
I've always felt that psoriasis is not a skin disease. Fair enough—it's a skin condition, but not a disease. So why treat the skin if it's not a skin disease? Do you follow my logic?
Imagine you have a leaking pipe in a wall. The wall has a permanent damp patch on it. So, you break that piece of wall and replace it with new bricks. After a while the damp patch makes its way back in again. You replace the bricks again or repaint the wall. Again, and again and again. That's insanity. That's exactly what we do in Ireland. Here, we just paint the damp walls and pretend the problem is fixed. Insanity.
You need to fix the leak.
Psoriasis is not a skin disease; it’s a systemic immune condition. Simply treating the skin without addressing the underlying immune system dysfunction is like repeatedly painting over the damp patch without fixing the root cause of the dampness. Easy to say, I know. But I had tried everything, remember? Nothing helped. What did I have to lose? I was prepared to take my own life. So now, I could only gain.
I had always had this weird gut feeling that the problem was inside me. But no one would listen, doctors included. So, I showed them all, doctors included, my middle finger and began my own research. I spent a few weeks googling, reading, making notes and cursing, but progressing.
I knew a guy, a farmer, who had psoriasis. Every time he drank milk, he would trigger his 'bitch'. One glass of milk would result in a year-long psoriasis flare-up. Isn't that ironic? A farmer who can't drink milk.
I also knew a man whose psoriasis would be triggered by alcohol, almost instantly, and would stay for months.
I started to connect the dots. Every time I ate an orange or, even worse, a grapefruit, I would get that awful spiky itchiness in some spots on my body, including those affected by psoriasis.
So, could it be a food-related issue? Yes, it might be. I learned that psoriasis is an autoimmune condition, so food can be the trigger. Here was the big question mark: which foods would trigger my psoriasis? It could be anything, processed food packed with chemicals, plus citrus fruits, plus milk, plus tomatoes, plus… Heck, too many pluses. Big sigh here… But I managed to isolate the main groups: red, green, yellow, dairy, sugar and medication.
Any medication or drug was a trigger. Sugar was a trigger—yes, anything that had sugar could be a trigger. Anything red in colour was a trigger. Anything dairy-based was a trigger too—so butter, cheese, milk, yogurt, etc. Yellow was safe except for citrus fruits. Green was safe except for kiwifruit and the like.
I shared this knowledge with my friend. She said, "Do a blood test, consult a doctor..." I cut her short the moment I heard the word 'doctor'. The word itself caused itchiness, so I put it on my No-No list as well. Next to citrus fruit. This time, I'll do it my way. No doctors. No drugs. No sh*t.
I made a list of things that could potentially trigger the 'bitch'. Gosh, this was a really long list. But I didn't care. I hadn't had sex in ages and wanted to run my 60m distance! Actually, in reverse order: 60m first, then sex. So I was really motivated. My mirror still refused to reflect me back. I was still cosplaying a mummy, changing bandages and baking paper. I was 39 years old, using the only method I knew. I also needed to do away with all this mummy-related stuff. And I did! But before I get to that point, let's first finish with the food, and one very important thing.
So, I looked at the list and decided that instead of trying one item after another, I would eliminate them all at once. I went downstairs, opened the fridge, and removed a big tub of ice cream. That’s how I started the new chapter in my life.
I also came to the conclusion that, in my case, I must've been accumulating all kinds of crap inside my body. It came in with my food, the air, water, and the environment in general. I was a trash can inside. I needed to purge all this crap out of my body.
I still had to remember—nothing is guaranteed, except death. It was an experiment. Another one. But unlike with the gunpowder, this time I backed it up with research.
Now, the very important thing: Health.
What makes a car a car? The wheels? The engine? The body? No. It's all those things put together, plus proper fuel.
I saw myself more or less that way too. I had to pull myself together—mentally and physically. I had to improve my health and boost my immune system. So, running and exercising. Psoriasis hates a healthy body. This 'bitch' hides inside our bodies and waits. Waits until we make a mistake, until we stop treating ourselves with love and respect.
Invention Of The Second Skin
So, fighting—sorry, learning to live with—psoriasis was a complex approach. It wasn't just about food and my physical and mental condition. But how could I start being physically active, running, and using my hands if they were covered in psoriasis like the Alps in snow?
I had to invent a second skin.
Rainwater had been the trigger that set me thinking about this. How could I keep my skin soft all the time? I'll skip the brainstorming process and all the different materials I tried before I found what I was looking for. But I am creative! I experimented with countless things; trial and error was my friend. The answer was really simple when I finally found it; it had been around all the time. I even used it to keep my bandages together. What an irony!
Medical Tape.
So, ladies and gentlemen, simple medical tape became my second skin. It became my pass to being physically active.
I experimented further with different brands and types. Some were too weak and wouldn't hold. Some were too strong and would remove the skin when taking them off. Ouch. After a month, my picks were narrowed down to two brands. Then, naturally, I stuck with one.
I officially ceased to be a mummy—I killed it with the invention of my second skin.
I put the plaster tapes on my feet and palms. I learned to live with that 'bitch'. Yes, my face and head still weren't the most attractive places to visit, or look at, or touch, but heck—I could run again! No more bleeding, a million needles in my feet, or constantly cracking hands—all of that was in the past!
A month or so later, I tried to climb Croagh Patrick. Ten minutes after crossing the car park gate, I was ready-made food for vultures—or seagulls. I thought I would cough my lungs up, together with my stomach and knees. Lesson learned. Even though I had my new skin, I still lacked the strength needed for such a challenge. I got really angry.
Six months later—still covered in psoriasis—I climbed Croagh Patrick in less than an hour. Me, who had needed 30 minutes to negotiate the stairs in the house! I was learning fast to live with that ‘bitch’.
Then I climbed Mweelrea, the highest mountain in Connacht, and all the peaks on the way to it, still covered in psoriasis.
I bought myself a kayak. Dislocated my right shoulder, put it back in, and climbed Croagh Patrick for the second time. Still in under an hour. Yes, I was practically running uphill! Isn't that sexy?
Oh, running. It became my second nature. Rain, sun, wind, storm—I couldn’t care less. My mum used to say, "There's no bad weather, just improper clothes."
A few more months later I was rewarded with a well-deserved remission. It came almost a year sooner than usual. I hear you asking—how long did it last? Yeah… That's the best part.
But you have to sit down. Pour yourself a glass of good Irish whiskey. Relax. Take a deep breath. Ready? No? Have a sip of whiskey then. Now…
Twelve years.
Yes, my friend! T-W-E-L-V-E Y-E-A-R-S!
And I can say it more than twelve times!
Tightening the screws
20th January 2022, around 9:30am
I was in my car heading to Claremorris when my daughter rang. I pulled over to the hard shoulder and called her back. This was the moment when I noticed a faint, hard spot on my left palm. Shaped like a triangle, it was 2.5 cm in length and 1.2 cm across. (Yes, I know exactly how big it was, because I put tracing paper over it and traced the shape with a blue pen later. It’s still pinned to my corkboard.) Judging by its size, it must've been growing there for at least two to three weeks.
I finished talking to my daughter, put the phone away, and cursed. In Russian. This is the best language for cursing. Highly recommended. You can even make up curses on the fly, and everyone will still understand them. So, I cursed. And then I… laughed.
The 'bitch' was back. But it was weak. I knew it. I felt it. And of course it had to come back. This is what it does by definition. That's how it's programmed and designed. It always comes back. However, this was the first time it didn't so much come back, as crawl back.
I hadn't eaten any crappy food for 12 years. I’d lost some pounds. Been physically active. Did what I could to stay away from stress (not enough, though). Hadn't taken a single pill, no drugs at all. The only exception was when I injured my lower back, couldn't move, and got a Difene injection. Despite all my clean and healthy living, I knew my body had become a trash can again, although on a much much much smaller scale this time.
Psoriasis also means a severe vitamin D deficiency. Unfortunately, no amount of sunlight or readily available vitamin D supplements were going to help. I had to skip this one. I wouldn't go to a doctor to get medical-grade vitamin D prescribed either. They wouldn't give it to me anyway.
So, I needed to tighten all the screws again. This time it was really easy peasy. No problem. For the first year (2022), I didn't really do anything different. By then, I had kind of figured out what wouldn't cause psoriasis. It turned out I could actually eat anything. But after a few years of sticking to the new life diet, I didn't even want to eat ‘anything’. I still use butter, eggs, bread (only with eggs), and some meat. I also figured out that, in my case, it's not so much the food itself, as the contaminants in the food—preservatives, all sorts of pesticides, etc.
In 2022, the 'bitch' claimed around 40-50% of my left palm, 20-30% of my right palm, and two 20mm diameter spots—one on each of my wrists—plus some stray spots here and there… yeah, there too. That's it. No, my feet were clean. 100% clean! I personally considered that a great success. But remember—I had invented a second skin! So my everyday life didn't suffer at all.
I noticed that at the beginning of October, it started to go away, really quickly. But in January, it had stopped receding. By May 2023, it had started to grow again. So something was still wrong.
I had some extra kilograms that I couldn't shake off for a few years. Nothing special, but it did get in the way.
I decided to fast.
My eating habits were a disaster, despite the new life diet. I ate 3, sometimes 4 times a day, plus snacking. Then I took note of how much snacking I was actually doing. Not good; actually, really bad. Like disaster! Snacking alone accounted for almost 1.5 meals a day. So no wonder the 'bitch' came back. I was surprised it actually waited for 12 years. If it was me, I’d have been back in 4-5 years.
Starting in March 2023, I introduced fasting into my everyday life. I began with a maximum of three meals a day and a minimum fasting window of 14-16 hours. And, of course, NO snacking at all. In the first week of May, I reduced my daily number of meals to two. I increased my fasting window to a minimum of 19 hours, with an eating window from 1 pm to 5:30-6pm. No food after 6pm and before 1pm the next day. In the first two weeks, I lost 3-4 kg.
A month later, I had one meal a day for three consecutive days. Soon enough, I had lost another 3 kg. By December 2023, once or twice a month, I would eat once every two days. In January 2024, I had one meal in 74 hours.
What can I say? I feel great. Tightening the screws didn’t kill me. Quite the opposite. I also didn’t die of hunger, as so many people predicted. I am not losing any more weight.
The ‘bitch’ is dying a slow and terrible death. From October 2023 to February 2024, both my palms cleared 100%. Also, here and there, especially there, cleared up. I still have two spots on my wrists, with varying intensity. But the tendency is, it’s getting weaker. It's dying!
You know the saying: If you fail to prepare, prepare to fail. I was well prepared. This was the first time in my whole life when I wasn't afraid of a psoriasis relapse. What's more, I actually embraced the 'bitch' and invited it into my new 'psoriasis-unfriendly' environment with open arms.
I turned my body into a living hell for psoriasis. I turned it into a psoriasis-killing machine! Now it was the 'bitch's' turn to impatiently wait for remission from me! My body and I became a deadly virus for psoriasis. The atmosphere of Venus isn't anywhere close to being as hostile to humans as my body is to psoriasis.
I welcomed psoriasis into the deadly trap I had meticulously been building for 12 years. There, I tortured it in every way, imaginable and unimaginable. There, I beat the sh*t out of it every single day. I grabbed the 'bitch' by the balls, like it did to me on 20th July 1971. I grabbed and squeezed them with all my might, looking straight into its flaky eyes.
I enjoyed seeing it suffer.
I enjoyed taking revenge for every minute it stole from that little boy's life, turning him into a mummy.
I won.