Breaking The Itch/Scratch Cycle: One Young Woman’s Story
Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi Schöneberger Ufer 61 10785 Berlin +49–(0)30–26 39 76 229 info@bortolozzi.com
Until recently, I‘d never heard the word “excoriation,” but now I know it was my primary symptom: “scratching so severe as to tear the flesh.” That’s what I did every night, clawing until blood flowed.
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Perhaps my parents thought the problems would go away if they pretended they weren‘t there. Maybe they were ashamed to admit their daughter might have such problems.
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Kids with severe eczema have an early self-awareness that comes from confronting themselves in the dark every night. The nightmare is your own body; the monster is you.
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At age eight I was fascinated by Houdini because he had been able to escape any physical confinement, handcuffs, straitjackets, chains. I myself was put into straitjackets, handcuffs, chains, and gloves to keep me from ripping my skin to shreds every night. I would spend my
nights figuring ways out of confinement; I’d wriggle my skinned and bleeding wrists out of the cuffs and tear at my flesh with a sense of triumph.
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Eventually, I learned to stop myself from scratching by concentration: I tucked my hands under my butt and pretended they were paralyzed. But whether I struggled to free myself to scratch or to stop myself from scratching, I would only strive for a harsh physical control over my body.
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The doctors promising miracle cures, my parents promising miracles from God.
Looking back, I can see the sexual side of my eczema. I was able to touch and play with my body more openly than most children; strangers were always peering at and touching my naked body. I needed to have oils and lotions rubbed all over me, a task I particularly enjoyed
when performed by my father. He gave me a good workout with his big, muscular hands.
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My situation was painful, but it was safe and familiar, keeping me dependent and afraid of risks. I always had an excuse to avoid an unwanted task?I was the exception to every rule.
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My strongest memories are of crying myself to sleep every night. My mother would come in and rock me and reassure me that she loved me and that maybe tomorrow there would be a miracle and I would be all better. I prayed for that miracle and waited for that miracle for a long time. Then I just stopped believing in God.
Extracts taken from text By Dr. Shelley F. Diamond originally published: https://grossbart.com/sd/Skin_Deep9.htm
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