For the past few weeks, I have been suffering from guttate psoriasis. My poor dear friends and twitter followers will be very aware of this by now, as it has led to much wailing and complaining.
Guttate psoriasis appears a few weeks after a strep throat infection in most cases, as it did with me. It appeared pretty suddenly on my face and chest, then got worse and worse until I basically now resemble a small pox victim with Ebola in the midst of turning into a zombie, with some added bubonic plague thrown in.
The treatment? Well it tends to go away of its own accord after a few week or months. It's not helped by stress, so it's good to chill out. Usually treatment with topical steroids, emollients, and reassurance are all that's required.
A few weeks ago I would have read that sentence with ease, accepting that reassurance and time would be enough for a patient. Slap on a bit of cream, and away you go.
You learn in university and in various courses that dermatological conditions can have a huge impact on a patient's life. You learn about all the creams an emollients, and how we should advise they're used. You know in the back of your mind that its probably horrible for the sufferer but you don't really give it a second thought. I know I've even been felt vague consternation at having to dispense and check huge, bulky prescriptions for various and many unguents, with my main thought being "how am I going to fit this damn prescription on that shelf?!"
Well, what a lesson in empathy these past few weeks have been. Nothing could have prepared me for the impact a rash would have on my life. Aside from the panic about what it was, the constant feeling that everyone was looking at me and feeling disgusted is utterly wearing. And of course you know deep down that they're not looking at you, but it makes no difference at all. I know I need to be calm about the whole situation because stress makes it worse, and that makes me even more stressed because I'm not destressed enough. I feel like all I want to do is hide in a darkened room, so I don't have to inflict my grotesque features on anyone else.
And my goodness, the treatment. I get in the bath, which is already suffused with an oily emollient bath additive. I then apply some gunk, and wash it off with the oily water. I then get out the bath (which is made more interesting due to the added element of slippery danger) and proceed to apply more oily gunk, in various combinations of layers, then have to wait for it to dry sufficiently to be able to put on my most high-necked, low hemmed, least transparent clothing I can find. I haven't felt clean for weeks. You know on holiday, that awful sticky feeling you get from the sun lotion? That, all the time. In February.
All I've been able to think about is my rash. I'm struggling with conversations because my head is consumed only by thoughts of what bits of skin are visible and to whom. It's crossed my mind that converting to Islam might be an idea because then I could feasibly wear a burkha. Honestly, I have thought this. I've been turned into a hysterical drama queen all because of some spots.
In short, I have a whole newfound empathy for anyone who suffers from a skin condition. I can just about imagine the sort of impacts a longer term condition might have on your life. I can see how desperation can creep in, and how you could be tempted to try anything.
It's no co-incidence that so many quacks target people with skin conditions, nor that so many preparations are so expensive.
P.S. I'd very much like to thank everyone who has been supportive. You're all total darlings.