Girl Vs. Eczema.

I will preface this post by telling you that I was born itchy, and I'll die itchy. It's my genetic curse, and for the most part, I've gotten used to it. But every now and again, my eczema kicks my ass and tells me what's what. I'm not in charge of my body. I'm a slave to lotions, potions, and creams, and my epidermis is a horrid, peely, irritated and painful prison.
It's been a wretched couple of months. I can't sleep, I tiptoe around food, and the worst of it, the part that boot stomps me right in the lady parts, is that I can't be a good mother and wifey-type person. It hurts to play with my busy bee boychild, and it hurts to get down to business with the one I love. I don't have the energy to cook, clean, bake, screw.. all of the things I enjoy doing, and have come to know as my defining qualities.
I have been waiting to see a dermatologist for about 3 months, and Tuesday is the day. My GP has put me through a barrage of blood tests, narrowing down what the problem ISN'T, and making the specialist's job a whole lot easier, and hopefully, faster. I'm fully prepared to turn on the waterworks and throw myself at the mercy of western medicine --acupuncture is relaxing, but doesn't help-- to help me figure out what the problem is. If the dermadoctor gives me even the slightest bit of a runaround, I will turn into a one woman destruction machine, kicking faces, stomping on hands, demanding admittance into the burn victim unit to heal the road rash that keeps my guts from falling out...

And if I hear ONE MORE PERSON say 'Have you tried and oatmeal bath?' .... my inner barbarian is going to go berserker... and heads will roll.

The Mighty Pen

When I was younger.. well, before I had a child... I would write. Constantly. There was never a time when I didn't have a pen in my hand, behind my ear, stuck in my hair, mashed between my teeth as I tried to sort out the world according to me, the only way I knew how. I was that girl at the cafe, bent over a journal, or a slip of paper, a receipt if need be. I would write at the bar while the bartender poured me shooters of whiskey.. I would write when was too drunk to stand and too messed up to see. (always the best entries, if one could only read them the next day..)

The word on the street is that the pen is mightier than the sword. I couldn't agree more. To me, my pen was my armour, my shield, a force that defined me and made me who I was. I felt validated, I had a purpose, if only to document my thoughts on pages that would never be read by anyone but me.

I have since had a child, and stopped taking the time to write. Life is a busy juggling act of work, home, love, and raising a boy. I have a different definition of myself, and though parenthood has made me fiercer, stronger, and generally a better person, I miss the comfort of recording thoughts.

This is my attempt at reconnecting.

Since life has changed quite drastically over the last few years, I foresee a whole new kind of thought pattern.