When The Body Speaks

It was my eighth birthday and I was waiting for the party to start. My parents allowed us to have birthday parties every other year, and this was my year. I was thrilled to invite my school friends to the party at our house, and my mom created games for us to play. I was excited to show everyone my bedroom, hoping that they would like it and by extension, me.

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The party was meant to be silly and fun. Yet as a sensitive kid, I worried if everyone was having a good time. I paid attention to every unspoken glance, half smile, and non-verbal, looking for evidence. When the photos of the party arrived weeks later, I analyzed them also, searching for clues if the girls had had fun. Was I in the in-group? By the time the cake was cut, I was a nervous wreck.

Keeping with family tradition, my mom made my requested dessert. When I was five, I had a Barbie cake, at six, it was a Care Bear cake, a chocolate cake shaped like a cat when I was seven. My mother was very talented and her homemade cakes looked as if they were done by a professional baker. This year it was a strawberries with angel food cake.

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We were standing around the kitchen table while my mom lit the candles on the cake. I loved and hated being the focus of everyone’s attention. I wanted to be liked but I didn’t want all the eyes on me at the same time.

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I loved every bite of that cake, the sweetness of the berries on my tongue. Having a birthday in April when you live in California ensures it’s strawberry season in time for your special day.

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What I remember next was breaking out in hives all over my cheek. Clearly an allergic reaction and what went from being a fun treat to a messy rash on my face quickly became a memorable birthday but for the wrong reasons.

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This was not the first or last rash. I had terrible eczema on my arms when I was young. My mom treated it with drugstore cortisone cream and calamine, both of which did nothing but burn my tender inflamed skin. The nights were worse. I would scratch in my sleep, tearing my skin open. My mother’s solution was forcing me to wear socks on my hands to prevent scratching, but this backfired because the nubby texture of the socks made an excellent vehicle to satisfy the itch. My sores only deepened. A visit to the allergist would have been the simplest answer, but our family was uninsured and doctor appointments were reserved for more “severe” cases.

I lived with allergies with minimal relief - hives would pop up all over my body, eczema on the insides of both arms, dermatitis outbreaks, strange skin growths. All the skin rashes were mediated by my emotional world. Happy moments even brought eruptions, a sign of emotional turmoil under the surface. No one seemed to notice or care too much. My allergies were minimized as if nothing was wrong. I assumed that my experience was normal, unaware that other kids weren’t suffering like me. Their skin wasn’t reacting all over the place. They weren’t plagued with sinus infections, ear aches, and sore throats like me. They didn’t have nosebleeds that woke them from sleep.

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As an adult, my dermatologist told me that treating a child’s allergies gives them better outcomes in adulthood. Instead my allergies and sensitivities have only multiplied. A reminder of what could have been.

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I learned about the field of psychodermatology several years ago, after my last severe case of dermatitis - that our skin can manifest symptoms based on our emotions and internal experiences. Stress in my day can prompt skin manifestations. Trips to visit my family can cause widespread dermatitis.

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My body was speaking - shouting actually - for someone to pay attention. My parents were practically children themselves and emotionally immature. I was born into the role of being their therapist, being my mother’s best friend, and often their salvation. I was holding too much for a child and the container overflowed early on. They did not understand the consequences of their actions on my little body. They didn’t attend to my sensitivity, but instead labeled it, judging me and expecting that I could change.

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I spent most of my earliest years trying to stuff away my sensitivity. Pretend it didn’t exist. Deny it. Shove my emotions into a corner. I suffered silently and coped by scribbling in diaries, filling the pages with emotional angst. Since I didn’t have the language to describe my internal world, I pretended that everything was fine, as best as I could. But my body betrayed me at every opportunity.

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My body spoke the language that I did not have the words for. It was full of skin problems. What was meant to protect me, create a barrier between me and the world, became a source of distress. My childhood experiences set me up for autoimmune illness later in life.

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Once I left home for college, I could take a different approach to my health and start getting the care I needed. I began therapy and learned how to name my sensitivity. What I thought was a flaw, a defect, I learned was part of my nature and not changeable. I learned how to embrace my sensitivity rather than hiding it away. I spent years dissolving the deep shame that enshrouded my self-image.

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I learned to stop judging my sensitivity. To stop treating it like a dirty secret. To not hate it. Stop believing I was broken and unlovable. To stop denying the truth or trying to change it.

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Now I cradle my sensitivity. I cherish it and treat it tenderly. I listen to my body at the first sign and give her what she needs. I don’t power through, ignore or deny. I make allowances for my sensitive nature and stop trying to act as if I am something different.

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Maybe it’s a blessing, a lesson in not discounting my feelings. Maybe it forces me to care for myself in a way that I didn’t experience as a child, an opportunity to be a loving parent to myself, a protective guardian. I seek to learn the language of my body. I don’t misjudge my symptoms anymore. I trust them as sacred messengers, alerting me to the unspoken.