My mother has been severely afflicted with psoriasis for years. If she bangs her arm into a table the bruise will turn into a lesion. My grandmother had a minor case, with only occasional flareups. In spite of the fact that it had hit two generations it was long thought that my two sisters and I would get lucky and avoid having to deal with it. Well, two out of three ain’t bad, but it sucks when you’re on the short end.
A few years ago I noticed a little spot on my left temple. As I was getting the smallpox vaccine in preparation for deployment and any open sore is a vector I thought to have it checked. Lo and behold, it was psoriasis. At that point I was resigned to my fate, and I still am, but little did I know what was in store for me.
Two years later, it has spread to cover a good portion of my head. As it is visible when I get any kind of regulation haircut I generally choose to take it all the way down in order to maximize the available sunlight since UV helps. It also allows me to apply stuff directly to it, since hair just gets in the way.
Tonight I gave myself a haircut. When I looked in the mirror I was shocked at how much it has spread. It doesn’t look so bad with just a bit of cover, but when I cut it down it looked horrible, and indescribable without insulting someone with a much worse disease by comparison. Needless to say I get a lot of questions, and while most people are understanding there are others who are downright cruel. I’ve learned to live with it, but I’d be a liar if I said that my self image isn’t suffering a bit.
Anyway, my stepfather, a 35 year veteran of the Coast Guard in many capacities, has told me that this could affect my re-enlistment, because psoriasis is considered to be a serious risk factor for all kinds of stuff. Now, he may be talking out of his ass (and that would be nothing new), but dammit, I worked my ass off to make this happen for myself. It is what I am, and it is what I identify myself as: an Airman (the generic term) in the United States Air Force. This is threatening to take that away from me.
I wish I could blame someone for this, but I can’t. Nobody could know that this would happen, and moreover I have to be alive for it to happen, so I certainly can’t blame my parents for my plight. I could blame the doctors, but that’s disingenuous because it’s incurable anyway so it’s hardly their fault. So here I am, with nobody to blame and with nobody at fault for something that makes me look like a leper.
Ah, screw it. It could be worse. But even so, my genes are conspiring to take away what it is that makes me, well, me. In spite of my attempts at optimism, I just can’t get past that, and every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of that uncertainty. I’m haunted by it.
Anyway, tomorrow is a new day. And with a new day comes a new round of questions, most of them asking “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Such is what my life has become: a never ending series of questions about why I look the way I do.
I look forward to it. No, I really don’t but I figure that if I keep telling myself that I might one day believe it. What the hell. I still have Robin, I still have Aaron, and as of right now I’m still in the Air Force, so maybe I’m just borrowing trouble.
I really hope that’s all it is, too.
