October 31, 2003 Currently, I am covered in hives. Well, maybe *covered* is kind of a strong word, but there are many hives and they are all over my arms, hands, legs, and feet. I think there is even a tiny one on my face. And it's only going to get worse, kids. Because I know EXACTLY what this is. Actually, not EXACTLY, but I've got my suspicions. When I was a sophomore in college, I developed this strange, reddish rash on my limbs. It didn't itch and it wasn't that noticeable, so being a 20-year-old child who was more concered with doing my radio show and how to get Teddy to break up with his dopey girlfriend and fall in love with me, I ignored it. But then the scattered red dots of the rash eventually decided to consolidate themselves into itchy, angy red hives. Now, I may have been still enough of a child to ignore the rash, but the hives got me to go to campus health services. They drew blood, tested me for allergies, asked me if I had switched laundry detergents, deoderants, soaps, perfumes, eating habits, religions, you name it. I hadn't. Plus, I had lived in the dorms the year before, so they figured it couldn't be a reaction to the cleaning products used in the dorms. They gave me some Prednizone to stop the itching and told me to come back if it happened again. It happened again. And again. I had more blood drawn. I passed out because I always pass out when I have blood drawn. They tested me for more allergies. Gave me more Prednizone. Nothing. They advised me to schedule an appointment with an allergist. I called my mother. Tried to downplay the hives. She freaked anyway, but made the appointment for the following weekend. The Thursday before I was supposed to go home to see the allergist, I was hanging out with my roommate when the hives came back, only this time with an added feature: my throat started to close up. I couldn't breathe. I panicked. My roommate panicked. She ran next door and got Teddy, who panicked. Finally, the guy that my roommate was seeing walked me down to the infirmary. The nurse gave me a shot of something. They called my parents. Eventually, my throat opened up. My parents drove down and got me that night. The next day, I saw the allergist. He poked me with a million needles, drew more blood, had me fill out an extensive questionaire about my eating, bathing, cleaning, living habits. Gave me stronger medication. Told me they'd have the results in a few days. In the meantime, my mother decided that it was because I ate too much ketchup. (You know, because when you become a mother, you get that automatic M.D. in ridiculous reasons for your children's illnesses based on the aspects of their lifestyle that you don't like.) I had been drowning my food in ketchup since I was two. It wasn't very likely that I had suddenly developed an allergic reaction to ketchup. But my mother had been hating that I drowned my food in ketchup since I was two. And she had been waiting 18 years for a reason to make me stop, so she latched onto the hives like Robert Downey Jr. would latch onto the last bottle of Jim Beam at a party. She insisted that somehow the acids from all of the ketchup I had eaten in my life had built up in my system and were now working their evil mojo on me. She prohibited me from eating anything with tomato in it -- She even banned me from putting mustard on my hot dogs; not that mustard contains tomato, but it was a *condiment* and in my mother's universe, it was quite possible that it was just condiments in general that were poisoning me. The allergist called back a few days later. The tests had all come back negative. They had no idea what was causing the hives. They brought me back in and poked me with more needles. Drew more blood. Gave me more smelling salts when I passed out. The allergist tried to smile politely when my mother told him that I was allergic to ketchup, but I could see the, "Yeah okay, lady. Which one of us spent a decade in med school here?" look in his eyes. But he tested me specifically for a reaction to acids contained in tomatoes. Guess what. I am not allergic to ketchup. Or mustard. Or anything goddamn else it would seem. The allergist was stumped. He gave me a supply of prednizone and sent me back to school. Said it would either run it's course or they'd do more tests over the summer. The year was almost over, so I went to class and hung out with my friends, and occassionally broke out in hives. Teddy and I went to our Student Government Association formal and I broke out in hives while wearing a strapless dress. He gave me his jacket. Eventually the hives seemed to quiet down. I broke out less and less frequently. I thought they were going away. But, oh no, my friends, they were not going away. The hives were just planning their next trick. The semester ended and I came home for the summer and went back to my summer job at AAA as the "Books and Maps Girl." One Saturday, my friends and I were supposed to go to Great Adventure. I woke up bright and early to find that my entire face had swelled up until I looked like I had gone three rounds with Mike Tyson. Actually, I looked worse than that. I looked like the Elephant Man. They're creative buggers, my hives. When my mother saw me, she tried not to look horrified. She wasn't too successful, but she was more successful than my father who took one look at me and said, "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you?!" They rushed me to the allergist and he drew blood while I was in mid-attack. He gave me stronger medication and told us to go home and wait it out. He assured me that the swelling would go down. I went home and stared in the mirror and tried to figure out where I would find a circus to join up with if the swelling never went down. Luckily, I didn't need the circus. My face stayed swelled up for the entire weekend, but eventually it went away. Naturally, the tests that the allergist did while I was in mid-attack turned up nothing. I went back. He drew more blood. Poked me with more needles. Had my mother record the entire contents of our house. Had me use cosmetics and beauty products made for sensitive skin. Had me stop using them. I had more attacks. Several times, I'd go in to see him in mid-attack or just after and he'd draw more blood. Everything, every single fucking test, came back negative. By this point, I was beginning to suspect that maybe I wasn't allergic to anything. But then what the fuck was causing the attacks? We never found out. The rest of my summer progressed the same way. I broke out periodically. My face swelled up horrifically three more times. (My friends were great, they stayed at home and played Dungeons and Dragons with me. All the while pretending that I didn't look like a monster from the game come to life.) And then, as suddenly as they had come on, the hives disappeared. I had my last attack in August before I went back for my junior year and in the twelve years since, I've never had another hive on my body. Until last Tuesday. I woke up with itchy red bumps all over my arm. I assumed that I had gotten bitten to shit by some bug during the night. But the bumps appeared on my legs the next morning. And then on my hands and feet by that afternoon. And you know, being the overgrown 15-year-old that I am, I thought, "Oh, gee, maybe the hives are back." But I didn't even think about calling a doctor. Well, now I am covered in them and I guess I should call a doctor. Mostly because I really do not want to wake up and find my facial features swelled to freakishly large proportions. It is not pretty, believe me. And, well, I'd rather not have my throat close up again, either. But the thing is, I know what's going to happen. The doctor will draw blood and poke me with allergy test needles and do skin scrapings and poke the hives with needles and draw blood from the hives and ask me if I have changed my eating habits, laundry detergent, soap, deoderant, hair color, job, sexual preference, religion, political views, general outlook on life, whatever. My mother will again rail against the evils of ketchup, even though I don't eat that many cheesesteaks anymore (I ate them every day in college -- hence the reason I was FAT.) I will eat prednizone like it is candy. And everything, every single goddamned test, will come back negative. Because I am not allergic to anything. I know this. I am one of those direct throwbacks to entirely peasant stock. I'm pretty sure I could drop a baby in a field and be up and around the next day. I don't have allergies, never had sinus trouble, don't get mirgraines. The only thing I am prone to is cysts. The hives are psychological. I know this like I know my name. (Er, well, like I know BOTH my names, journal and non-journal.) Possibly the hives are stress-related. Although, I never thought I was particularly stressed at the end of my sophomore year in college -- I was a bit more of an over-achiever than I am now, but not that much more. I didn't worry about classes, grades, activities. I barely worried about how to make Teddy break up with his girlfriend and fall in love with me, and that was my all-consuming issue during the rest of my college years. But psychosomatic hives just make sense in the grand scheme of my life. I mean, c'mon, if you knew someone who would get psychosomatic hives, it would be me, right? What doesn't make sense is why I am getting them now. The summer theater schedule is done -- I'm not running around to rehearsals and shows anymore; my job isn't great but things have calmed down considerably; things are fine at home; I'm not currently embroiled in any drama outside of the kids at University B thinking that Scott and I are having an affair and that happens every single year anyway and pretty much everyone we know thinks that so that's not particularly stressful or worrisome anymore. So why are the psychosomatic hives revisting me? Hmmm. Maybe it's a LACK of drama that causes them. Rather than the presence of drama. Maybe, just maybe, if I don't have an acceptable level of drama in my life, my body must find another release for my hypersensitive, overly dramatic tendencies and those tendencies manifest themselves as hives and face swelling. The face swelling is certainly dramatic. So maybe all I need to do is cause some trouble. You know, go out and get drunk and puke all over the PATCO train, or move in with another crazy roommate, or make some wacky new friends, or publicly break up with Scott in the middle of lecture (not that we were together to begin with, but it would be good for drama). Maybe if I get into some trouble, the hives will go away. Yeah, I know, only in my world would psychosomatic hives exist. And only in my world would they be caused by a lack of drama.

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Okay, since I'm backfilling this entry, I am NOT backfilling the sidebar. Sorry.