The Itch Nobody Could Scratch [[1x1]]

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Woooo, this post is reserved for something cooler than what's here right now. 8D

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Ten chairs were arranged to form a neat circle in Group Room A of the Kimberly Hills Counseling Center. They had been arranged so meticulously that it would be logical to question whether someone had measured the spaces in between while setting them up. Beyond the circle, the room was very clean and nearly empty, save for a small table. Upon it was arranged a box of tissues and small stack of folded brochures printed on the front page with:

MORGELLONS GROUP – KIMBERLY HILLS CHAPTER

A community of patients, family members and friends dedicated to dealing with Morgellons Disease, together.



- - - - -

Wednesdays @ 8:15 pm
Sundays @ 4:00 pm

- - - - -

For more information, contact [e-mail]

This brochure might be a familiar sight to anyone who spent some time looking at the pamphlet rack in their therapist's reception area or school's counseling center. Or maybe received it from a concerned family member or exasperated family physician. In any case, each of the individuals who began filtering into the room at around 8:05 had once held a copy in their trembling, and perhaps also itching, hands and identified themselves as a patient, family member, or friend dealing with Morgellons Disease.

By 8:15, the evenly spaced chairs had been filled with un-evenly spaced individuals, five in total. Two sat next to each other, while the rest had at least one chair between themselves and another individual. There was no one demographic of age, sex, or class. An elderly man in a suit, a tired-looking middle-aged woman wearing the scrubs of an R.N ., and a couple of twenty-somethings sitting next to each other wearing t-shirts and jeans. They made small-talk while they waited for the meeting to begin.

The final member of the group sat, one leg crossed over the other, with a notebook and pen on his lap, a travel-mug printed with the Kimberly Hills logo and filled with black coffee under his chair. He was dressed neatly, professionally, in a light gray dress shirt and dark pinstripe trousers. With his angular glasses and calm demeanor, he looked as though he could have actually been a young psychiatrist meeting with his group of patients. His face, unlike some of the others at the meeting, was largely unmarred, with only a very light scar against the pale, smooth skin of his left cheek, and one above his eyebrow on the same side. There ware no hint of nervousness or pain in his gray eyes, and his posture was confident. His hair was fine and light brown in color with streaks here and there where it grew in darker and coarser, looking at least from a distance like a trendy dye-job rather than a symptom of a mysterious disease, was styled neatly out of his face.

It was his rolled up sleeves that exposed him for what he really was. Though there were no open lesions on his skin, his arms were peppered with scars of varying ages and shapes: irregular patches where the skin had once been itched away; scars that were small like needle pricks; and a discolored area shaped like a perfect square.

The young man greeted everyone as they entered, and received variations of, 'Hi Zach,' from each familiar face as he wrote down their names in his notebook. “Alright, it's 8:15, let's start our meeting,” he chimed with a smile. His voice was bright, but still masculine and calm. “We're all well acquainted, so I think we can safely skip that. Before we begin, I just wanna say... Jan, I tried that mustard-bath you recommended last week and it was a total life-saver. I was so close to breaking down and scratching, but that bath was totally soothing.” The woman in scrubs, who had been unconsciously picking at a scab on her elbow, quickly stopped her fidgeting and beamed proudly. “But anyway, let's get started. Did anyone notice some change this week?”

[wvww]

Therapy @ 8:15. Therapy @ 8:15. Therapy @ 8:15.

The reminder flashed on James’ iPhone every five minutes. An angry sort, he had been conditioned over the past few months to allow the reminder to vibrate in his hands every five minutes as opposed to swiping right to turn it off. It fueled his anger and his temper was nearly to the point of boiling over. It felt good to have something to rage at.

He had been on the bus for nearly 30 minutes now, moving from his dorm on campus to Kimberly Hills Counseling Center. Google Maps had said the trip was 20 minutes by bus. He could arrive 15 minutes early; get situated, maybe pee, have a drink of water. But now it was 8:10 and the bus felt as if it was moving backwards. At every stop, there was another issue. Someone on crutches. Someone who couldn’t find their bus pass or change. Someone who tried to drag their unruly mutt on with them.

The contempt James held for these people was palpable.

It hadn’t always been like this, however. Eight months ago, James was fondly known as J.J. by his friends and family. He was a kind kid, if a little cautious and shy. Unfortunately, he was seized by “delusions,” his doctors called it. His uncontrollable scratching, the picking at bugs and beasts that other couldn’t see…

Last week, after nearly screaming at his doctor and later his psychiatrist, he was handed a pamphlet: MORGELLONS GROUP - KIMBERLY HILLS CHAPTER. His doctor threatened to stop giving him his anti-itch medication if he didn’t get his emotions in check. They thought giving J.J. the chance to speak with others like him would mellow him out again.

Finally, thank God, finally the bus arrived at his stop. He shot off and ran to the building. It had a clinical white exterior, marred only by a kitschy sign over the door: “KIMBERLY HILLS COUNSELING CENTER” and the words, “Community, Respect, Peace of Mind.” His doctor would be requesting proof of attendance, and J.J. most certainly didn’t want to show up late for the meeting… His phone read 8:16.

His anger drained right out of him, along with the color in his face. Muttering curses under his breath, he slunk like a wounded animal towards the room, it’s number scribbled and circled on his pamphlet. He had already failed. Would this mean he wouldn’t receive his anti-itch cream? It was the only thing keeping him sane as he continued his studies as a junior at the local university.

The door was closed when he arrived, and he meekly knocked and opened it slightly. He took a large breath and reminded himself not to be so self-defeatist. There was still hope. He could try and befriend the counselor, and perhaps they could smudge his record. He could still be ‘on time.’

“H-hello?” he said as he entered, in a small voice. Without his anger, he was cautious and leery of everything around him. He was a thin boy, tall as well, often called a beanpole as a kid. His dark hair was short but curly, clinging to his head and falling over his forehead in some places. His eyes were brown and wary of the others in the room. They looked so different from him. But J.J. knew the truth: under those long sleeves and long pants, they probably looked like him. Scarred. J.J. was wearing a university sweatshirt himself, black, and dark wash jeans. He was fortunate not to have many scratches on his face — he had taken to slapping himself and his facial itches — but his hands looked like hell. They were mauled open, which sore red splotches all over. He tried to keep those in his pockets at all times.

[TREXASAURUSREX]

“Well, he says he knows what's bin causin' his itchin',” the younger woman began in response to the question, nodding to man she was sitting next to. She was of very slight build, though she wore a gray sweatshirt that fit her like a tent. Strawberry blonde hair framed her pink, pocked face. “He says it gets worse, ya know, the bugs 'n stuff, when he's smokes pot.”

“Damnit Deb, don't tell the guy that! But yeah, maybe it makes 'em bite more or somethin'. It's like, whenever I do, they're like-”

H-hello?

Everyone stopped and looked towards the door. Zachary, who had been scratching a few notes put his pen down and glanced up in surprise. Although the attendance numbers varied from meeting to meeting, new members were quite rare.

“Hi there! You're here for the Morgellons group?” Zachary new the answer. In the quick seconds before the young man could hide his hands in his pockets there was a flash of painful red. For a fraction of a moment Zachary's welcoming smile was overshadowed by drooping eyelids and knitted brows, a micro-expression of sadness. His heart went out to all Morgellon's sufferers, but seeing someone so young, in college and full of life and dreams, struck him in a very personal way. “Don't worry, we just started, so just find a seat and we'll do some quick introductions. Let's just go around the circle and tell our names and a little bit ourselves.

My name is Zachary Silverstein, and I'm both the organizer of this therapy group and one of its patients. I have a bachelor's degree of science in psychopathology and a minor in neurology from Columbia University. I, myself, have been affected by Morgellons Disease for about three years. I've experienced the distrust and disrespect from doctors; diagnoses of delusions of parasitism and paranoia... I always wished for someone to talk to who didn't roll their eyes and tell me that my suffering was all in my head, and now I hope I can be that person for you. Dr. Peterson helped me to start this support group so we can all be that person for each other.” Zachary's cheeks became rosy and he looked bashfully down at his notebook, hoping he hadn't sounded like a complete idiot.

The young woman began speaking next, in her slightly whiny mid-western twang. “I'm Deb, and my boyfriend here is Jared. We both got Morgellon's a year ago when he was exposed to nanoparticles at the plant. He got it and then I got it, too. Every single day is a struggle. Some days are ok, but others, I just can't get atta bed.”

“The plant didn't do nothin' about it either,” Jared added as he fingered a lesion on the back of his neck. “One day my coworkers and I just started itchin', getting these bugs and s**t under our skin. Ten of us. But won't do nothin'. Won't even talk to us about it. Denyin' that we were ever exposed to anythin' dangerous.”

The oldest member of the group, a man in his fifties or so, sighed as it came to his turn. “Robert.” He sighed again and wrung his hands in his lap. Robert's face was gaunt, but for the most part unscarred, though his eyes were very red and watery and his otherwise full head of graying hair was patched with lesions and scars and areas where the hair appeared to have been torn out by its roots. “I don't know what's wrong with me...” He gave Zachary a fleeting glance, who responded with a nod. He need not say anymore. Robert had nearly used as many words today as he had in all of the meetings put together. He was a newcomer, still uncomfortable speaking with the group. Zachary didn't push much; attending the sessions and not talking was certainly better than being alone.

Jan would be next, and then, finally, today's newcomer.

[wvww]

James caught the door with his heel before it could slam shut. It bounced on the rubber sole of his Converse before he quickly moved and let it click shut slowly. He nodded in response to Zachary’s question before slinking into place. The way the people were sitting, he would have to sit next to someone… There were two seats between the nurse and the coordinator, and James slid into place next to her.

He listened patiently to all of the others, analyzing their stories. James had read plenty online since this happened, but frankly, none seemed to match his own. It actually took him awhile to believe that his diagnosis was Morgellons. It was only after he gave the others the benefit of the doubt — that they, like him, weren’t speaking of the weirdness they saw and heard because they would be called delusions — that he accepted the diagnosis from his psychiatrist.

“Hello, everyone, my name is Jan,” the RN said pleasantly. She was an older woman with kind face, pocketed with scars. Her weariness and career hid most of the damage that Morgellons did to her hair — the wiry gray could be attributed to her age; the scars and scabs a testament to her handwork in the medical lab. “I’ve been suffering for about three years as well, I believe I was infested — oh, I mean, infected — by a patient I was treating at the time. I do my best to stay clean as to not pass it on to my children or patients,” she finished with a sigh.

James’ brow furrowed as the eyes of the group trained on him. Their stories were like those he had read before and he felt suddenly lost. Would it be appropriate to bring up his experiences? Would he sound sane, even among his peers? He gulped.

“Hi, I’m J.J. — I mean James,” he corrected himself suddenly, remembering that he wasn’t friends with these people quite yet. “Uh, about eight months ago I woke up with a weight on my chest and when I rose I found, uh, a lesion near by collarbone.”

In reality, it had been more than that, but J.J. was determined to sound as normal as possible to these other Morgellon sufferers. “The itch and lesions spread from there, and then came the mood swings,” he said and slumped in his chair. In his hoodie pocket, he picked at his hands, scratching at scabs and pulling off flakes. “And now I’m here.”

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Heads nodded sympathetically all around the circle as J.J. introduced him and his case of Morgellons. They'd all been there; the first symptoms, the confusion, disbelief from doctors and loved ones, the discovery of Morgellons and the fleeting feeling relief of relief that would only be crushed as one realized how hopeless their situation could be.

“Yeah, I started with mood-swings really bad, too, a few days after I first started getting bit,” Deb broke in, “and my memory started getting' real bad, too. It takes the two of us to really get anything done nowadays.” She gave a sad half-smile and set her hand on Jared's knee. He put his hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze as he seconded her joyless smile.

“Does anyone else clearly remember when they first started feeling symptoms? Was there anything different going on in your life around the time it started happening?” asked Zachary, making a note of something before glancing around the circle, searching for the eye contact that often indicated the desire to say something. Robert's watery eyes met his own very briefly, but instead of speaking, the man quickly looked down at his feet with a sigh. “Robert?” The older man shook his head. “James?” Zachary turned slightly towards him, and tried for gentle eye contact. “Are you comfortable sharing?”

[wvww]

J.J. shuffled his feet around, rubbing the textured sides of his Converse together as he listened to Deb and Jared. He was fortunate that he hadn’t suffered any memory loss… yet. As a student, that could be dangerous for his degree, much less his entire life. He gave the pair a sympathetic nod. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, J.J. thought. Sharing felt uncomfortable, but perhaps it would get easier. Perhaps.

At Zachary’s question, he flashed his eyes down, trained by his years in classrooms. Unfortunately, he felt he had an out when the counselor reached out for Robert, and his eyes came up, then met with Zachary’s. His shoulders stiffened and he grabbed at his hands in his pockets.

“Er, uh — yes,” he said, stumbling over his words. J.J. paused, swallowed, and looked around the room. Deb nodded encouragingly and Jared offered a smile. Robert look was firm, with watery eyes. Jan’s face showed nurse-like patience and concern. “It occurred around finals," he began, "I had been up late several nights in a row studying for a particularly difficult Chem exam. I had an average grade in the class and the exam was my final chance to raise it. I woke up with the first lesion after about four nights, and at almost 6am. I had only been asleep for an hour."

It was this exact story that his doctor first set upon when trying to diagnose him as delusional. A lack of sleep, testing anxiety, and stress led to his insufferable itching, the doctor suggested. But after grades were returned and the lesions had spread, J.J. hadn't fell for it.

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Nodding, Zachary jotted down some notes before looking back up at J.J. “I don't remember exactly how it started for me,” he began hesitantly. It could be uncomfortable switching between the role of therapy leader and the role of one of the patients. Leading a group may seem difficult, but asking the questions was much easier than answering them. Zachary had to remind himself from time to time that he was there for therapy, too, and sharing his own experiences wasn't out of place. Still, there was always doubt nagging at the back of his mind, telling him to keep his mouth shut if he wanted anyone to respect him and his sanity. It's safe...

I don't remember exactly how it started for me... “But I think it was around finals time for me, too. At the time, I was kind of thankful for the itching and the crawling, because I couldn't sleep, so I had to stay up and study.” Zachary chuckled before forcing a straight face. “But if I would have known at the time that it wasn't bed-bugs or a detergent allergy, I probably wouldn't have been so glib about it.” He shrugged. “But I don't think it's good to take yourself too seriously all the time.”

“No! We gotta take ourselves seriously!” Jared broke in, knocking Deb's hand off his leg. “No one else does!”

“That's not how he means it, moron,” Deb shot back, hitting Jared's knee scoldingly with the back of her hand.

[wvww]

J.J. flinched at the riled up pair swatting at each other and raising their voices, but quickly turned to laughter himself, chuckling into his shoulder. They were definitely made for each other, James decided, and tore his downcast eyes away from his hoodie to survey the group. It was almost funny to hear how similar Zachary’s story was to his own. He couldn’t quite remember if he had mentioned his alma mater, but it would be even more funny if it had been the same university.

Or maybe strange and creepy, if it was something in the school that infected them both. J.J. tried to stop himself from frowning at the thought, but wasn’t quite successful.

“Well, then, if you two would settle down,” Jan said briskly, putting on her serious face — meant only for the most stubborn and frustrating patients — and staring them down. “I’ll go now, although it is such a shame that both of you young boys got caught up in all this in the prime of your youth,” she tsk’d and gave J.J. and Zachary pitying looks.

“Like I said before, I believe I caught it from a patient,” she began. “She was an older woman, covered with sores and begging for relief from her scratching. I tended to her for several days while she was in for broken ankle. At her age, she was quite fragile. It was the day that she was discharged that I found myself itching.”

There was silence in the circle for a moment, the group looking each other over and taking in the stories. J.J. gulped, then sat straight in his chair. There was one thing he was interested in learning while at this meeting.

“Er, I was curious — does anyone have any home remedies for the itch?” he asked, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of red.

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Zachary had to exercise self control not to chuckle at Jared and Deb. There was always at least one thing at every meeting that set them off bickering. At first it was troubling, but everyone who was familiar with the couple knew it was simply part of their relationship dynamic. He thought back to what Deb had said before, it took the two of them working together to accomplish every day tasks. Hopefully they knew how lucky they were to have each other.

His gaze turned to Jan and he silently thanked her for keeping the discussion on track. Zachary picked his thermos up, quickly wiped the top off with his thumb, and slid the top to open just long enough for him to take a sip.

“It really seems like it can be contagious in some cases, doesn't it? But before I lived alone, it never seemed to spread to my bo-- my roommate. It's interesting how there are so many similarities between cases, but also really significant differences.”

There was a collective giggle when J.J. asked what tended to be everyone's first question. Zachary nodded towards Jan.

“There's a mustard bath that really helps me,” she said, jolly that she could help,” Here, I'll write the name down for you. You can buy it online.” Jan took a piece of paper and pen out of her purse, scribbled on it, and then held it out to J.J. with a slightly shaking hand.

“Mint tea,” Deb interjected, receiving nods of confirmation around the circle.

“Oatmeal and baking soda is really nice, too,” Zachary added shyly at the end.

_________________________________

The meeting gradually wound itself to a close and the good byes commenced.

“It was good meeting you, James,” Jared said, giving J.J. a nod in lieu of a handshake.

“Yeah, good luck,” Deb added. “And try the mint tea. Just put some on a cloth and rub it wherever you got itches. It won't make your lesions hurt neither.”

As the others filed out, Zachary began putting the chairs back where he'd found them, keeping an eye on J.J. He wanted to have a word with him before he left, but he was hoping the others would all leave first.

[wvww]

J.J. happily accepted the recommendations, even daring to pull out his scarred and damaged hands to quickly accept Jan’s note before stuffing it back into his front hoodie pocket. He made mental notes of the others — the Internet had given him ideas, but those had always been general lists. It was nice to have confirmation of what had actually worked for others. The red on his cheeks faded as he relaxed. Maybe group therapy wouldn’t be too bad after all.

The discussion continued for a while longer, with mostly Jared, Deb, and Jan keeping the conversation afloat; bickering, joking, suggesting, laughing. They seemed to have quite the dynamic.

Eventually, an entire hour had passed and members began to leave. Robert slunk out first, followed by Jan trying to escort him to the bus. The other two scooted out soon after after leaving the newbie with some friendly reminders. “Thanks, really,” he said kindly and nodded in return as they left.

Soon, it was only J.J. and Zachary in the room. His nerves had gotten to him again. His first meeting went well, he thought, but would the counselor be willing to overlook his lateness?

“Er, Zachary,” he said slowly, approaching him. He had almost finishing putting away the chairs, and J.J. grabbed one and walked it over to the stack to put it away. “My doctor and psychiatrist wanted me to get proof of attendance for today. I have their phone numbers and emails, if you could contact them and confirm. I'm sorry I was late,” he said trying to look Zachary in the eyes. J.J. didn’t want to admit that they were essentially blackmailing him. No confirmation, no medication.

[TREXASAURUSREX]

Zachary kept his head down, but his eyes on J.J., ready to stop him if he started to leave. He was hoping J.J. would have some question for him so that he wouldn't even have to make the first move. Public speaking while leading the group he could cope with, but talking to a stranger one-on-one was one of many things he'd fallen out of practice of since his symptoms had started.

But that wasn't what happened. Zachary steadied himself as J.J. came closer, not looking up or paying much notice anyway else.

“Yes?” He hoped he hadn't responded too quickly. “Oh, of course, it's not a problem. I'll send him an e-mail tonight. Zachary looked slightly upward, his eyes making contact with a brief moment with J.J.'s. With them both standing up, J.J. was a little bit taller than he'd expected, at least an inch or two taller than himself. It wasn't too often that Zachary stood close to someone AND made eye contact with them. “And it's fine,” he shrugged, “just try not to make a habit of it...”

Zachary gathered up his things, sliding his notebook into a leather book bag and picking up his coffee mug before sending his gaze around the room to make sure everything was put away properly and nothing was left behind.

“By the way...” He had to give himself a mental kick to address him again. “I don't give my phone number to group members... but...I remember being where you are now, and I know I could have really used someone who understood what I was going through.” Zachary looked down for a second while he listed his number in case J.J. wanted it, before looking back up and searching for eye contact. “If you ever need help... or someone to talk to, you can always call or text me. Please.”