It’s worse at night, when the temperature drops. My knees ache. They really ache. Not the muscular sort of ache, nor the done-too-much-running kind. That deep-inside sort of ache. It feels like my 20something joints have been replaced with those of a very senior citizen. If I sit still for a few minutes, when I start to move again the pain, although by no means unbearable, is enough to make me slow.
My lips are permanently dry. I moisten them with Carmex – very good, even though the ill-advised yellow packaging makes it look like superglue – but the relief is only temporary.
When I wake up, my skin is always dry. Nivea Moisturiser and Garnier Face masks help, but the neck and eyebrows and right cheek keep on drying out.
The dandruff has been plain absurd. A scratch of the head results in an avalanche on the shoulder. On the upside, my hair doesn’t get dirty as there’s no sebum being produced. Nonetheless, I’ve taken extreme measures and shaved my head, leaving a BA Baracus type Mohawk down the middle for posterity’s sake. But soon enough I’ll be totally skin.
My temper is shorter. Not that it’s ever especially long, but it’s shorter than normal. Irritability is rife. My serotonin levels are, apparently, lower than they would normally be.
Whenever I go out and there is sunshine, I have to cover up with some factor 40. I smell like I’m on holiday most the time.
I’ve had one drink in over three months, and that was to celebrate Fulham’s extraordinary escape from Premier League relegation. My liver, I’m told, would pack in if I indulge in any kind of binge drinking.
The appetite comes and goes, mostly it’s fine but often I’m craving fatty crap like chocolate, crisps, and fried food. Apparently, isotretinoin – for this barrage of bodily dysfunction is all his fault – relies on fat. It absorbs itself into fat and then gets to work on fucking your body up (with a side-effect of improving the skin condition).
The thing is, I’m not fat. My body mass index is damn perfect. So perhaps, and I’m no physician, but perhaps the body is saying ‘Eat shit, Eddie. We got these annoying brown pills asking for some grease, so get with it and fill yourself up with some Minstrels, Monster Munch and a chicken pie.’
I had a freaky episode a couple of weeks into February when I woke up in the middle of the night with shivers and sweats, an aching jaw and achy joints. The blood pressure dropped, although not worryingly so, and wouldn’t go back up to normal for a couple of days. But within 12 hours of the shivers and shakes, I was feeling fine again. Not so much 24-hour flu as overnight flu.
In short, it’s still me inside the body, but the body’s been interrupted. It’s not going about its business as normal.
It’ll be back soon, hopefully, with a 7-year skin problem solved. No guarantee on that, though, and progress has been disappointingly slow so far. But when the side-effects are so overwhelming and so plentiful, they become the ‘effect’ and the actual cure takes the sideline.
The best way to rationalize this barmy 6-month episode is to tell myself I am sick and I have to tolerate the treatment to get better. Not that I’m sick sick, but there is a bug living on my face and he’s steadfastly and stubbornly refused to be killed by numerous courses of antibiotics, three courses of homeopathy and a Vitamin A-rich diet of carrots, broccoli and mango.
Three-and-a-half months in, and the skin doesn’t feel much better at all, to be frank. Still over two months to go, so I’ve got to stay optimistic. The summer is nearly here, the temperature ought to improve, and my knees might not hurt so much.
