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Andrea Freund is a senior majoring in Biology. She began writing poetry and short stories as a young child, and was eager for the opportunity to revisit that passion through TSR. “Chief Crazy Skin” is a poetic exploration of neurodermatisis, a psychosomatic illness derived from a real physical ailment.

Andrea Freund

Chief Crazy Skin

I used to imagine that I was coated in plastic wrap
like Saran wrap, except without the brand name
It lined my whole body from scalp to toenail
Maybe one day I’d find the seam holding it together,
pull out the threads, and slowly peel that plastic off –
and with it would go all the scabs and scars and the rosy rashes
Till all below was white and even.

I would ball up that plastic wrap with its ugly additions
And throw it in the trash – swish like Nash (and yes, I’m still a fan)
I’d close my eyes imagine the sores all gone
And I would run my hands over my smooth, smooth skin
Just like that time they took your braces off
and you couldn’t help but run your tongue over your teeth,
all now magically white and even.

They call it neurodermatisis. First part crazy, second part skin. Crazy Skin.
That would be my Native American name. Chief Crazy Skin.
In Indian Princesses my name was Quiet Thunder. Which doesn’t make any sense.
Dad was Roaming buffalo. Which makes a lot of sense.
I started out with eczema when I was five, not too bad.
But I struck with deadly precision. I was the scratch assassin. My weapons?
Fingernails that were perfectly white and even.

My disease is self-inflicted. It didn’t start that way, but now it’s stuck.
I tried everything short cutting off my hands (and I thought about that too):
Salves and ointments, creams and powders. Once I even tried oatmeal bath.
But all it did was clog my drain and stain my tub, and make me smell like Quaker Oats
It took me days of scrubbing the bathroom to get out the oatmeal grime but
finally the surface of the tub was again white and even

I hate the ocean. No, that’s a lie. I love the ocean. I hate the salt.
I sit on the beach and watch little babies in water wings slosh around
And wish I wasn’t so scared of the burning and stinging.
Even the sunscreen hurts. SPF 30 was not designed for open sores.
Should I be parading around in my bikini and my scales, I think?
I’d rather sit under the umbrella and watch the others play in the ocean surrounded
by a beach with sand that’s white and even.

I get nervous and I scratch. It’s a compulsion I can hardly control.
I doubt myself. Or I get upset. And then I scratch.
I try to fight it for ten seconds, a minute, even five – but I always cave
Sometimes I scratch just because I’m bored, not even realizing it
But then I see what looks like dirt caked under my nails
And I wonder, why is dead skin black
when they tell me skin is supposed to be white and even?

I used to have baby soft skin, like all the other babies.
But then we all grew up and some get pretty skin that boys like to touch.
But I don’t want boys to touch me. I don’t want me to touch me.
I don’t know where the baby soft skin went, but I wish I could find it again
Or at the very least I wish I could be somewhere else,
that I could float away to where bodies don’t exist. And I could disappear
into clouds that are white and even.