The Hives, and My Body Knows Something I Don’t

"My Body Knows Something I Don't" was originally written in October 2017, and was revised March 4, 2026

It's been ten years, but my mind still wanders when I hear the word "hives."

I still recoil when I think about how those many months in 2016 made me feel. I went from taking a multivitamin once a day because I liked those flavored vitamins to downing a drawer full of allergy medications day and night. I went from dancing at a concert to struggling to walk downstairs. I went from paying attention in literature class to crying in the bathroom stall while I took too many Benadryl.

I woke up one day and started having invasive, intense, and incessantly itchy, red hives all over my skin. Then my face and body swelled up to where I couldn't recognize myself. This continued for months. I visited doctors, allergists, specialists, and they all told me they didn't know why my body was backfiring. They just told me to smile when I wanted to cry.

And I still haven't found out why, and my hands still haven't felt the same. The swelling made my joints swell up, and they haven't been the same since. I can't make a perfect fist.

But let me try to look at this like an optimist. Please don't get me wrong. It wasn't that bad. I’d like to believe I came out unscathed. But I’ll be honest – the unknown truths of it all really do scare me.

I wrote the following essay, "My Body Knows Something I Don't," in October 2017. It had been just over a year since my body backfired. It's the beginning of 2026 today, and all's been well since. I’ve since edited this essay for clarity and concision, as my words tend to be overwritten. So, here I go:

My Body Knows Something I Don’t

When it all started, I thought I had bed bugs. I woke up one day to find tiny, itchy red dots all over my arms and legs. A Google search informed me that I probably had bed bugs. So, I washed my bed sheets and then the dots must have gone away, I think, because I thought nothing more of it.

A few weeks later, on a Saturday in March 2016, I went to a concert at the United Center in Chicago with my best friend at the time. It's still one of the best concerts I've attended. I was having a lot of fun until I felt like there was something in my right eye. It felt a bit weighed down and itchy and so I dug my hand into the corner of my eye, trying to dig out whatever thing was bothering it, but I couldn't seem to reach whatever it was. So I tried to just ignore it and enjoy the concert. And I did.

My friend Kelsey and I went to IHOP after the show. My eye still felt funny. After ordering pancakes, I walked into the women’s restroom and I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw that my right eye was... swollen, I guess? It didn’t look like my normal eye, that's for sure. My top eyelid was puffy and the corner was inflamed and I couldn't open up my eye completely. It didn't hurt or anything, but it just looked really freaky. My left eye, however, looked as it always did.

I asked Kelsey what she thought, and she assumed I just got some makeup in it, and said to make sure that I wash my face really well when I got home that night. So I did.

And I woke up the next day, on a Sunday, and my eye still wasn't completely back to normal. It was still visibly swollen, but then it faded back to normal by the afternoon. So I thought nothing more of it.

A couple weeks later, on another Saturday, the same thing happened again. I was hanging out with Kelsey again when my eye swelled up out of nowhere, except this time it was my left eye instead of my right. And, once again, the swelling didn't fade away until Sunday afternoon.

By then, I convinced myself I was just having an allergic reaction to my makeup or Kelsey's pets. But that didn't make sense because I hadn't bought any new makeup recently, and I'd been hanging around Kelsey and her pets for years. Maybe it was a new brand of perfume I had recently bought?

So I stopped using that perfume. But that didn't work. Every couple of weeks, one of my eyes would keep swelling up.

Then I remembered the "bed bugs."

The bed bugs didn't come back, not exactly, but something else started happening. Red spots started showing up on my skin, on my arms, legs, shoulders, back, neck – all over my body. Sometimes they'd just appear haphazardly, singularly, on an arm or a leg, and sometimes they'd appear in groups, colonizing an entire area of my body. Sometimes they'd be small, about the size of a dime, and sometimes they'd be overwhelming, overtaking the entire width of my forearm or thigh. Sometimes the spots would be raised, and sometimes they'd be flat. Usually, they'd itch. A lot.

For a while, I kept what was happening a "secret" from my parents, manager at work, and college professors because I didn't want to go to a doctor's office, and I hoped that it – whatever it was – would just resolve itself on its own. So, to keep quiet about it, I wore long sleeves and pants every day. Even through my clothes, though, my skin would be itchy and irritated. Sometimes, depending on how raised the spots were, I could feel them through my clothes. I remember I would come home from a full day of college lectures and take off my clothes and look into a mirror at my reflection and stare in disbelief.

What was happening to me?

Unfortunately, and despite my hopes, the situation did not resolve itself on its own. It got worse. At the end of winter in 2016, I thought that I could no longer handle the situation by myself, so I finally told my parents what was happening and I saw a doctor. The doctor, a middle-aged woman who I had never met before, asked me if I was allergic to anything. I replied, "No. Nothing that I know of." She then proceeded to ask me if I've been doing or encountering anything new in the past couple of months. Again, "No," I replied.

After she ran out of questions, the appointment ended with her prescribing me prednisone, a corticosteroid that is used to treat diseases related to inflammation, such as asthma, gout, and arthritis. When taken on a regular basis, prednisone can cause some pretty serious side effects, so I was only instructed to take the drug for about a week. During that week, my symptoms subsided, but then simply returned once I ran out of meds. Prednisone was a short-lived solution.

The doctor I saw told me I had idiopathic urticaria. Urticaria, another term for hives, refers to the red spots that had been appearing all over my body. People with urticaria may also experience angioedema, or swelling of the face and joints, which accounts for the swelling of my eyes. Idiopathic means the cause is unknown.

Since I didn't know what was causing the urticaria, I had no way to prevent it. And it kept getting worse. By the beginning of summer, hives became a normal occurrence in my life. I had them almost daily, so I lived in a constant state of itchiness and comfortlessness. And the facial and bodily swelling became more frequent, too, and more pronounced. Instead of just my eyes swelling, my mouth, cheeks, hands, fingers, ankles, and even my joints would swell, seemingly out of nowhere.

There were so many mornings I woke and stared in the mirror at a face that didn’t look like mine.

I had to do something – I couldn't just live like that forever. So I saw a second doctor, an allergist. At the first appointment, I was required to talk with the clinic's nurse about my situation. When I showed up to that appointment, I had hives all over my body, and my face, fingers, ankles, and joints were swollen. My hands were so swollen that I couldn't make a fist. My joints were so swollen that I couldn't walk without experiencing constant pain, forcing me to shuffle around at a snail's pace.

The nurse took my vitals and asked me to describe my symptoms and concerns to her. Like the doctor I had previously seen, this nurse also asked me if I was allergic to anything. I had nothing substantial to reply. I felt miserable, looked horrible, and didn't know what was going on with my body.

Before dismissing me from her office, the nurse told me I should smile more.

The allergist then asked me for a detailed medical history, including a thorough explanation of my symptoms and a description of my environment, as well as any possible changes within my environment which could have caused the urticaria. Despite the allergist’s exhaustive overview of my history, current symptoms, and environmental state, he also could not give me an answer to the question of what was happening to my body, nor why.

He did, however, give me a small glimmer of hope through some proposed treatment options. He prescribed me two medications. The first was Silenor, an antidepressant drug that is most regularly used to treat symptoms of anxiety and insomnia. In some cases (such as my own), the drug can also be used to relieve pain and itch associated with skin diseases. The second prescription was Singulair, an anti-inflammatory drug used to treat allergies. He also instructed me to take three more over-the-counter medications: Zyrtec, a popular antihistamine drug used to treat allergies; Zantac, a stomach acid medication known to possibly assist in the treatment of urticaria; and Benadryl, another allergy medication. In total, I was instructed to take five medications.

But even with all these pills, the allergist told me, there's still a chance I could develop severe, possibly life-threatening swelling. And since we didn't know what I was allergic to, there was no way to avoid it – we just had to hope the medication did its job. And since I couldn't avoid it, there was a chance – albeit, a small one – that my body could kill me if it tried hard enough.

Due to the severity and unpredictability of my symptoms, the allergist also prescribed me an EpiPen, or an epinephrine autoinjector. The EpiPen is an extremely expensive medical device used to treat extremely severe allergic reactions. Basically, it's a shot that's injected into a patient's muscle (usually the quads) when they're experiencing anaphylaxis, a fancy name for an allergic reaction that is potentially fatal.

Before this all started, the only pill I took daily was a multivitamin. I felt like a walking pharmacy, except I couldn't know for sure that all the pills I ingested even helped at all, even mattered.

Even with all those pills, I still woke up with a swollen, red, hive-filled body most days. I still lived uncomfortable within myself, unable to find a reason, or find an explanation, or find an answer.

I wanted to give up and just accept my fate. From then on, I thought, this was how I was going to live.

The allergist had a different outlook. He wanted to perform a skin testing procedure on me to see if I was, in fact, allergic to any foods or anything else within my environment. There are several ways to perform this test, but in order for the results to be accurate, patients need to stay off any and all allergy medications for an extended period of time. He told me I couldn't take those five medications for three days.

Those were an interesting three days.

On the second night off all the allergy meds and new prescriptions, I couldn't sleep. My face was swollen. There were hives covering my entire body. I was an itchy mess. And, even worse, I started to have night sweats. I would sweat so much that I would wake up in the middle of the night, lying in my own sweat that had soaked into my sheets.

The next morning, on the third day, I had woken up at 8 a.m., sweaty and itchy. I got out of bed, took a drink of water, and then fell back to sleep. I soon woke up again, an hour later. This time, my entire face and hands were unrecognizably swollen. I sat up in bed. Unable to muster the motivation to move, I sat there for about a half hour. Eventually, I got up out of bed and walked a few feet across my room. Then I felt the world begin to slip.

My skin was sweating. My heart was racing. My vision was blurring. I started seeing dark spots, and then the darkness overwhelmed my vision. Everything went black. I sat back down in bed, but I could feel myself start to collapse. My legs moved me up off the bed and walked me towards the wall in an attempt to alert my family of what was happening. I fell into a glass accent table and it collapsed onto the floor, taking me with it. I had fainted for the first time. Then I must've jolted myself awake after the glass table broke.

My dad heard the dilemma, thankfully, and ran upstairs to see what was going on. I opened my bedroom door, barely coherent, and told him, "I think I need to go to the hospital," before floating away again and falling over onto my floor.

In that moment, the extremely expensive EpiPen was put to good use. My mom dug the device out of my bag, only to realize that she didn't remember how to use it. Through my haze, I told her how and where to inject it. So she did, and then my parents held me, walking me downstairs and into the bathroom so I could change out of my sweaty clothes. The EpiPen prevented me from totally losing consciousness, but I still did not have control over my body.

My mom drove me to the hospital. On that random day in August, I was checked into the emergency room for the first time in my life.

I hoped the emergency room would save me. They would make the swelling and hives disappear, and they would bring me back into full consciousness, back into the world. Maybe they would even figure out what was causing this, and maybe they would give me answers to all the questions that had been lingering for months. I wanted so badly for them to save me.

They didn't. They asked me the same rounds of questions I'd been asked by other nurses and doctors for months already, and I gave them the same answers: Um, I'm doing okay, I guess. No, I don't think I'm allergic to anything. No, I don't know why this is happening. Yes, this is really weird. Yes, this is awful. Yeah, I hope I get better, too.

They had no wisdom to impart or answers to give. They administered me a standard dosage, 25 mg, of Benadryl through an IV – only after a solid hour of two nurses, one on each side of me, trying to find my tiny, stubborn veins through my swollen skin, muttering to themselves about how difficult this was, jabbing needles into my body over and over again.

Then, the ER doctor told me I shouldn't have stopped taking my allergy medication. I told him I had stopped because I was supposed to have a skin test performed within the next day or two. The doctor had nothing to say in reply, nothing to give me hope.

I stayed in the emergency room bed for hours, simply listening to the beeping and the screaming and the people rushing in and out of the area. My mom sat in the chair next to my bed, staring at me while I stared into space.

The 25 mg of Benadryl helped decrease the swelling in my face, and also alleviated the dizziness, but the hives never completely subsided.

Since I was starting to look better, they sent me home that afternoon.

I still wasn't really "better," though. I saw the allergist a couple of days later and, because I had to begin taking Benadryl again to prevent another fainting attack, they couldn't accurately perform the skin testing. I still didn't know what was wrong with my body.

It kept happening. It never stopped. Hives and swollen skin became part of me. No one could figure out what was wrong with my body. No medication could successfully combat my symptoms. But my life kept unfolding in front of me, and I sat back and watched it, itchy and red and swollen and miserable.

About a month later, in September, I was sitting in class. I was only a couple weeks into the first semester of my last year of college. I was having an okay day, an okay time listening to my professor talk about the coursework and upcoming assignments. Then I felt my eye begin to swell. I escaped into the restroom to look at myself in the mirror. Once again, the idiopathic urticaria and angioedema overwhelmed me and my body.

I stared at myself in the restroom mirror at my college, and I thought I looked insane. I thought I looked like I had a disease, but I didn’t, and I felt defeated. I didn't want anyone to look at me. I considered just staying in the restroom, just not going back to class. But I couldn't. I had to go to class. So I went into a stall, locked the door, and took out the bottle of Benadryl I kept in my bag, and I took a couple pills, and then a couple more. And then some more. Then I waked to the vending machine and bought a bottle of Pepsi and drank some – for the first time in five years, as I was abstaining from soft drinks – because I figured the sugar and caffeine would keep me awake, offsetting the Benadryl's sedating effects. I wasn't trying to fall asleep in class; I just wanted the night to pass. Afterwards, I walked back to my seat and sat there for the remainder of the lecture with my hands covering my face and my gaze lowered down towards my desk.

In that restroom stall, I took at least 150 mg of Benadryl. The standard dose, and what I received in the ER, is only 25 mg. I was sick of my face. I didn't want to feel. Thankfully, I didn't fall asleep at the wheel.

The next day, I had another class to attend. The same thing happened – I was sitting in class when my eye began to swell. This time around, I couldn't handle it. I didn't want to sit in class surrounded by people feeling self-conscious and miserable, staring at my desk. So I pulled my professor aside, and we walked out into the hallway and I briefly explained what was happening to me.

"...So I think I'm just gonna go home," I finally said, feeling defeated.

"That's alright, don't worry about it," she replied. "Are you going to be okay driving home?"

My eye was so swollen that I could barely keep it open.

"Yeah, I think I'll be okay."

She told me to be careful driving home, and she hoped I could figure out what was wrong with me. I thanked her, and then I left.

I woke up the next day to a few missed phone calls and text messages from Kelsey.

"Come outside," a text message read.

I got out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror. My face didn't look like my face. Both of my eyes were swollen, as were my cheeks. And my body didn't feel like my body. My joints were swollen and painful, and my skin was itchy and red. I was defeated.

I walked outside to find Kelsey's car parked in the driveway. Seeing me walking towards the car, she got out from the driver's seat and hugged me.

"I got you something," she said. She handed me a pumpkin spice latte, a drink she knew I adored.

"Thanks," I said as I sipped the latte, feeling grateful.

Maybe it was the latte that saved me. Or maybe it was Kelsey's emotional support, or my professor’s sympathy. Maybe it was just all the pills. Or maybe it was none of the above... I honestly don't know.

Whatever it was, that same day in September was the very last day my face swelled. My hives and bodily swelling went away, too. And as of today, they have still never come back.

Following that day, I slowly weaned myself off all the medications. And I no longer carry a bottle of Benadryl in my bag at all times, and I no longer need to carry an EpiPen.

My body is back to normal.

But I still don't know what happened, or why. Why did my eye begin swelling at that concert, of all places? And why did it stop on a random day in September after drinking a pumpkin spice latte, of all things?

My body is back to normal, but the memories of those months will always live in the back of my mind. I'll never forget how it made me look, or how it made me feel.

I may never know its cause. I may never know how to prevent it. I may never know anything other than what my body told me. At least for now, there are no answers, only questions.

And since I'll never know why it happened, I know I can never really prevent it from happening again. It could still happen again. It could start again, anytime, just as suddenly as it ended. That's what really scares me.

On Writing Hard Words, and What Ned Vizzini Means to Me

"What Ned Vizzini Means to Me" was originally written in April 2019, and was revised Feb. 21, 2026

Content Warning: This blog post discusses mental health topics including depression and suicide.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a good writer. I’ve been working at a local newspaper since May 2018, and some of my favorite stories published in the paper – both written by myself and other reporters – are the ones showcasing vulnerability, either from the author or the subject.

My favorite pieces of writing aren’t shallow, meaningless words that just talk about the goodness of the world and ignore all the bad parts.

Ever since I became interested in books and short essays or stories, the words that meant the most to me were the hardest to read. And ever since I started writing, the words I felt the proudest of required me to be the most vulnerable. Because of that, I’ve neglected to post some of my more vulnerable essays on this website.

I want to change.

I wrote the following essay, “What Ned Vizzini Means to Me,” in December 2017 as a college admissions essay when trying to get into an MFA program for creative writing. I never published it anywhere else, online or otherwise, not because I wasn’t proud of my writing, but simply because I wanted to keep my guard up.

But as I state in my essay, and as I still truly believe, the most meaningful writing requires vulnerability. If no vulnerable writers existed, I don’t think good writing would ever be published.

Good words can change the world. If just one person is ever inspired by my own writing in the way I have been inspired by Ned Vizzini and other authors, then I’ll have already won against my doubts.

What Ned Vizzini Means to Me

If you’d like to know, here’s my story: I was never diagnosed with depression. I didn’t want to see a doctor. I thought I could handle it on my own. I didn’t want to talk to an adult about my feelings or lie on a couch to discuss my problems or take a pill just to feel okay.

I was never clinically diagnosed, but when I was 13 years old, people looked at me and said, “You look really depressed.” I looked down at my shoes in reply.

And I guess I probably was, even though I’ll never know with certainty. Was I experiencing stereotypical teenage angst or could I have benefitted from seeking help? I don’t know, and I know I’ve sought help today (in 2026) and it’s helped so much. But I do know that most of my early teenage years were wasted feeling like hell.

When I was 13, there were three things that helped me feel something vaguely resembling happiness amid all the incessant misery controlling my thoughts and body and mind.

First, listening to music made me halfway happy. Not just any music, though. Music with a purpose, as I liked to define it. I didn’t enjoy all the hollow pop songs that cluttered the radio, so I searched the Internet and found musicians who sang about things I thought I could relate to. They sang about pain, about heartbreak, about loneliness. I found myself dancing to clever beats while singing along to lyrics that echoed my inner demons.

Writing made me almost happy, too. I had this journal, a spiral-bound, wide ruled notebook with a black cover. In this notebook, I wrote down all the thoughts that clouded my mind and sketched out all the images that engulfed my brain. Writing didn’t make my problems go away – not even a little bit. But with every word I wrote in that notebook, the hell in my head became something more tangible, something I could see and speak and scrutinize. The hell I felt became words I wrote, and within those words, I found myself realizing there lived a small glimmer of beauty among the pain.

And then sometimes, listening to music wasn’t enough. Writing down my thoughts wasn’t enough. Sometimes I couldn’t dance to my demons and sometimes I couldn’t find even a sliver of beauty in pain. So, when that happened, I needed a distraction. So I read books.

I read a book called It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini. The novel revolves around Craig Gilner, an overly ambitious and clinically depressed teenager living in New York City. To begin the book, Craig explains to readers: “It’s so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That’s above and beyond everything else, and it’s not a mental complaint—it’s a physical thing, like it’s physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don’t come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people’s words do: they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.”

So, right from the start of the book, Craig is in pretty bad shape. He’s feeling depressed, seeing a shrink, and taking Zoloft. None of his friends understand his troubles and when he tries to talk to his parents about it, they don’t really get it, either. And he puts so much pressure on himself to get good grades, to overcome his depression, to be normal.

When I was 13, I wasn’t diagnosed with depression, I wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist, and I wasn’t taking antidepressants (unrelated spoiler alert: I am today). I guess it seems like I didn’t really have too much in common with Craig, and despite our superficial differences, I connected with Craig. I found myself in that book. Craig’s thoughts mirrored my own, and that helped me realize I wasn’t as alone as I assumed. Reading about Craig’s life didn’t make my own problems go away. Reading the character’s life made me realize that my problems were shared by other people (albeit, in this case, fictional people). So, Craig’s story gave me hope.

As the book continues, Craig gets better. The Zoloft starts working. So then, thinking he’s cured, he stops taking his medication. And then he gets worse. And then one night, he decides to end everything. He’s had enough. Craig tells readers, “I’m going to do it tonight. This is such a farce, this whole thing. I thought I was better and I’m not better. I tried to get stable and I can’t get stable. I tried to turn the corner and there aren’t any corners; I can’t eat; I can’t sleep; I’m just wasting resources.”

So he decides to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of the night. Before he leaves, though, he calls an emergency helpline. The person on the other end of the line tells him that it will be okay; things will get better. They tell Craig to go to the emergency room in the hospital. So, instead of biking to the Brooklyn Bridge, Craig bikes to the hospital in the late hours of the night. And the ER visit ends with him checking himself into an inpatient psych floor.

The story continues to develop during the five days Craig spends in the hospital. Throughout those five days, Craig talks to doctors and patients about his own problems and what can be done to alleviate those problems – not cure them, not necessarily, but make them more bearable, more controlled.

Craig leaves the hospital on a Thursday. Despite the book’s somber beginning, the story ends with hope. Craig is out of the hospital. He’s going to go home. He’s going to hang out with his friends. He’s going to go on a date. He’s going to live.

The story meant a lot to me when I was 13. And it still does. The book shows me that sick feelings aren’t permanent. Depression doesn’t last forever. Things will eventually get better.

After the story, an endnote within the novel states, “Ned Vizzini spent five days in adult psychiatric in Methodist Hospital, Park Slope, Brooklyn, 11/29/04—12/3/04. Ned wrote this 12/10/04—1/6/05.” Ned Vizzini, the author of It’s Kind of a Funny Story, was inspired to write the novel after he was admitted into a psych unit for five days – much like his character, Craig. And, much like Craig, Ned was diagnosed with depression and was prescribed medication. Just like Craig, Ned battled with mental illness and used those struggles to write his novel. He didn’t let his mental illness control him. Instead, he used his experiences to instill hope, to inspire others, and to cope.

I look up to Ned Vizzini. I’d like to say I feel connected to him, but I know that’s something heavy to say about someone I’ve never met.

Since I was 13, Ned Vizzini meant a lot to me. His story and his struggle is proof that mental illness does not limit a person. Mental illness does not define a person. Mental illness is not the person. Ned Vizzini was not just “depressed.” Ned Vizzini was so much more than his depression.

On December 19, 2013, Ned Vizzini took his life.

He was 32 years old. It was nine years after his stay in a psychiatric ward. He was so much more than his depression, but on that day, it consumed him.

I don’t know why he did it. I mean, no one will ever truly know why anyone “does it.” No one knows what his last thoughts were.

Shortly after his death, the Internet was filled with grieving fans and sympathetic writers posting their thoughts and condolences. Some said at least he’s in a better place now. I know my thoughts won’t change anything about this, but I don’t think he is. I think the “better place” would have been his own life, free of the depression, negative thoughts, and enduring pain that suffocated him.

Battle after battling can be won against demons and the war can still be lost. So sometimes it makes me wonder what’s the point in fighting?

I idolized Ned Vizzini then, and today I look up to his life. I connected with his characters and, more importantly, I connected with him. He taught me that darkness is always followed by light. I am never as lost as I think I am. Hope incessantly exists.

And I still want to believe that. I still want to believe in his hope. I want to believe in It’s Kind of a Funny Story. I want to believe that depression may be scary and dark and cold, but it will always get better. It has to get better.

Books have the power to shape minds and change lives. When I was 13, Ned Vizzini’s book changed my life – even today, it is still changing my life.

Ned Vizzini taught me that… yeah, okay, I admit it – I can still lose the war. But I need to keep fighting because my story only ends when I do. I need to keep writing my story.