Well, okay, so I’m sleeping in my car again. What? You say. Why have I taken on the sleeping habits of an adventurous teenager or a dispossessed homeless person? I’ll tell you in two words: Environmental Illness. Before you roll your eyes and because you think I’m talking about one of those new age illnesses that people are making up because they need a rest - wait a minute. Until five years ago my life was just like yours. I was in good health and living in L.A. I was pursuing a performing career (isn’t everyone in L.A?) and I was actually prospering, having some paid gigs along with my daytime job. I was moving up the career ladder and feeling good about things until one night. I was driving home to my west side apartment and I saw a group of five helicopters flying in formation above me. Since the Gulf War was behind us, I thought there must be some new maneuvers off the coast we engaged in. I came home and saw the late edition of the new Malathion spraying! They told us to keep our pets and children indoors and cover our cars. Cover our cars? What were they dumping on the residents of Los Angeles that was so toxic that we had to cover their cars?
I studied the papers and for days later there were reports of children getting sick when they played outside, coming down with flu-like symptoms, coughing and sneezing. There were reports of adults feeling poorly, and taking off work. I, unfortunately, was one of these adults. I started getting blotchy skin and rashes on my body. I was carrying on like this, until I started getting flu-like symptoms and feeling generally miserable. One day, I took to my bed and couldn’t get up again for three months. This was, of course, the worst time in my life. I lost my job, my friends, and my performing career was in the toilet. People would call, but I just couldn’t crawl over to the phone to pick it up. Everyone wondered what happened to me. Did I fall into a hole? Yes, in a way I did. A big black hole of chemical sensitivities. I became allergic to a number a substances all around me such as: chemicals, paints, solvents, new carpets, plastics, fabrics, inks, dyes, perfumes, lotions, soaps, shampoos, hairsprays, car and diesel exhaust, pesticides, herbicides, and pollution. I also developed traditional allergies such as: dust, pollens, molds, pet dander, foods, dust mites, etc. I was congested and miserable most of the day. I intuitively realized that I had to leave town to get away from the stinking cesspool that L.A.had become for me.
I drove down to a beach area in Orange County that I had known before - it had good air. I found a real estate agent and rented almost the first apartment that I saw. Once I moved down there, I started feeling better almost immediately. I woke up the first morning with the ocean breeze blowing in my face and I knew things were going to be all right. In my new environment I became more aware of the things that were bothering me. I started using unscented dishsoap, laundry detergent, and hair care products because I realized after trial and error that the perfume was bothering me. I stopped dry-cleaning clothes - the fluid was toxic, and stopped using various household chemicals. I turned off the gas in my house and used electric heaters and burners for cooking. I was living very nicely this way and slowly getting better. This would’ve been the end of my story exept for one unfortunate incident.
I was trying to do a favor for a friend. My friends were slowly reacquainting themselves with me and I was eager to prove myself worthy. I was tired of people thinking I was strange or crazy. I let my friend stay with me, since she was in town, and wanted to stay in beautiful Laguna Beach. I thought a couple of days couldn’t hurt. I was wrong. The moment she walked in, I realized she was covered with fragrance from head to foot. Her clothes were scented, her body was scented, her hair was scented. I knew this was going to be difficult. The next two days were very tough. She washed the fragrance off, but it remained on her clothes and baggage. I plowed through thinking things were going to be fine once she left. Unbelievably, when she was packing to go, she accidentally dropped her bottle of perfume and spilled it on my carpet. Oh my God! What do I do now?
Now I’m a strong person. I’ve been an athlete, a dancer, and a businessperson. I know how to take on the world and survive. I can butt horns with the best of them and come out unscathed. But I’ve never met with anything so deceptively insidious as an illness like chemical sensitivities. The whole world can come crashing down on you and nobody even knows. How can they know? They can’t tell. You look all right. They don’t believe you. And why should they? You have an unbelievable affliction. Who could believe you are reacting to almost everything around you? You are in agony almost 24 hours a day. Oh! They say, you’re depressed, you’re lazy, you don’t want to work, you’re influenced by cult-like dogma, you’re crazy, you’ve gone off the deep end, you’re wacked out. You just need to straighten out and fly right. How can they know? They can’t see it , touch it, feel it, measure it. It’s a controversial illness because it’s hard to pin down. It seems like an impossible situation. How can I ever get out of this tight little box? I feel the world closing in on me. No way out. My once constant energy is slipping away leaving me a small, withered up pool of sadness. I can’t take it.
I send my friend home and then I drive to the drugstore to buy a bottle of sleeping pills. If I had a flair for the dramatic, I would’ve bought a gun, but I was too tired to go that traditional route. I came home to my newly contaminated apartment and sat there. I was filled with overwhelming despair and sorrow. My sister had a yard I could stay in 'till I found a new apartment (her house was too scented), but I couldn’t overcome the oppressive exhaustion that I felt. The task seemed too overwhelming. Everything seemed too hard. The perfume was affecting my sensibilities and making me feel like I was small, insignificant, a nothing. I had to get out, but I couldn’t manage it. I had no money, no energy, no ideas. I sobbed for a while, then in a daze I mindlessly started thumbing through my phone book to seek a way out of this situation. I was somehow able to call my doctor, who knew someone, who knew someone, who knew a woman out in the desert who helped people like me. I made the requisite calls to finally get to this woman, but she was out for the day - she’d be home by 5:00. Could I hold on that long? And what if she didn’t have a place for me? Negative thoughts were rushing through my head until I stepped outside in the fresh air. The agony of the perfume smell makes you want to do something right away, but once I was outside I realized that I could wait a while. If this thing didn’t pan out I could always take drastic steps later on. And it did pan out.
I called the woman, Harriett Malloy, at 5:00 and she answered. She was a no nonsense type who told me to gather my things together and come on down. All I needed was the clothes on my back and some unscented sheets for the bed. I had both. She gave me directions to her place, “The Last Resort” and I realized that it was far - about one hour east of San Diego, two and a half hours from me. Nevertheless, I felt confidence if this woman and her “resort” and I felt it might be the tonic for my aching soul. I drove there on windy highways that climbed up to the high desert. It was beautiful country if you could sneak a glance before the next curve. When I finally got there I found the place to be kind of a ramshackle, rundown affair with just the right charm to appeal to someone like me. When I met Harriett she said that she had to use old building materials so people wouldn’t react to the formaldehyde outgassing from the new stuff. This was the first tidbit of information that I would find that would make my life so much easier and tolerable in the coming months and years.
In my stay at the Last Resort, I met other people like me and learned about the trials and tribulations of environmental illness. This was amazing, because before this time I thought I was the only one with these problems. I thought I was truly wacked out and no one could help me. My stay in the desert was more than healing, it was educational, inspiring, and life-affirming. The little town was sweet and gentle, and the E.I.s were helpful and kind. I would have loved to have stayed there the rest of my life, sheltered from the toxins and pollutants of the outside world. But it was not to be. Harriett gets requests from people all over the world who are in trouble like I was. Due to limited space, I had to cut my stay to a few months, or however long it would take for me to stabilize physically and emotionally and sort my affairs out.
I started going to support groups for people with chemical sensitivities. At first I thought it was wonderful that there were other E.I.s in the city, but after a while I realized that they were mostly bored housewives who needed help finding the right dish detergent to use. I did meet a couple of women, though, who were very interesting and nice. We bonded instantly and I count them as my close friends. I also met a man who is chemically sensitive. We struck up a friendship and started spending time with each other. Occasionally we would go to the park and sit in the sun talking about philosophy, life, music. These days were the most glorious memories I’ve had in many years. We’ve tried to forge a relationship but it’s been very difficult to mesh our lives together. Although we’re both E. I.s, we have different sensitivities. While I might react to the stove and cooking smells, he might react to something else. We could easily drive each other crazy. Neither one of us is willing to take the risk. Besides that, I’m not able to have sex often because that makes my allergies go berserk and I’m sick for a few days. What man is goin to deal with that?
So , here it is, a few years later. I’ve got a nice little apartment with a few furnishings, a supportive circle of friends, and a platonic boyfriend. I try to be happy most of the time, and I practice gratitude every day. I still have very bad days when I can have wild outbursts or extreme mood swings. I also have to fight off bouts of depression and chronic fatigue. I must employ strict discipline in my life. I must have strict control over my diet, my water intake, my sleeping patterns, and most of all, avoidance of pollutants. This means I have to keep the doors and windows closed most of the time. This leaves me isolated and a little lonely. But I am not sad. I’m thankful for the roof over my head, food on the table, and the nice things around me. I have more than many E.I.s.
Which brings me back to the beginning of my story. I stated that I was sleeping in my car. No, I am not suddenly homeless. I am visiting another E.I. and, amazingly, she is reacting to something on me, so I am staying out in the car while she rests. This is a crazy life that we live! I hope my story will inspire some compassion in your heart for people like me. We can’t help the way we are and we don’t want to be like this. We want to be normal and well, just like you. Maybe, science will come up with some kind of remedy in the near future. Until then, we slog on, minding our Ps and Qs, trying new health regimes, and supporting each other. We have hard lives. And we’re not crazy, we’re E.I.s!
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