As you may have gathered, I have a lot of allergies.
I don’t think of them as conditions.
I think of them as betrayals.

My body does not gently signal discomfort. It panics. It overreacts. It calls the authorities. If something is even mildly suspicious, my immune system treats it like an active threat and deploys every defense it has—whether or not that defense makes sense.

The first betrayal I remember was mosquitos. When I get bitten, it doesn’t itch—it inflames. The bite swells into a hot, red mass about the diameter of a grapefruit.

Then came wool. This one is genetic. My dad is allergic too—so allergic it kept him out of Vietnam, which remains the most successful outcome of any Bellows allergy. For me, even brushing my hand down the sleeve of a wool coat or walking barefoot across a wool rug is enough to cause a red, cracked rash that feels excessive. Vindictive. Like wool has a vendetta.

Grass followed. I could play in it for a while, but if it had been freshly cut, my eyes would swell shut and my breathing would become… aspirational. Which made “running the mile” in Junior High closer to limping a mile.

 Junior high, is also when food began to turn on me.

Bananas and kiwi make my mouth burn. I mentioned this casually—like a fun personality quirk—and discovered, through the horror of my peers, that fruit was not supposed to fight back. Cantaloupe and honeydew joined the rebellion, making my throat hurt like I’d insulted them personally.

Nickel was next. Cheap jewelry caused swelling and itching. The tack button on my jeans left a near-permanent red circle on my stomach, like my body was trying to brand me with a warning label.

Latex came later.

I first discovered it because Band-Aids left red-hot welts where the plastic had touched my skin. Which was concerning. But not nearly as concerning as discovering this allergy in more… intimate contexts.

Imagine my body’s reaction to latex condoms.

Once, during a pelvic exam, a doctor put on her gloves and positioned herself between my legs. Her hands rested on my thighs. Just before she dove in I asked—casually, politely—if she’d remembered my latex allergy.

She had not.

She changed her gloves and continued, leaving behind raised welts in the exact outline of her hands on either thigh. I had been branded. Medically. Symmetrically.

I am also allergic to cats.
I ignore this completely.

I love them. I am willing to suffer sneezing, itchy eyes, coughing, wheezing, and a general sense that my lungs are closing for business. Love is worth it. (And a daily Zyrtec pill has been a game changer)

Avocados are another allergen I am willing to sacrifice for. They make my eyelids swell. A little avocado on my sushi roll means a little puffiness. A full bowl of guacamole means I wake up with my eyes swollen shut. I look like I’ve been punched in the face.

Eggplant makes my neck swell. Not my throat. Just my neck. Which feels arbitrary. Like my body spinning a wheel and landing on “neck, for no reason.”

Some laundry detergents, perfumes, and oils give me rashes. Perfumes and oils also cause migraines. Blinding ones. The kind that feel less like pain and more like punishment for existing.

I am a mess.

With this ever-growing list of allergens, new ones should not surprise me.

And yet.

I met a guy online. Justin. He had potential. Nice. Liked cats. Enjoyed good food and travel. He lived in Salt Lake, and I would drive up occasionally so we could spend time together.

One night, I was over at his place and he made me a drink.

He made a gin and tonic with his fancy gin. Bombay Sapphire.

It tasted good. Botanical. Sophisticated. Like adulthood.

That’s how I learned I’m allergic to juniper berries.

There was some heavy petting happening—not the cat, although Hans was aggressively affectionate—when I heard a tink across the room and felt a sharp pull on my face.

My nose ring had launched itself out of my face and hit the window across the room.

It did not fall out.
It ejected itself.

My face had swollen so dramatically that my jewelry abandoned ship in self-defense. Even my piercings were like, We’re not surviving this.

I gathered my things and drove home, looking like Hitch after shellfish.

The next day, my face was still grotesquely engorged, so I went to the doctor. He examined me thoughtfully and suggested Bell’s Palsy.

I suggested Benadryl.

I was right.

Amazingly, Justin and I went out again. A few times.

And while it was impressive that he was still willing to spend time with me after seeing my full Mr. Hyde transformation, it never really worked out. Nothing dramatic. I mean other than my flying facial piercings.

The main problem was that he came alive at 10 p.m., and I was unconscious by 9.

Which, honestly, might be the most normal reason any of my relationships has ever ended.

Just incompatible.

Alas.

At a certain point, it became clear that my body wasn’t just allergic to the world—it was actively working against me. It hurt. It swelled. It reacted. It took up space without my permission.

And the job that made my life miserable did offer me one thing in return: health insurance.

I spoke with our benefits specialist and discovered that a breast reduction would be covered—if I met certain criteria.

First, I needed a doctor to acknowledge, in writing, that I had giant knockers.

This was not going to be a problem.

I was a 34H.

For reference, an H cup in U.S. sizing means there was an eight-inch difference between the circumference of my ribcage and the circumference around my bust. This is not subtle. This is not something that sneaks up on you. Anyone with eyes—or peripheral vision—could attest.

Second, I had to prove I had tried conservative alternatives: massage, chiropractors, and opiates.

Yes. Opiates.

Not just painkillers—potentially addictive painkillers.

I knew a few people who had died from an opiate addiction.

When I pushed back on this requirement, I was told I only needed to have them prescribed. I didn’t actually have to take them.

Which felt like a strange loophole in a system allegedly concerned with my health.

Third, I had to be within the approved BMI. This was to prove that anatomy — not obesity—was to blame.

I weighed 160 pounds.
According to the sacred charts, I was supposed to weigh 125.

So, I started dieting.

Having once been anorexic, not eating came disturbingly easily. I learned to eat just enough to avoid the shaking and vomiting caused by hypoglycemia and I lost thirty pounds. Fairly quickly.

But I could not lose the last five.

I tried everything. I even cut off my long hair in a last-ditch attempt to put my thumb on the scale.

Meanwhile, I started talking to doctors—trying to find one I liked. One who didn’t feel creepy. One with good reviews. I asked friends for recommendations.

Instead, I got pushback.

People told me I was beautiful just the way I was. That I shouldn’t change myself. That I should love my body.

And I got horror stories.

One woman at a blues dance pulled me aside and told me she’d had a reduction—and one of her nipples never reattached.

It fell off.

She was nipple-less on one breast.

She got a tattoo of a lizard there to balance things out.

Which was horrifying.
And also, somehow, a power move.

In the end, I could not lose the last five pounds. The insurance company refused to acknowledge that losing thirty had done nothing to reduce my bust size, and there was no reason to believe five more would.

So, I gave up.

Too scared.
Too tired.
And too fat—apparently—to qualify for relief.