Dear Eczema

Dear Eczema, 

I hate you.

Yes, I said it. Hate. 

It’s a four-letter word you’ve been told never to use.  But today I’m saying it. NO, I’M YELLING IT, TO THE END OF MY FINGERTIPS!!! If I could put this whole post in all caps, I would. But I won’t. You’re welcome.

I hate that you make my hands hurt so bad I can’t enjoy my day.

I hate that you make my hands burst at the seams.

I hate that I must wear gloves to do tasks around the house.

I hate that It hurts to touch and play with my baby.

I hate that my hands are so aged and ugly and that I can see people stop and stare.

I hate that when I try to lend a literal hand, sometimes people will pull away in fear.

I hate that I lie in bed with gloves on, and that I can feel my heartbeat pulsating through my hands in pain.

I hate that you make my hands itch so badly I want to cry.

I hate that I’ve tried every cream, oil and ointment with no luck.

I hate that I can’t eat my favorite foods for fear of making you worse.

I hate that I have to endure the putrid taste of aloe as I dump it down my throat in the hopes of making you disappear.

I hate that you selected my hands to show your evil face. My hands of ALL places. Why! Why not my arms, or my legs, or my stomach, or my back. WHY MY HANDS?!

I hate that you make me wear gloves in public, and I have to deal with the looks of those passing by.

I hate that you make me feel so self conscious when I’m around anyone.

I hate that steroid creams don’t work.

I hate that you are a daily visual of my Crohn’s Disease.

I hate that it hurts to play piano, or type, or cook, or drive, or be a mom, or a wife, or a friend, or touch anything and everything. 

I hate that you make me hate something so much.  

Per my last email,

Angela