itch. scratch. repeat.

this is my story on how it was growing up with eczema. i dont think anybody will read this but hopefully if someone with eczema reads it, itll make them feel a little less alone.

I feel the burn. I feel it everywhere. It eats at me. Gnaws at me. I look down to my red-clad skin, flaring and pulsing in the sun. Thriving in the sweat my body’s produced on this hot summer day. The screams and laughs of children infiltrate my ears as I sit silently; well, almost silently, the scratching of my nails against my damaged skin makes a familiar sound; one I hear multiple times throughout my days. As I sit and scratch and watch, sit on the wooden bench, scratch at my eczema, watch my peers play; I can’t help but wonder why I must be different. Why must I look different from the others? I’m only eight years old. I thought adulthood was the age everybody dreaded over its difficulty. I slouch over while still scratching my skin, scrunching my face up and furrowing my eyebrows as I cause myself relief yet aching pain. I turn my gaze down towards the crease of my arm again, I see red. Two shades of red. The habitual rosy type staining many parts of my person; and now the crimson red of blood escaping my body. The skin my rash laid on was now ripped. The sting coursed through my body. I feel it everywhere. I dreaded my shower tonight as the resource I need to live would cause me the utmost pain. 

Maybe I deserved it, I pondered to myself. After all, I am different from the rest. An alien, a monster. An outsider. Everyone’s always scared of monsters. The public cheering and congratulating the hero for slaying the monster. I do deserve this. I am a monster in my primary school. Everybody’s always scared of monsters. Everybody’s always scared of me. They stare. They judge. They whisper. Their menacing stares living in my head rent-free… haunting me. They’re what keep me tossing and turning at night; apart from my eczema, of course. I look down again. The blood is dry. It sits still, lifeless, on my arm. The trail it was making coming to a halt. I lean forward to grab my over-sized bag and unzip the front pocket, grabbing out a small pouch that I’ve come to be familiar with over the years. The hot pink colour and hundreds of sausage dogs, covering every inch of it, greeting me. I open it and rummage through the ventolin inhalers, epipen and medication and grab out a packet of tissues. I wipe the dark red blood off my arm and search for my Advantan (a cream for eczema), the blue and yellow stripes aiding me recognise it. As I unscrew the lid of the small tube of ointment, I look out to the playground. Children swinging on monkey bars, climbing tall structures and sliding down slides. Not a care in the world. Living their lives like any child should. Why must I be the one to grow up too fast? Why must I have so much responsibility at only eight years old? Why must I be the monster in this story? Eight years old, god damn it. Eight years old. 

I’m in class now, in the back corner, sitting next to the girl with special needs, Lucy. I think she’s an outsider like me. Our peers make fun of her for not being able to speak. I find it refreshing. Some people have too much liberty to speak. I find the small amount of comfort I experience in a day by being next to Lucy. After I’ve had a rough day, she’ll tap my shoulder and hand me a drawing. I’ve received countless drawings from Lucy. They’re all hung in my bedroom. I call it the Lucy wall because they fill almost an entire wall. I’m not sure how she knows when I’m upset, I never tell her. In fact, I’ve never spoken to her. We just have an unspoken friendship, literally. The blaring siren fills our ears and indicates for us to pack up. My peers race out the door and head to their regular lunch spots. In the sunshine, on the oval, next to the playground. I slowly shuffle to my regular territory. Next to the bathrooms. In the shade; where my eczema is the most quiet. If i’m lucky, I might not flare up today. 

I munch on the nut free, egg free, gluten free, soy free, sesame free biscuit my mum made me. I love my mum. She always makes me feel good; not like an outsider. My dad doesn’t either, I’m his little princess, Lola-Moon. I’m lucky to have such loving parents. My thoughts are interrupted when I feel the pulsing on my skin and look down. Of course, I shake my head. There goes my eczema, reddening. Flaring. Itching. I clench my fist and dig my nails into my hand to refrain myself from annihilating my outer-layer of skin with my shortly-cut nails. As I clench my jaw and bounce my leg repeatedly on the ground, I notice two shadows come into view. I switch my gaze to the two girls in front of me. Irma and Emily. They’re people you could say I’m… familiar with. Their mocking smiles appear as they creep closer to me, stopping about two metres away from me, so as to not catch my ‘infectious disease’ (eczema isn’t contagious, some people are just close-minded).

“Hey Lola.” Irma’s voice booms as her smile grows.

“Hi.” I murmur out.

“Why are you alone?” Her eyebrows furrow as she plasters on a ‘confused look’. I stay silent and look down at my lap. My leggings covering the rashes that lay beneath.

“Are you slow? Answer the question.” Emily demeaningly tells me.

“I don’t know.” I tell them, sounding unsure; although I am. I’m a monster, that’s why.

“Is it ‘cus of those weird patches on your skin?” Irma retorts. Their noses scrunch up as they examine the skin visible, covered with red. I swallow and restrict the yelps I want to let loose. Restrict the tears I blink away. Restrict the sniffles I’m disregarding. I attempt to stand up to remove myself from this situation; the girls move in front of me and block my path. I stare at them, eyes widening, knowing what they’re capable of. They laugh, openly mocking me. I see Irma’s hands approach me as I harshly tumble to the ground. The harsh gravel cuts through my leggings and skin. My eyes begin to water. I look up with a quivering lip and tears streaming down my face to see Irma with a look of pride, delight even, on her face and Emily cackling of laughter in the background. “Just stay away from all of us. You’re nothing but a monster.” 

I froze. Staring at the ground before me with sorrow-filled eyes who cannot shut, like the whole world is breaking, crumbling around me. It exploded in my head with a blinding whiteness; it made me dizzy. With a stammering heart I looked down to my bloodied knees, the cuts mixing with my eczema, for she had just confirmed what I believed all along.

I am the monster.

As I release the memories that I call my childhood, I will protest. I will fight. I will fight for the little girl who lives inside me and say liberty is not something that should be taken advantage of; it is a gift. One that should be treated with care and kindness, like a delicate flower. So I will fight. Fight for all the little girls and boys who have had to grow up too fast. Who had to sit in the shade. Who had to grow up alone, like an outcast from society. I will fight for you. I will not let my past become our future.