Every morning I wake up, there is blood on my bed sheets.

That metallic tang fills my nostrils and lungs every time I open my eyes. I look at my arms and feel my neck. There is viscous red liquid seeping from my wounds, and my swollen joints look like a freshly picked cherry.

My nape always sticks to the pillowcase as I try to sit up. I grab the fabric and peel it away from my flesh, bit by bit, like peeling off a candy wrapper. I tear away the covers. Faint red fingerprints line my thighs — it’s from the fissure in my skin running down my knee pit.

I head to the bathroom and stare myself down in the mirror. If I were to tell someone that I was tied to a truck and dragged through bricks and bramble, they would believe me.

I hate myself sometimes. I hate how I drink more medicine than water and bathe myself in lotion. I hate how I can’t swim or shower without feeling like a hound is biting chunks out of me. I hate how people point and say that my exposed legs remind them of a crocodile, or say I shed like a snake.

But there is something about myself that I dislike, other than my eczema.

Everyone believes that one day, I will get better. Everyone, except myself. While I’m drowning in a sea of rage, my family is doing all they can to find a good doctor who can provide the right medicine. In my kitchen, there are two drawers of pills, oils and creams dedicated to me, and every night, without fail, my mom helps me through the process of taking care of my skin. Every morning, when I’m at school, she is washing my bedsheets so that I sleep comfortably each night. Yet, I can’t fully appreciate her actions, time or money spent on me, all because I’m busy pitying myself.

When I complain to my friend, I can hear my voice in the back of my mind urging me to calm down. My friend is making every effort to help me as well, saying that I will get better as long as I continue taking care of myself, all the while bringing the best lotions from her house for me to use.

Yet, I constantly feel like I’m alone, like my eczema is a shutter that blinds me. I find myself thinking that others don’t understand. They will never understand. They don’t know how horrible I feel in my own body every day.

But what do those thoughts change? Why do these thoughts matter? I don’t need my family to understand when they are already doing their best to help me. It’s not their fault they don’t have the same condition. They didn’t choose this for me.

Many aspects about myself are beyond my control, yet there is still something within my reach: whether I choose to wallow in self-pity or steer myself toward self-compassion. After all, it’s not my friend’s or family’s fault I don’t recognize their efforts. It’s mine.

If my eczema is a weight that hinders me, then it’s a weight that I can lift. Allowing my eczema to sour my mood every day only weakens my already fragile resolve. Rather, I should know by now that not every problem can be improved in an instant. There is nothing worse than impeding my own progress and forcing myself to remain stagnant, especially when others are doing all they can to support me.

So I listen to everything my doctors instruct me to do: when I sweat, instead of scratching my skin, I spray cold water on my wounded joints and fan myself. When I’m tempted to eat fried chicken, I control myself and order something else instead. As seasons pass, I notice how the drops of sweat that slide down my arm don’t sting as much as they used to, and how the pool water that I’ve avoided for years doesn’t attack me anymore.

Even though it’s been years since I’ve indulged in some of the things I used to enjoy, I’ve been seeing progress. Even though it’ll still take many more years until the scars leave my body, slow progress is still progress.

I will keep appreciating my mom for her unwavering efforts at improving my eczema. I will keep listening to my friend as she listens to me and encourages hope. I will keep doing my best to heal my skin. And for now, my mom will keep washing my bloody bed sheets every morning.

Maybe one day, we won’t have to anymore.