During my latest eczema outbreak, the routine was typical. I wake up and remove from my hands the white cotton socks that prevent me from scratching overnight, then press a tissue to my closed eyes to remove the pus and blood that have accumulated in the folds of my eyelids. In the bathroom, I try not to dwell too long at the sight of myself in the mirror before patting my skin dry and slathering it with lotion. I wrap bandages over the raw and weeping patches in the crooks of my elbows — a stopgap, really, since the bandages will soak through in several hours. I take Benadryl to calm the itching, and ibuprofen to temper the swelling and pain, before heading to meetings in an antihistamine haze. I hope no one stares, but they do.