3153600 minutes. How do you measure 6 years in a life?

It's odd. This whole month has been leading up to this day, and now that's it's here I feel empty. No, that's not right, I feel like this isn't how the day was supposed to go. You see, today marks 6 years since I've been diagnosed with morphea. I realize that no one else remembers the exact date because it isn't that important, but the fact that my own parents haven't noticed my funk is slightly upsetting. I get this way every August. From the 1st til the 19th I get into this rut. I feel gross, I'm mean, I don't laugh as much, or maybe it's all in my head. I think mostly I get gross around this time of year because I don't know how to act. Last year I celebrated. I treated myself to a few little things and was so excited about it being 5 whole years. But I felt like people didn't appreciate me celebrating that I was sick. And this year, I'm just mopey. A friend spent the morning trying to cheer me up, and he didn't even say why he was. He had read it on my facebook and could tell. It's times like these and friends like Big Red that let me know how much people do care about me.

I can't stop thinking about the day I first met my dermatologist. He came into the exam room, introduced himself and started pulling and poking my skin. He said 'this looks like morphea' and he left the room, only to come back with other docters who all did the same thing. No explanation, no asking for my permission, he just treated me like I was a med school mannequin who wasn't scared as shit to be sitting on the exam table hearing the paper crunch under my butt. Then came all the blood tests, and x-rays, and the CAT scan. But how far have I come since then?

A little girl stood behind me in line at Target the other day. She beamed at me with pride while showing me the new Barbie her mom was about to buy for her. She was telling me all the things a little 5 year old girl tells to a strange lady in the store. Then she said something to me that doesn't get said to every other strange lady. She said 'why do you have owies all over your arm?' Like usual I lied. I told her that I got hurt when I was a very little girl. I got the saddest look from those doe eyes of hers. I'm all better now I assured her. For a minute she looked at me like she didn't believe me, then asked 'and why do you elbows look like that?' Her mother was so embarrassed by the little girl's curiousity. I told her it was fine, and that it didn't bother me. I lied again. How do you tell a mother that her little girl just broke your heart, when she had no idea what she was asking? The worst part is not even knowing what to tell a little kid, and no matter how many times this exact same situation has happened I still have no idea what to say. Sometimes it's 'I was burned', or 'I got hurt', or 'God made me different'. You can't really be mad at a child for wondering, but can I be mad at an adult for assuming? A lady once asked me how long it had been since I'd been burned, and another asked if anyone was killed in the fire. Why would you ask when you truly don't care? I think this whole thing would be so much easier if strangers could see past my appearance and realize that I might be interesting to stare at but that I don't appreciate it.