“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

It’s a sunburn that won’t heal. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. Your whole body itches. It hurts to move.

Red Skin Syndrome body flare

You wake up. You can’t get out of bed.

Your eye lids are swollen. You have to pry them open with your fingers as some sort of ooze that has glued them shut.

Red Skin Syndrome eyes

Keep moving.

You take six steps towards your front door before leaning against the couch, out of breath.

“I’ll just walk down the stairs and take the elevator up,” you say.

Keep moving.

It’s been another 18 hour of day of clawing at your skin while your bones ache and your hair falls out.

Red Skin Syndrome chest

You can’t sleep. It’s cold outside. Get out of bed.

Keep moving.

You look like a leper. You can’t go out into public looking like this.

Red Skin Syndrome Face

You don’t care. Let them judge. It’s not about them.

Keep moving.

Your hands are split open. Making a fist slices small cuts into you hand like an X-Acto knife.

Red Skin Syndrome Hands

Doesn’t matter. Wrap those bitches up. Let them bleed into the gauze. Off to the gym.

Red Skin Syndrome wrapped hands

Keep moving.

Self doubt sets in. You tell yourself you’re weak. Why bother going to the gym.

It doesn’t matter if you’re moving big weights. You’re here, where you belong.

Keep moving.

You get out of your car. Lifting your chin up causes the skin around your neck neck to split open.

Red Skin Syndrome Neck

You feel sweat sting every inch of your body.

We don’t have time to care about that.

Keep moving.

People ask how your skin is doing. You tell them that your skin is the least interesting topic to talk about.

They are curious and insist. You give a look. You don’t have time to dwell on that.

You’re too busy moving.

Keep moving

You’re going to be in a private Hell.

If you can’t walk, you crawl. If you can’t crawl, you squirm. If you can’t move, you blink. If you can’t blink, you think.

There is only one way to survive Hell.

Keep moving.