I know that people judge me when they look at me. Makeup and hair done, designer clothes. High maintenance. Gold digger. Conceited. The funny thing, however, is that appearances are just that–the way we wish to appear. Have you ever visited a friend’s house and it was immaculate on the outside, but inside it was a fucking WRECK? Empty wine bottles on the counter, piles of clean clothes on every chair, no toilet paper on the rolls, and no one can find the damn TV remote? That house is me. I paint myself on the outside to look as pretty as possible to distract from the fact that the inside is a fucking warzone. The problem with this is that no one believes me when I tell them that I am sick. Sick people are pale, hair disheveled, wild-eyed, mumbling. Sick people look sick. The problem with this stereotype is that it’s wrong. Sometimes the sick people are the ones sitting next to you at the bar, in the Louboutins, who just ordered a glass of champagne, careful not to smudge her Tom Ford lipstick. Or it’s the guy next to you at the gym, with the perfect 6-pack, new Yeezy’s and 80k followers on the ‘gram. We can put on any mask we want, but what’s on the inside doesn’t change.