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.

I’m 31, and I’ve been replaying this scene since my first eczema outbreak at age 8, when a rash spread from my toes to the back of my knees, up my hands and inside my elbows and onto my face.

Eczema is a sweeping term for a chronic, inherited skin disease. I have a form called atopic dermatitis that is tied to allergies and asthma, which both run in my family, though I’m the first with the skin portion of the symptoms. One theory is that these inherited conditions combine with an overactive immune system to produce eczema. Anytime my body comes into contact with something it doesn’t like — an item of clothing, a change in weather, stress — my brain relays it to my skin by tattooing my body with red, burning scales. I haven’t been completely itch- and mark-free in over a year.

A lot of people outgrow eczema when they move from baby to toddler; and most stop having frequent breakouts once they pass age 5. For the rest of us, eczema is a lifetime of painful and disfiguring outbreaks whose origins are hard to pinpoint. It’s like always having poison ivy, but with no clue how you’re coming into contact with the plant.

Treatments, like the triggers, are elusive. I’ve had five doctors in 10 years, each of whom recommended a moisturizer and prescribed steroid creams so powerful that the only way I can use them in the height of an outbreak is if someone holds my hands down after I apply them so I won’t scratch at the burning patches of skin.

When I was a teenager, my parents tried limiting my activities: no more basketball, no more swimming (unless it was in the ocean, since saltwater was supposed to help). Forget doing dishes, or shucking corn, or going outside without gloves on if it was cooler than 60 degrees. I never learned how to apply makeup and still can’t wear it. My skin reacts to everything, including “natural” and “organic” beauty products. I wore long sleeves and pants to school, even on the hottest, most humid days.

I also became something of a recluse, heading right home after school whenever possible. I couldn’t endure the stares of my classmates, who would ask if I was contagious. One boy who sat behind me in freshman math liked to call me “the leper.”

When I passed through puberty and still had outbreaks, I viewed my eczema as a character flaw, something I brought on myself for not being perfect. If only I would just destress, take shorter showers, go organic, go gluten-free, stop eating dairy, eat more broccoli, use this recommended laundry detergent, wear only organic cotton, dust more, work less, stop running, try this $20, $30, $40 over-the-counter cream, cover my skin in olive or coconut oil, sleep with a humidifier in my room, get central air-conditioning, take ibuprofen for the swelling, Benadryl to calm my allergies, go tanning, meditate, do yoga…relax, relax, relax.

I have tried all of these things. Some temper reactions, but none have stopped the eczema from coming back. I know I cannot prevent my body from attacking itself, but when I look at the ooze dripping down my arms or weeping from my eyelids, I can’t help but think the fault somehow is mine.

I become that teenager again. I withdraw, shut down, lock myself in a room. Until it becomes too much — the pain, the soaked-through bandages — and I beg my doctor for an appointment.

That’s what happened during this latest outbreak. I visited my general practitioner, who diagnosed that the eczema was infected and chided me for trying to deal with it on my own (“Just relaxing is not going to fix this,” he said). He put me on a heavy antibiotic and steroid regimen, with stern instructions to find a dermatologist who can prescribe some of the newer treatments that might help.

So I called, but the wait for an appointment is long. The patches on my hands are small now, the few flakes on my eyelids almost clear. The insides of my elbows are stark white, new skin I hope will stay clear. I’m not hiding in my bedroom, and haven’t had to use the steroid cream in months. I recently ran my first marathon. But there’s that tickle at the back of my throat, reminding me that it’ll be back some day. And I wait.