It is one. It is a nightmare, a real nightmare. I don’t like it. I never imagined it could happen. It has and I can’t get out of it. It is bad; it is surreal, something out of a bad dream or a joke gone wrong. It’s the face. The face I once had is not this one. My old face was lovely; I didn’t have to apologize to myself for having it. I was proud of how I looked, how I walked down the street. Now, today, the eyes have circles under them. My hair is straight and clean; sometimes I can’t comb it. My skin is not the skin I want. It has wrinkles. It doesn’t have animation. It’s just there—like me. I am just there.