My face is paralyzed. The doctors don’t understand why. They say I had a palsy on one side and then a stroke on top of it.

I dream of before all this happened. When I could walk into a grocery store and be greeted by smiles and nods. When I could laugh and flirt and wink. So much I took for granted.

I look in the mirror and it doesn’t look like my face anymore. The skin droops down below my eyes.

My lips and beard sag down from my teeth. When I try and eat, the food just slops in and I only get part of it. I try and tilt my head back and chew as hard as I can. I drink a lot of protein shakes for nutrition.

Every time my wife looks at me, she has to look away. I can see the tears in her eyes and it makes me so upset. I’m not who she married. She can’t recognize who I am.

My voice is muffled; it doesn’t sound like my voice. I can barely talk. It’s hard to appreciate how much your lips and mouth shape your speech until you lose all control over them.

But behind this mask, I’m still here. I see everything. I hear everything. I can still read, and think, and write.

Maybe this is the price of knowledge. I know a secret few others do: people love you only as much as they like looking at you, only as much as you fulfill their fantasies. When you can’t do that anymore, and become a burden, they’ll slip away, one by one, until you’re left alone and totally solitary.

I know that love and family are a lie. You take a person’s face away and they might as well be dead. I’m not who I was before this illness happened.

This is better than what I had before. That was all lies and illusion. Now when I look through this mask I see who people really are, how they treat someone who they don’t think is even human. I’ve learned what humanity is really worth.