Jerik Hendrickson

@scarygenius

I don’t blog that much anymore.  I’m sure I’ll always go in spurts.  ha.  I said spurts.  Anyway, I’m ALWAYS doing stuff on my Twitter.  You can look at it right here.  In fact, this is the third time in this post I’ve linked to it. 

Anyway, my point is you should check it out.  I’m trying desperately to make you laugh.  Please just accept me.  Pee. 

Marked

Only a tiny handful of people have seen me shirtless in the last 15 years.  Medical professionals, a few very close friends, and an very small number of girls who I managed to temporarily convince I had some sort of sex appeal.  At this point in my life, it’s just become a thing I do without thinking.  I’m used to it.  I have “don’t let anyone see you without this” subconsciously running through my head every time I put a shirt on…

I’m not exactly sure about the origin, I just know sometime when I was 12 or so I looked down at my body and my stomach had a few weird red marks on it.  I’d never seen this before, so I consulted my Dr. Mom immediately.  She told me they were stretch marks. 

“They just happen to some people.”

“Well, do they go away?”

“Not really.”

“Never?”

“Maybe they’ll change color and be less noticeable.”

“Huh.”

Not only did they stay red, they continued to appear and grow for the next few years.  My entire stomach, most of my chest, and the back of my arms had them.  I felt like a freak.

My family took a vacation to my aunt and uncle’s house in Illinois.  They had a pool, but I didn’t want swim in it.  Obviously this meant I’d have to take my shirt off and subject my scary, malformed body to the silent judgment of everyone.  My sister said, “They can’t be THAT bad can they?”  I showed her, and her reaction was “Oh.” said in a tone that confirmed (probably irrationally) that they were that bad.  From then on, my shirt would stay on.

Eventually my mom took me to a dermatologist.  The only information he gave me was that I had had a growth spurt as well as some weight gain and some gland in my body wasn’t ready for it, thus my skin wasn’t prepared for the change, thus causing the marks. 

“Well, do they go away?”

“Hmm.  They will eventually change color and be less noticeable.”

“But they won’t go away?”

“Not really.” 

Middle school began and I was shocked to find that prior to gym class we had to go to the locker rooms and change into proper gym clothes.  This obviously created a problem.  I wasn’t going to let my peers see my streaky freak casing.  I was convinced something was wrong with me, and I felt horrible about the way I looked.  I’d put my gray “FITNESS” shirt over my normal shirt, then remove the normal shirt through the neck of the gym shirt.  A classmate asked me if I did it because I thought I was fat (I was) and I didn’t want people to see my body.  I just said yes.  I was fine with him thinking that.  Fat was at least sort of “normal” to me.  I didn’t even think about the fact that the kid who asked me this had a sunken chest, and didn’t give a shit if people saw it. 

I continued through high school never taking my shirt off, never swimming, shying away from any scenario where I may have to take my shirt off.  Many a hot tub was turned down to keep my secret.  One of the first times I was fortunate enough to make out with a girl, and only after many disclaimers from me, she took my shirt off.  It wasn’t a big deal, but the fact that she never did it again in many subsequent makeouts convinced my lizard brain that it was because of how hideous I was.  Even when she broke up with me I figured it was probably because I wasn’t attractive enough in some way.  Through all this it never clicked in my head:  People were hanging out with me because they liked who I was - not because they assumed I had flawless skin covering everything my shirt covered.  No one was going to see my stretch marks and conclude they had me all wrong.  Nothing about this thing I had no control over made me less of a person. 

I’m 26 now and just beginning to figure out what becoming a “man” is/means.  I think part of that is getting over this silly thing.  The marks are still there, but they are more or less the same color as the rest of my skin.  This coupled with the fact that I’m a super hairy dude means the abomination that haunted me throughout my youth is effectively masked.  Most importantly, and I only realized this a few weeks ago, I don’t CARE anymore.  I don’t feel that fear of judgment when it comes up.  I admit I still don’t like taking my shirt off in front of others, and I probably won’t come to your pool party, but it’s not because I feel like you will change your opinion of me.  It’s because your pool is heavily chlorinated and your cousin is going to be there and he’s loud and obnoxious.  And if you’re the kind of person that would see a marked up body and change your opinion of that person, then I don’t want to know you.  You suck.  That’s pretty easy, I think.  Just like the rest of life.  Right?

The Box

    A month or so before I graduated high school, my family moved from our small sea-foam green house to a bigger, newer, browner one just a mile or so away.  After the house had been selected by my parents, my friend Billy and I went to see it for the first time during our lunch period.  We walked through, and I certainly thought it was nice, but I didn’t jump up and down about it.
    “You never get excited about anything!” he insisted.
    I’m certainly capable of being excited about things, it was just that I had a problem with change.  I remember being devastated at 13 when my mother changed the décor of our bathroom.  Gone was the unexplained duck and marsh theme.  Gone was my happiness.  I couldn’t possibly bathe in comfort.  Naturally I got over it and moved on. 
    So, the new house was certainly big, and nice, and seemed cozy.  I was just a little troubled by the idea of moving into a new one.  We’d lived in the sea-foam green paradise on Osage Ave since I was months old.  I’d spent a solid decade defending it after it was painted the unique sea-foam color from it’s original blue.  Kids at school that knew of the house would mention it’s “ugly” “teal” color.
    “IT’S NOT TEAL IT’S SEA-FOAM GREEN!!!”
    Hesitant as I was, the day we moved in I noticed something I hadn’t seen on the initial walkthrough with Billy.  In the corner of the backyard nestled between two trees, there was a tree house.  Not some crude wooden abomination haphazardly thrown into the trees by asshole children.  It was professionally built.  There were stairs! Carpeted stairs leading up to the main area, which was also carpeted.  The roof had shingles on it.  This was not built by a kid.  This was, as my friend Mike put it, a skyfort.
    Sure I was 18 years old which is an age some people might consider “too old” to be spending time in a tree house, but this was different from your typical tree house.  This was like a training apartment.  Granted, if a real apartment was anything like this skyfort you’d definitely need to talk to the landlord.
    “Uhh yeah, when I stand up my head hits the ceiling and is there anyway we can get me a door?”
    The skyfort, which we dubbed The Box, gave me a sort of interesting new hang out.  A private little place all to myself. 
    Mike and I, with the help of my mother, did some work on The Box.  We screened in the windows, gave the place a bit more privacy, and fixed that door problem.  A lantern was hung in the middle to provide light.  We moved a TV into the corner, complete with an 8-bit Nintendo system.  Unfortunately this involved running an extension cord across the entire backyard, but it was worth it. 
    One night, some friends and I decided to have a guys night in the box.  We’d get some food, hook up a DVD player, and sleep on cots in The Box.  Mike saw that there was a special going on where you could have a pizza delivered to you and you’d receive a DVD copy of Weekend at Bernie’s.  Why the hell not?  In fact, why not have them deliver it to The Box!  We called and said, “Just come around to the backyard, there will be a skyfort.”  Unfortunately the guy making the delivery was new, and he couldn’t seem to find the house, let alone sneak around back to the skyfort.  Mike had to go meet him down the street.  The delivery guy also managed to forget the copy of Weekend at Bernie’s. 
    “I…um…I forgot the DVD…is that ok?”
    NO, IT’S NOT OK YOU SON OF A BITCH!
    While deciding what to do to replace Weekend at Bernies, we somehow concluded that the only thing to make The Box an official skyfort was an adult magazine.  None of us had had the “hey we got a hold of a porno mag, let’s bury it in the neighbors yard” or the “hey we got a hold of a porno mag, let’s put it under some leaves down the street” childhood experience that we’d heard about from our friends.  We weren’t getting any younger.  The Box needed porn.  Not even necessarily to look at, but more as a symbol of what The Box was:  A true, adult skyfort. 
    We decided we’d go to a gas station (on the edge of town, of course) to get soda and candy, and slip a magazine in the mix.  Suddenly the issue of who was going to actually do it was a big deal.  Naturally, Mike and I wanted our friend Sean to do it.  He was, after all, in his 20s.  Mike and I were 18 and 19 respectively.  It just made sense.  No one was going to question the 23 year old guy.  No way.  He’d waltz in, select something, and the cashier would say “Ah yes, what refined taste this man has!  Clearly a gentleman, I do say!” But if Mike or I were to do it, they’d say “Aren’t you a little…….oh I don’t know….YOUNG to be buying this sort of thing?  Hmm?”  Followed by the police throwing us in jail for pervery.  I don’t even know if that’s a thing.  It’d be a disaster. 
    I know we all protested.  In the end, I don’t remember who actually did it.  All I know is we procured a copy of a magazine, chosen because it included a CD-ROM.  This is a fact which typing now makes me feel a little old.  We brought it back, along with our candy and a DVD copy of Minority Report we picked up. 
    It ended up being an alright night.  We watched the movie, snacked, and finished off the pizza.  All three of us briefly browsed the adult magazine before it was shoved away into a hidden spot where it would be discovered by my family about a year later.  I only know this because I overheard my uncle mention it to my father once.  I assume he let my cousin, who would have been 9 or 10, enter The Box, not knowing it was a little more mature than your average stack of boards and nails, and uncovered it.  I’m not sure. 
    We stayed up extremely late and eventually decided to end the night in The Box.  Sean said if he started snoring, we should just punch him in the leg.  That in mind, I attempted to sleep.  The cots were suddenly incredibly uncomfortable.  It was kind of hot inside the skyfort, too.  Sean began snoring.  I nudged him.  The snoring continued.  Eventually Mike was full on punching Sean in the leg and somehow his coma-like state could not be shaken.  This was around the time a small group of birds landed atop The Box and started chirping.  I was in hell, but it didn’t matter.  I was in my very own adult sky fort.  Just my best friends and I in The Box.  Not a bad way to be.