Jerik Hendrickson

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?