I was seven.
We were standing in the playground at recess when Shea Dannenberg called me, “ugly.”
That was when the first mark appeared.
The second followed not long after. I had eagerly raised my hand in class to answer a question. But I got the answer wrong. Ryan Hines, in the seat right behind me whispered, “stupid.” The whole class heard and laughed. After that, they showed up like a steady stream. On my stomach, arms, legs, feet, hands. I tried to stop the spread of the horrific disease, to no avail. The marks were part of me.
After awhile, I stopped noticing when new marks arrived. I learned to live with them. I wore long sleeves, pants, or dresses to avoid being seen. I claimed it was fashion, but in reality it was fear. No one could know who was truly among them. The diseased were strictly forbidden. And I was diseased.
Therefore, I stayed hidden. My middle and high school years are a blur. I’m not actually sure how I managed to survive. I guess it’s helpful everyone else is so concerned with their own lives. If you’re trying to hide, you can. And I became a professional at hiding. I avoided recreational activities like the plague. Instead, I pursued isolating events like reading or TV or scrolling through Pinterest for hours. I dreamt about what life would look like without the disease. If I did go out in public, it was to drink. There are few things that allow one to facade a social life as flawlessly as alcohol and loud music can. Plus, if I went to the right bar with dim enough lights, my marks looked like tattoos. And for a moment, I could breathe.
But one always has to wake up.
And no amount of drinking or dancing took away my disease. My horrific, hideous, flesh-eating disease. Up until now, it hadn’t reached my face. But I could feel it spreading across my chest. If nothing changed, it would soon reach my neck. And then what?
I’d tried drugs. Prescription and over the counter. Creams. Lotions. Ointments. Nothing any doctor gave me could remedy the awful marks that plagued my body. I wanted them gone. Willed them gone. But it was futile. They were a part of me now. And would be until the day the disease consumed me.
Twenty years, I’ve carried these marks. And as I stare out into the vast, blue, overwhelming ocean, I simply want it all to end. I wish I could jump in the waves and allow the salt water to scrub my skin clean.
Come. I start. In my imaginative reverie, I hear the water speak to me. Come.
Undulating waves. Peaceful, yet terrifying. I am captivated in the rhythm. Overtaken by the melody. The ocean sings, it calls, it beckons. Come.
To my left, a child splashes in the waters. A dog runs down the beach. A seagull cries hungrily. And then they are gone. I look around me but I cannot find them. How much time has passed? Once again, it is simply me and the ocean. The mystical alluring ocean.
And the ocean is still speaking. Come. Without knowing why or what I’m doing, I find myself responding. I’m drawn to the waves and I can no longer resist. I feel the water lap my feet, my calves, my knees, my thighs. I’m waist up and I can no longer wear my heavy, bulky sweater. I rip it off. For the first time in years, my marks are exposed to the light of day. For the first time in years, I look at them. For the first time ever, I read them.
Oh, I know what they say. They’re a part of me. I don’t have to see with my eyes to know that my left arm says, “stupid,” or my right hand says, “failure,” or my chest is labeled, “flat and un-feminine.” My thighs, stomach, and calves are tattooed with, “hideous,” “ugly,” “disgusting.” The black marks cover my whole body and I have memorized all of them.
The water burns. I notice it the moment I begin reading my skin. It’s scalding, suddenly. I have to get out! Panic and terror overwhelm me. What am I doing? I start towards the shore. Yet once again, the water whispers. Come. I feel the salt seeping into my skin. It burns, yet it isn’t painful. I mean it is. But it isn’t. I can’t actually tell. And I also cannot resist. I don’t want to resist. The searing, shocking, soothing waters call to me. And I must respond.
I find myself pulled deeper out. My chest, my shoulders, my neck. Finally, I’m all in. Surrendered to the vast, unending ocean. Is this how it all ends? In a sea of pain and pleasure? Agony and delight? Fire and refreshing?
And now I’m on land. The waves have washed me ashore. All my garments are gone; I am naked. I’d forgotten, nay I’m not sure I’d ever experienced, such a liberating sensation of vulnerability. The ocean breeze no longer barricaded by my heavy clothes. The coolness of the sun behind the clouds. The sand beneath my toes. Have I ever experienced such wonders before? I try to remember.
I stare at my feet and laugh. And then I stop. I put my hands out in front of me, shocked. My arms, my legs, my body…all the marks are gone! Screams pour out of my mouth followed by peals of laughter. Clean. Pure. Baby-soft skin greets me.
The sun peeks out of the clouds. I notice a shimmer on my left arm. In place of
“stupid,” gleaming in gold is the word, “brilliant.” I look at my legs. Gold letters with the words, “beautiful,” “lovely,” “captivating.” All over my skin, gold writing gleams, telling me who I am. The clouds cover the sun again and my newly discovered gold marks disappear. But I know what they say. I can feel them.
And if I forget?
That’s easy. I simply stand in the light.
The sonlight.
Katelyn Alexander 