Wildfire

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My skin felt like fire and I hated myself for it.

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All day I lied in bed, unable to move, and counted the minutes for my skin to heal. Five days this week already, my sunburn had incapacitated me to the point of extreme self-hate. My only wish was to speed up time and never look like a lobster again.

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I used to not mind sunburns. My chest already had a million different tan lines from every sports bra and tank top I owned. Training all day for my ultra-marathon, my arms, legs, chest had a pink tint to them, but that never bothered me. It didn’t hurt at all, so I grew used to not wearing sunscreen. My red nose might have made me resemble Rudolph, but nonetheless, I still spent all my time in the sun. Even though the perpetual burn concerned my parents because my grandfather developed leukemia from his skin cancer, I convinced them I cared about my complexion and I would try harder to remember sun screen. But my forgetfulness prevailed. Old habits die hard.

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Vacationing in Santa Barbara is my favorite. I love riding my skateboard down State Street, running along the beach, or finding swimming holes up in the Santa Ynez mountains. But now, lying in bed, I cried from the fire engulfing my skin. I tried everything to lessen the burn but not even aloe lotion or tea bags worked. The pain was already unbearable. The scorching touch of my stomach and chest left me miserable and unable to leave my bed. I couldn’t even rest my laptop on my chest to watch Netflix because any contact with the affected areas would make me wince in pain. While the burn was already bad enough to waste a trip to Santa Barbara, I hated every part of it. Now I had to pretend to be sick in order to hide my lobster complexion.

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I was miserable. Did I hate myself just because I had no else to blame? The pain that was keeping me a prisoner of my bed made me feel shame, made me loathe what I had done to myself. The shame ran hot through my body, siphoning what little dignity I had left. I’m usually so careful to respect my body, particularly to avoid injuries with running, but this time in just one afternoon I put myself out of order for almost two weeks. Worst of all, I had to hide it from my mom. I couldn’t risk an ounce of freedom in my summer for my own carelessness. If she found out, the rest of my summer would be a perpetual scold and disappointment from her. My parents were already preoccupied, dealing with my grandpa’s skin cancer; my burn would worry them even more. The whole thing couldn’t be over soon enough.

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I wanted to blame my sunburn on my summer reading book. It’s not my fault that my teacher assigned a book so boring that I fell asleep in the sun while lying in a lawn chair outside. It was my first day visiting my grandparents in Santa Barbara and I thought it was a good idea to get a head start on the reading, and enjoy the sunshine while I was at it. If only I had woken up sooner, worn sunscreen, or even chosen a different book to read, I wouldn’t be in this painful predicament.

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Still hiding my burn from my family, I had to go bowling with them. I wasn’t that concerned because they weren’t going to see my stomach. I wore my loosest shirt and soft pants, and took some Advil with me so I could go bowling pain free. I was walking up from the bench toward the lane to take my turn when my sister thought it would funny to slap me on my stomach for good luck. While this may have just been intended to just be a playful pat, I screamed in agony. It wasn’t just a yelp that made some people turn heads; it was a blood curdling scream that left my whole torso stinging with residual shock. I couldn’t hide it from them any more. After this incident, I had to admit my burn was a little worse than what I described to them initially. I wasn’t just a little pink, my red skin was scorched. My mom was certainly upset with me but there was nothing she could do. No matter how many disappointing looks she gave me, my pain was already plenty to teach me my lesson.

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The pain eventually eased, though. Only the passing of time could help it and all I had to do was tolerate the pain until then. After a while, I didn’t grimace every time I had to move my torso. The line of scabs on the upper part of my stomach started to bleed, but I still thought that was better than feeling like my skin was on fire. My tan lines weren’t just cut outs of my bathing suit; they resembled the edges of forest fires, where the brush created a burn line from everywhere the flames touched. Even when my skin peeled and I thought that was the end of it, the new skin underneath remained bright red and scabby, refusing to heal. All I could do was wait.

Even if I didn’t forgive myself for this, the least I could do was never let it happen again. The agony of waiting taught me that even things get really bad, it will pass. The pain will subside, the body will heal, and the tan lines will eventually fade. Even in the depth of self hate and shame for hurting myself because of neglect, I was still able to realize the respect I have for my body.

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