The Leanover.

This summer will be the first summer that I've worn a tank top in public in over 13 years and I'm scared shitless.

Since 2nd grade, I've been plagued with unfortunate scars on my back and shoulders. They're not from chicken pox. I wish people would stop insinuating such.

I went through months and months of treatment to "fix" my body. I lost weight and temporarily my sanity. In the fall, I came home from work and spent many hours lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. I'd look at the clock and two, three, sometimes four hours passed.

I knew those kind of actions would be possible side effects. I know my history.

That still didn't change the fact that I was scared and lonely and angry and bitter.

When I was younger, when the scars were still fresh, I used to cake on layers of stage makeup to cover up my skin when I tumbled at gymnastics performances and meets. When I was older, I didn't care as much. My high school years were spent on the dance team with a group of girls I've talked about for years, a group of girls who hated me because I wasn't like them, and because I didn't want to make the effort to be like them. I had to continuously make the decision whether or not I wanted to leave the team for good because of their attitudes and isolation, or if I wanted to stick it out because as much as they hurt me, my love of dance was greater.

I made it through my senior year.

I feel for it.

But during those years, we walked on auditorium stages and gymnasiums and football fields and I was so damn scared. I used to stretch in the corner where no one else could see me when we had to wear leotards. I sometimes changed in the staff locker room inside of our dance studio. And even up to seconds before our performances, I would wrap my upper body in jackets and sweaters and scarfs so no one would have to see me and say something. That was my greatest fear.

I knew the audience couldn't really see my body and so that didn't phase me.

But those girls, and their looks, and their gossip made me hate myself so much.

As a female, I understand we all struggle through body image issues, especially at that torrential age known as adolescence. But I had to deal with my height, and my weight, and my scars. 

Before one basketball game, an older girl on the team loudly proclaimed that she refused to touch my shoulder. Some other girls laughed. I walked away and cried. I told my coach about it later in the year, when I quit for the third time but the emotional damage was done. The night if that basketball game, at home, my parents in the other room, I boiled a pot of water and rubbed it against my back. I hadn't tried it before and in my confused, angry teenage mind I thought that it might make it all go away and that if my skin burned off, it would have to heal, and heal better then what it was before.

My plan didn't work, obviously. My back and shoulders were red and sore for a while, and I took to carrying my books instead of wearing a messenger back. No one really asked. I definitely was not going to tell them.

Only a handful of my closest friends know about my scars and I made sure to keep it that way. When I told them that I didn't wear tank tops, they were confused.

"Yes you do!" they'd exclaim.

No, I don't.

Or at least, no I didn't.

I programmed myself to keep cool through my legs in the summer, and I was so used to having my arms warm and clothed that even wearing a t-shirt gave me chills.

But now it's all over with and I don't know what to do. I'm still buying longer sleeved clothing items but it's so hot outside. I've purchased a couple of tank tops but I don't know what to do with them, and even the ones with the thickest straps make me feel exposed. I wore a tank dress for exactly 5 minutes last week, before I feared people were staring at me. Maybe they were, because my arms were crossed just so and I moved around like a paranoid child. At Argo Tea, I put my cardigan back on, even though they have no air conditioning, and the sun was blazing and my skin was sweating profusely.

"Are you okay?" the barista asked.

I ordered the coldest drink I could think of, without addressing his question and took a cab back to my apartment.