weird girls need love too!

i nearly feel into the sea and now i have a lot to say on love

Last Friday, while riding our bikes around one of the islands of Istanbul, I swerved the wrong way and nearly fell into the sea. The sea frothed beneath me, not looking exactly friendly. No one sitting at the fish restaurants lining the docks looked at me, but the gulls nodded as I looked up in embarrassment. My friend, biking ahead of me, didn’t see the near-missed catastrophe, but I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. With the clarity gained only through near-death experiences and adrenaline rushes, I cried to my friend: “I may still be in love with him!” The thought slipped out with the same ease as falling would’ve been. My friend yelled at me to stop my bike and dragged me to a pub where we drank the cheapest beer they offered. My bike tire gliding only a few centimeters away from the edge of the dock changed how I looked at him or myself.

I never wanted to be the one to make snide remarks about him or for him to turn into a joke. After all, I’d broken up with him. But as I saw him turn into an ugly person in front of my eyes, I played into the I hate my ex role way too well. In secret, I’d always left open doors for him hoping he’d come in from one of them one day. I unblocked him, never gave him the stank eye, kept the door open for him to pass (which I would’ve done for anyone), and all and all tried not to publicly shit talk him (and failed). Most days I couldn’t avert my gaze from him and would look at him under my lashes, hoping my friends wouldn’t notice.

All this time, I wanted him to catch those furtive glances I sent his way, look back at me with the same intensity, and abruptly turn around. I yearned for a quiet, secretive exchange with him. I wanted to have a moment with him to think about during a bus ride, or some other place to reflect. I never want to get back with him, but I want to chat with him so I can light a smoke and think of him while friends talk over my thoughts.

I like mellowing in this limbo of heartbreak and healing. Hanging onto the threads of what once was helps me remember that I’d been seen romantically at least once.

My first enemy was a blonde, blue-eyed, girl who stole the heart of my first crush. When I’d told him how I felt, he sighed and said, “I can’t like you, because I’m in love with your friend Melissa.” Since I was little, I’ve had friends who were more “European” than me, looked prettier, had less body hair, and had more conversation skills.

In middle school, these gorgeous and bubbly girls formed into women before my eyes, and all of my crushes chose these beautiful girls over me. My body moved weirdly, I had bushy eyebrows my mom didn’t let me touch, and I was a late bloomer. Middle school Lola then transferred to high school, and I was once again surrounded by bubbly and gorgeous girls I couldn’t catch up to. All the guys I’ve ever liked went for a girl who was prettier, more normal, or easier to talk to. Every girl who got chosen instead of me upped me one way or another. By mid-freshman year, I gave up on liking boys.

I could befriend guys with no problem, but they never found me pretty enough to approach me or crush on me. No one wanted the colorful pants I wore, the shaggy bobs I rocked, and the books I kept rambling on about—I thought she was pretty, but I couldn’t get anyone else to think so too. I didn’t want to change for guys, but I wanted what my friends had. I wanted to have the thrill of flirting with someone or get a meager “wyd” from a mediocre guy. My issue was more or less with being like the others. I hated getting hugs, was scared of intimacy, and hated socializing—I just wanted normality.

My ex (who I refuse to give a fake name for poetic reasons) saw me for who I was and liked me anyway, and that’s why he was different. He liked my mullet, how I dressed, and how I joked with him. For a while, he gave me normality, the proof that I could also be seen romantically. I didn’t, and still don’t care, about the shallowness of a romantic partner boosting my self-esteem. I felt like the prettiest girl in the world and wanted to feel this way forever. Even when the relationship went downhill and I started to suffocate from the love of my first love, I still felt like the prettiest and most normal girl in the world. When the relationship ended, everything changed. Unlike what I assumed, I didn’t break into the world of normality.

Once my first relationship ended, no boys lined up to date me, elated that I was back on the market. Instead, I found myself craving the rush of wanting to feel pretty and normal again. I’d tasted the honey of normality, and now I’d claw my way to it. No one became interested in me. I offered myself to guys, reached out to them, and tried to flirt, but to no avail, I was again thrown into the world of the weird and ugly. Each guy I’ve liked since my first relationship has rejected me in one way or another, ending up with someone who ups me somehow. I’ve transformed back to freshman year Lola, and I haven’t missed her.

My hair has grown out, I’ve grown into my body, my eyebrows are shaped, and my arms aren’t hairy anymore. My style is tamer and I only go crazy with jewelry. My voice has become more high-pitched, and I know how to flirt now. I’ve realized now that the problem was never how I presented myself. Increasing my desirability didn’t make me more desired. I don’t care that I find myself pretty and that writers don’t meddle in shallow matters. I childishly want to be wanted again, to feel pretty again. Most importantly, I want to feel normal again.

Maybe it’s high school or maybe I just hate myself. At least the thought of my ex hanging around my head has a function. I’ll let you know once I stop loving him, but for now, I think I should figure out how to stop my longing to be “normal,” something I’ve randomly defined during my adolescence that’s completely subjective. I’m hoping that after this year, in college, I’ll either find that elusive “normality,” embrace my weirdness, or—better yet—realize that normal doesn’t exist.

I love you, my weird girls.

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