Finding love in all the right places

In general, like many similar black-clad angsty teens, I have a low opinion of myself. This stemmed from my rambunctious early years, where I acted like a boy and I read a lot. The latter was my escape from the teasing that came with the former. Moving didn’t particularly help, either.
In middle school, which is notorious for its tendency to breed malicious girls, I was picked for exclusion. I was in the IB program, which is basically for smart people. As a result, I was in classes with more or less the same 150 people all through my school life. The program began in 6th grade, and I left it my junior year, sick of being the one not talked to, the one who never had partners, the one picked last.
Because of this, I grew up without a lot of friends. I started viewing everyone as having a higher status than me, and I would be subservient to anyone who showed affection. In high school, I managed to make tenuous friendships with some of my classmates, but the damage had been done. Once a cheerfully outgoing little girl, I became withdrawn, unhappy, thinking myself worthless, except for my skill at poetry.
From all my time alone, I developed the habit of watching other people have friends. There were some people who I particularly admired because they had some outstanding talents. I would stare at them, unnoticed, and enjoy their antics. They were always performing for the world, and I always got good seats. I thought I was enjoying myself, and I was—they were all very entertaining. But that didn’t make me happy. Every time I saw a joke pass between friends, a friendly hug, a slap on the back, I wanted to be there. What did they have that I didn’t? I couldn’t stand the pressure of my continued isolation, and so by the end of freshman year I slipped into a deep depression.
I continued my observations of these people, and the admiration turned into a kind of hero worship that I kept to myself. One of the ones I felt I had a personal connection to was Chris. He came to school every day in his green trench coat, disregarding the ‘no coats’ rule, with his unruly long hair pulled back for convenience. He kept a harmonica in his pocket, and would pull it out and start dancing in the hallway before class, if he even bothered to go. He was a rebel and a genius in my eyes, with a natural mastery of wordsmithing that I was in awe over. His poetry put mine to shame, and I struggled to emulate his skill, his ways of speaking, his charisma.
We had a common bond that I hoped might actually bring me in contact with him—chess. We were members of the small club at my school, and one day we ended up playing for several hours. We were just killing time before a school activity, but somehow I was interesting enough for him to keep talking to me.
Someone found me interesting! That simple fact had me amazed. So, what did I do? I fell in love. All I could do was hide my feelings.
The next day, I saw him again, right after the final bell rang. We had talked about his writing, and he had said he would give me a copy if I wanted. Well, of course I did. He flagged me down in the hallway, and by the time we reached each other, he had fumbled through his giant pile of school things and pulled out some pieces of paper, paper clipped together.
“Here! Take this. Read it, tell me what you think!” He was smiling broadly at me, and I thanked him, a smile on my face as well. I started to turn away.
“Wait!” He had to yell to be heard over the din of the crowd, so I turned back to him. He snagged the story back from my hand and scrawled something on the back. “My number. Call me, alright?” Without waiting for my answer, he turned away in a typical Chris-like swirl of trench coat and brown hair and was whisked away, bounding through the masses of students fighting for the door. I stood there, letting them flow past me, watching him go. Eventually, I turned too, and went to my bus with a smile on my face.

We talked for hours that Sunday. We got along well, shared random things, including some secrets that we hadn’t intended to. We were just so comfortable talking that it all seemed so…natural. I’d never felt this before, this ease of communication.
One of the few things I’ve felt I excel in is poetry, though my confidence in that had dwindled as well. Nevertheless, I wrote two poems about him that weekend. I wrote about how, as a writer, I feel things more poetically. Writers fall in love, in the storybook definition of the word. I was in love with him.
That Monday, I ran into Chris again. Later, I learned that he orchestrated our ‘random meetings,’ and used the story as a way to give me his number. On that day, he randomly invited me to come downstairs to his pottery class, and (feeling like a dog trailing his master) I followed. I felt just in awe, and very anxious, afraid I would now say something wrong and I’d lose this right to converse with such an amazing person. Through a strange coincidence, we wound up alone in the room. It was then that he handed me the poems he had written about me. His feelings echoed mine so much that I just froze, petrified. It was so amazing. Reading those words, I realized he looked at me with the same kind of awe with which I looked at him.
He called me an angel in those poems, you know. He stripped himself of all protection and left his heart raw and lying on the page for me to read. He saw me as pure, something beautiful, that he had no right to corrupt by being near. To idealize someone else, and then find that they idealize you, is something that shocks the brain.

He called me beautiful. My mind still reels at the thought. Years of trying to dress right, speak right, think right, and coming out feeling completely inadequate screamed in protest as I tried to comprehend it.
I must say, however, that having someone there constantly telling you that you are beautiful does wonders for self esteem. His love did come tainted, as he had much deeper, darker problems than social rejection and a need for acceptance. But, buoyed by our reciprocated love, we struggled through it all.
He’s changed my life. Before him, I was a child, craving acceptance and attention. After, I knew I had it, from him, if no one else. And somehow, that was enough. Though time goes on and love’s whimsy changes, he gave me something that lasted. Through loving him, I learned that I was, in fact, a tolerable person. And I can live with that.

It’s amazing, you know. When you are sure of yourself, when you are comfortable, other people can tell. I’m in my first year of college now, and sophomore year seems a long ways away, but I can still remember how Chris used to put on performances, literally attracting a crowd. He would talk animatedly about something, exaggerating, but in a compelling way that drew passersby to pause and watch the show.
When I glimpsed his soul and realized that there was turmoil inside, I gained a new perspective. Those people, the ones who are always on stage for the world, exert confidence they do not necessarily feel. And yet, it doesn’t matter.

The other day, I found myself having a passionate conversation with someone. As often happens, I went off in a monologue, and was just carried away on my stream of thought. I continued an animated conversation even while simultaneously playing chess. There were a bunch of people around me, all watching my antics, laughing at my jokes, responding to my questions….
It was amazing. After all those years, I really did succeed in emulating him, and yet I succeeded for different reasons than I could have imagined. All it really took was feeling comfortable with myself.
So, if you’re anything like me, stop it. Stop thinking that you’re insufficient, that you have bad social skills, whatever. If you can write, you can speak. All it takes is being comfortable with the weirdo that you are.
Oh, and by the way:
GO WEIRDOS!