Confessions of a Lovesick Girl

Written by Grace Chandler

Art by Izzy Maher

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and months turn into years, and every day, I am nauseatingly lovesick. It’s not the lovesickness where you’re head over heels for someone perfectly made for you, so much so that you can’t even act normally. It’s the type of lovesick that settles like a weight in your stomach. I’m not sick because of love, I’m sick of love itself.

Obviously, such a melodramatic statement requires context. By every definition of the words, I’m a late bloomer: I’ve never dated anyone. This isn’t without effort on my behalf. I’m a firm believer that you never know if you never try, so I’ve certainly admitted my feelings to a fair number of crushes. From each one, I’ve gotten the same response: “I’m flattered, but….” Then, I thought the problem of confusing friendly feelings with romantic ones could be solved by going on dating apps. Dozens of swipes later, the furthest I got was a few talking stages.

Still, I find myself developing affections. I go to class eager to see my cute seatmate. I admire the person waiting in line ahead of me. I continue to swipe on Hinge. I can’t help being a hopeless romantic, but each and every time it doesn’t work out, I feel myself growing more pessimistic. If lovesickness, as I’ve defined it, is an illness, I often think I’ll be sick for the rest of my life.

On a good day, I can realize that this is an experience many people have. There’s no set timeline for romantic landmarks. While some people had their first kiss in middle school, others may find themselves waiting until after college. There’s nothing wrong with that, whether it’s intentional or not. But when it comes to seeking out these experiences and still not having them, I find myself ruminating on feelings of worthlessness, fear, and ostracization.

There have been plenty of nights when I’ve wondered if there’s something wrong with me. Though I know you’re not supposed to trust how you feel about yourself after 8:00 p.m., I toss and turn, finding myself debating over what it is, exactly, that keeps people from feeling about me the way I do about them. I fall back into old habits of prodding at my body, trying to figure out what can be fixed. I ask myself if there was some essential lesson on love that I missed. If I’m putting myself out there and coming up short, certainly it has to be my fault, right?

That’s when the fear of being alone forever sets in. It’s easy to identify and much harder to fight. Sometimes it’s a dull thrum in my chest, while other times it spirals into worst-case scenarios and brings me to the verge of panic. It’ll go away after an effective distraction—I recommend rewatching a comfort sitcom—only to be triggered again later.

Worst of all, at least to me, is the feeling of ostracization that comes with being a late bloomer. When my friends talk about past relationships, I lack anecdotes to share. When they talk about current crushes or flings or partners, I can’t help but settle into the guttural feeling of jealousy. Of course I’m happy for them. But I can’t help but want to scream, “When is it my turn?!”

I’ve spent time in therapy working through all of this, and I’ve determined one thing: I can’t refute this anxiety. I can’t resolve it easily. Even when I’m in a relationship for the first time, I know the fear of being alone will still bite at my heels. Because when it comes down to it, these feelings have merit. It would be crueler to myself to bury them deep down and try and erase them.

I often mourn a version of myself that could have been: the one who experienced the exciting, messy, coming-of-age movie teenage love. Maybe it wouldn’t have been all that, but I craved it then, and that’s worth validating. At the same time, I hold hope for a future first love that I can cherish. I try not to let pessimism get the best of me. There’s no clean or clear way out of this cycle I’ve found myself in.

I expect that I’ll return to this article in the near future, lovesick in the traditional way, and honor everything I’m feeling now. But for now, my hope will ebb and flow. I’ll stew in discomfort and wonder when it’ll all be worth it. The cycle will continue. Despite that, I’ll keep putting myself out there. If I hang my head in defeat, eyes trained on the ground for good, I’ll miss the gaze of a person who might change my life. Giving up means closing the door on opportunity.

In that way, there’s no way out but through.