I Was Trolled IRL By My Friends
Being a writer and a queer feminine person on the Internet, I’m certainly no stranger to the world of trolls. Every week, the same sniveling man children emerge from their dusty corners of the Internet to threaten me with sexual violence, suicide wishes, and transphobic remarks (well, probably not exactly the same, but all trolls are more or less identical in my eyes). I’m used to this type of anonymous abuse clogging up my Twitter mentions, though I shouldn’t have to be. But dealing with bullies who hate my work IRL, especially when involving people you love and trust, has been much more damaging for me.
It’s been almost a year since a student under an anonymous name had gotten a highly critical article published in one of our school’s newspapers, written in the style of and in criticism of the publication I write for with clear references to my work in particular. Poorly written, the print article is filled with untrue claims rooted in a broader misunderstanding of what the site is all about (like criticizing how the site fails to be a safer space, when the company doesn’t intend to do so to begin with in order to accommodate millions of daily readers), and how my personal pieces about body positivity were disingenuous and dangerously exclusive. My friends and I mostly laughed aloud as we flipped through the article, but I won’t say the words didn’t hurt.
This wasn’t the first time a student launched an attack against me. After getting my first steady writing job at age 20, I had been torn down for essays I’ve written by students I knew personally each time I proudly shared them online. I was even ignored and whispered about by my coworkers at my other job at the school’s Student Center. The main issue was always this: my stories were “problematic” because it didn’t encapsulate all people’s perspectives. But as someone who was getting paid to write about their opinions and life experiences exclusively, including another person’s point of view would not only have been impossible but problematic in and of itself. I never claimed to be speaking on behalf of all marginalized people when I discussed my own life experiences, yet I was crucified again and again for not doing my job “right” by my classmates. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just be left alone — it was only a job, after all. In need of money but lacking the spoons to leave my apartment on most days, my writing was labor. A labor of love, sure, but it was labor all the same.
Though I initially enjoyed doing something that came so naturally to me for money, I quickly became ashamed of my work. I acknowledge that I may not have been the best ally at the time or knew enough about Feminism, but I made my desire to learn and grow very clear. However, most people preferred making fun of me and condemning me over starting meaningful dialogues about ways I could improve both my work and my politics. After dealing with the hate for some time, I no longer shared pieces on social media and shied away from discussing pieces I was working on. The bullies succeeded in making me embarrassed of my work and, in a way, myself.
Sure, I began seeing the positive impact of my work, exemplified through heartfelt messages from readers, changes towards greater inclusion of trans folks at my workplace and an enviable click count per published story. But each time I was openly fed hate by my classmates, who attacked me online and in person, I felt even worse at the thought of so many IRL peers hating me for publishing my thoughts on the Internet. Something about the fact that I knew them, that I knew their faces and may have even shared a joint with them at some point, made their abuse seem that much more malicious. Ironically, while they ranted about how my work was unfair to marginalized identities, I suffered in silence over my worsening personal struggles regarding mental illness, sexual assault and coming into a trans identity. I felt my whole community turned their backs on me, as they were too hung up over my work (and the resulting conclusions they drew about me) to have time to be my friend during my time of need. By simply taking that writing job, I had isolated myself from the entire campus.
It’s almost a year later, and the comments from judgmental peers have mostly stopped. I feel comfortable again promoting my writing on my socials, something I’ve proudly turned into a living for myself and cultivate daily. Now graduated, the hateful haze of my school environment has now dissipated, and I feel more mentally balanced than I have in years. But the other day, I was forced to revisit the drama, specifically the print article in question that had been circulating on campus the fall before. My best friend texted me with the news. “Remember that article in Gutter Mag about you? Well I found out who wrote it,” he types. Curious, I asked him who it was. I nearly threw my phone across the room when I discovered that it was a friend of mine, a friend who I had a shaky history with (but who was once my confidante) that I was on good terms with for the entirety of senior year, made clear by all the hours she spent in my apartment and all the favors she asked of me when she got pet rats (my area of expertise). Or so I thought.
A scream fest and a few subtweets later, I was able to calm my anger at the thought of all the friends I’ve made in the past year — both IRL and in Twitter land. I have many safe spaces to vent about my gender, illnesses and experiences now. I feel truly supported by my community, so much so that I feel I’m getting closer and closer to my best, healthiest self. My feelings of betrayal arose from a relationship that had died years ago, a toxic friendship that I didn’t want but would quickly jump at the chance to rekindle whenever my friend decided she needed me for something. With school being over and a brand new cast of wonderful friends filling my life, I began to interrogate: why did her betrayal matter to me so much?
Hearing this news wasn’t particularly shocking — this “friend” hadn’t truly been a friend of mine for some time. But it still hurt, and reminded me of how alone I had felt in my own home and town, something I struggled to amend during my time at college. It reminded me of reckless decisions I’ve made while under the influence of alcohol and my own bipolar-ridden brain. It reminded me of how truly alone I sometimes feel in this world — as a survivor of assault, a person with chronic pain, a queer trans person and a human with multiple mental illnesses — and how some people with similar self-destructive tendencies wanted me to stay feeling alone. It reminded me of how hard I tried to express my feelings without facing judgment and fit in with my school’s queer hierarchy — but was silenced and dismissed because of my long hair and (at the time) my love for Lena Dunham. Before this past year, I never felt I was good enough for anyone, and my college’s community had fooled me into thinking that their inclusive and compassionate attitude was genuine.
As I write this, a piece that may be chosen for publishing for one of the most supportive communities I’ve ever encountered to read, I can breathe easy knowing that I can now be myself without apology. And instead of judgment, instead of slicing and dicing my words and serving me catty subtweets, I’ll likely receive retweets and kind messages of encouragement from people that I see as true friends and inspirations in my life. Because I’ve finally found my community, a community of folks who truly embrace me and call me in compassionately when I’m wrong.
