It was never clear to me what started it; over a period of weeks
and months I was just frozen out. People who had once laughed
at my jokes were now rolling their eyes. Then walking away. And
when I asked them what I had done, they said, God, you don't
understand anything. I’d call and their moms would say they were
busy and their moms would sound embarrassed. Like that. If I had
to dig through my memory I’m positive I'd find I wasn’t blameless,
but luckily no one’s making me dig through my memory. (It’s messy
in there.)
So that’s hard to remember, but what’s even worse were my attempts
to change their minds. Because I did not say, “Well, screw you”
and concentrate on the few good friends who stuck by me. Oh no
I did not.
Instead I engaged in desperate and frantic bids to get their friendships
back. Showing up at get-togethers that I wasn’t specifically not invited
to. Breakin’ the rules and gettin’ suspended to show that I was a real
bad-ass. (And apparently dropping my g’s.) Worst of all, I made up
gossip, literally made up dirt on people, to show that I was somehow
in the know and worth hanging out with. You can imagine how well
that turned out.
In my spare time I was learning what "panic attacks" were and
breaking out into epic rashes (the family dermatologist was fascinated
by me that year), and when I was at school I playacted at being an
asshole. Somehow I thought that if they didn’t like me, maybe they’d
like this frantic, aggressive version of me.
This strategy, not surprisingly, backfired, in that not only did they
dislike me even more, the few people who were still brave enough to
be my friends were beginning to see their point. Is it a coincidence
that the one friend who was kind enough to sit me down and tell me
what a dick I was being, and then forgive me when I acknowledged
said dickness, is now a priest? It is not. She is a goddamn saint.
The whole situation was pretty excruciating, and the only thing that
saved me was graduation.
This particular story was a dramatic example but not an exception to
how I like to focus on someone who doesn’t like me and try and make
them like me. I’ve homed in on the one person in my life who doesn’t
think I’m all that charming and used all my charm to change their
minds. And do you know what? This has always failed! Sometimes spectacularly!
If someone doesn’t like you, it’s probably got more to do with them
than you, but either way, I've learned, there’s not too much you can
do about it. Unless you’ve actively been a terrible person, in which
case you should quit doing that, for everyone’s sake.
I’ve been thinking of this period in my life recently, because I found
myself recently trying to understand why I’ve struggled with blogging
over the past few years. Since I started it in 2004, Finslippy has been
one of the most joyful experiences of my life. I gave it my random
thoughts and it gave me friends, positive feedback, a book deal,
television appearances, a stream of writing gigs, crazy speaking
engagements and video projects, and more than one job. I owe my blog so much.
It also provided me with the weird sensation of reading about how
much some people weren’t into me. Of course, right? Once your
audience extends beyond your friends and family, it’s inevitable that someone’s not going to think you’re particularly interesting. I always
knew that. I just didn’t know people would find me so not-that-great
that they’d be compelled to write about it. And that so many people
would agree with them.
I am not a special case. This is in no way unusual. It happens to
everyone who's put anything out there in the world. It’s the byproduct
of creative output. If anything, I’ve gotten off easy. I’ve gotten off
easy, though, because I’ve pulled back. And I’ve pulled back because
the negative feedback was too painful.
And it’s not like I was being attacked on the regular, by any means.
All I got were a few comments on a forum here and there. A
discussion thread or two about how non-exemplary I was. A couple
of Google alerts let me know that I wasn’t nearly as great as I
(apparently) believed. A couple of emails informing me that I’m
a garbage dump of a person. That kind of stuff.
In realizing that I wasn't alone with this phenomenon, I also read
scathing attacks on my blogging peers and my friends. I sort of...
obsessed over these attacks. I saw people I understand on a cellular
level being ridiculed and dismissed. No one was making me read
those sites. But somewhere in the weird little frightened squirrel
part of my brain, I was taking notes, trying to figure out what these
people who hated everything would like, how I could be that cool girl
who’d get a pass.
It didn’t take long for me to really get these people's voices in my
head. I became increasingly careful with what I wrote. I edited and
re-edited. I second-guessed and didn't hit publish. I became
increasingly self-conscious and reactive and every post just felt
harder and harder. And then I gave up. It wasn’t fun anymore.
But who made it un-fun? I did. I denied myself the joy of writing shit
that I wanted to write. How stupid is that? Who was this benefiting?
A few people who probably weren’t paying any attention? Would
these people spontaneously contact me and say, “You know, I used to
think you were boring and unfunny, but now that you’re not writing at
all, you’ve really grabbed my attention. Want to get drinks?” And then
we’d get drinks and we’d be best friends and everyone would like me
again and I’d be voted Most Misunderstood But Secretly Great?
This is silly. It’s so silly. There’s always going to be someone who
doesn’t think you’re great. Don’t read it. Don’t read negative shit in
general, actually: it’s poison.
And if someone doesn’t like you enough to fire off an angry missive
about how you're the worst, just rest easy in the knowledge that that
person is a miserable chafe of a human being who doesn’t deserve
your time and energy.
Then reply, “For the last time, I’m not going to have sex with you.”
This always freaks them out. Because secretly they wanted to have
sex with you. They all do. Because you’re super hot.
SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Thank you, Alice! And you are super
hot, darling.
Reds and lovely readers, have you ever gone out on a limb with
something (artistically, personally) only to get a lot of negativity?
(Not constructive critisism, of course, but that really personal,
vindictive stuff?) Did it ever stop you for a while? Did it stop
you completely? How did/do you deal with it? And how did you,
or will you, triumph?
Please tell us — and Alice— in the comments!
ABOUT ALICE BRADLEY: I'm a writer, and I live in Brooklyn,
New York, with my husband Scott, my son Henry, my dog
Hazel, and Izzy the cat.
I write both fiction and nonfiction. I've written for all kinds of
publications and websites. So many. At some point I'll provide
a list, I promise.
I've been writing Finslippy since 2004. I've been called a
parenting blogger, but these days I write quite a bit more about
creativity, art, depression, city life, our surly cat and peeing
Chihuahua, my extended family, and sometimes, okay, parenting.
and emotional wellness (things that help, whether it's
medication, exercise, or wrapping oneself up in a Snuggie
while binge-watching The Mindy Project). Find us on iTunes
here.
was published in St. Martin's Press, and we're quite proud of it.
You can read all about the book (and enjoy our book trailer,
I love emails from readers, although I can't always reply to them as
quickly as I'd like. My favorite comments from readers include
the following:
"You write as if you're listening to the voices in my head."
And:
"I usually find things amusing online, but don't always laugh,
like with my voice.
Today I did."
If you have anything to say, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks.
