And I’m feeling all sorts of feelings. Not really good ones. And this all stems from…the dreaded comments section. I have been trying to be a writer (whatever that means) for over 10 years, yet I haven’t really had writing so personal be published in such a public and well-read forum as NY Magazine’s The Cut — a publication I worship as well.
The comments call me a nerd. That I should take less drugs and I’ll find clarity. Don’t tell a guy from a dating app your home address! I can’t believe this girl is turning 29 — she sounds like she’s in High School! Grow up! Move out of your mother’s house!
Jeez. Strangers can be so judge-y. SHOCKING.
Then there’s a pretty deep comment about my External Locus, which is something I had no idea about and am now overwhelmed by the concept of. And then one very lovely comment, the only one I like, “You seem like such a lovely person. I hope you meet someone who appreciates you for who you truly are soon!”
Obviously this was voluntary. I thought it would make me feel like I was going somewhere. MY words…well, most of my words in New York Magazine. But I feel more like I’ve been used for someone else’s gain. Not like that isn’t something I’m used to at my own place of work, where I get assigned tasks to help lighten the load of others.
And it’s anonymous so who cares! And it’s NEW YORK MAGAZINE. Like c’mon, this is a big deal right? Or even if I was the shittiest writer, this still would’ve been published. But she also took the juiciest parts out — making my sex life look even more boring? The whole reason I pitched it was because I had a particularly slutty weekend and she just nixed it right out to a make-out. No wonder these people are pissed! There was no sex! I agree with them. I get that this is written in a certain voice to be consistent with the other diaries, to make the column as a whole sound like it could come from one point of view, despite the many different stories. She did her thing. She edited. I am an aspiring writer that needs to get more used to being edited.
What the fuck do I care what a bunch of strangers sitting under their chip-crumb covered comforters (this is how I’d like to imagine them) think?
These people don’t know me. Don’t know that I’ve struggled with mental illness for 13 years. That I have a brain MRI scan on Friday that I’m nervous about. That I cried in my yoga class yesterday and at the doctor’s last week. That I just turned 29 and I’m terrified of what my life will become. That I have no idea what I’m doing. That I’m afraid these anonymous plebes are right — I don’t make any effort to change my situation and just expect things to happen to me. That stings a lot. Especially when it always feels like I’m trying so hard. That I’m just trying to let go and accept slow progress and these people are bringing up all of my “I haven’t done enough!” baggage.
How do celebrities deal with this shit?? Really, how do more minorly notable people deal with this? Because with a big celebrity, there can be SO MUCH that they probably won’t even see most of the things said about them. But if I want to be an actual writer, and a known one, I’m going to have to be able to deal with people I don’t know having opinions about me.
Maybe this is the fire I needed to be lit under my ass to give people the whole picture. Because I do not like being judged regarding things that are so personal when my work has been paraphrased and edited to become inauthentic to myself. All I want is to write and connect with people. Not begin some sort of petty anonymous discourse from people who will never get to hear what I say back. Do I say something back? No, that seems ridiculous and the opposite of the point of this column. So I will just sit back and allow myself to be ridiculed. I have a feeling this is a big day for me for an important lesson that I will carry with me for the rest of my career and life.
Don’t let the bastards get you down.