Would it satisfy you to learn that because of you I stopped eating? That I spend hours looking at the mirror in uncontrollable tears? Would it satisfy you if I shook with pain and shame every time I saw my body, grabbing and pinching at it in disgust? Would you be satisfied if I picked up a razor and tried to carve the ugly parts of myself away? Would it satisfy you if it hurt too much and for too long, so my final act was shoving a handful of pills in my mouth? My ugly, worthless, greedy, FAT mouth? Would you be satisfied then? Would you lean back in contentment, a job well done? Is this your destiny, your life’s anointed purpose to scrub away all the ugly enemies from the earth? Would you be happy if you succeeded in destroying me?
You don’t know me. Your words, your ugly words could have done those things to me, and you’d never know. You’d continue to sit in front of a screen churning out hate to the next person you decided shouldn’t speak – shouldn’t live.
Would it change your mind if you knew I was suffering from health problems? Or would you find a way to belittle me for that too?
I think about the things you called me, and my heart speeds up. Blood rushes to my face and I feel shame. No, my body isn’t the way I wish it was, part of it is my health problems, and part of it is my fault. But I think about what you said and I wonder if other people look at me like that. But mostly I feel ashamed because you got in. Your misspelled, angry, immature rants got in, and I thought I was stronger than that. There are so many things I’d like to ask you, but I’ll never be able to because you’re incapable of conversation – you only deal in variations on the same insulting theme.
There are two things that haunt me. The first is the question I asked earlier: would you be satisfied – happy – knowing you destroyed someone? Would you continue to troll around on social media for another “success story,” or would it give you pause? The other thing I wish I could know is who broke you? My appearance didn’t make you that angry. The man I originally saw you attacking didn’t make you that angry. You spend hours on the Internet tearing people down in the most hateful, pathetic ways, so of course I’m incredibly curious as to what happened, or is currently happening to you to make you such a rotten individual.
I’ve seen suffering. I’ve watched loved ones shunted to the sidelines, unable to do anything except helplessly observe their worst nightmares come true, and I’ve never seen the incoherent hatred that you displayed. I’m just so curious. And afraid. Afraid that someday you’ll find out your actions caused real, lasting harm and become hungry for more.
Someone in my family was sick, although no one knew it. Despite hard exercise and even harder dieting, their weight kept increasing. Six years later they were diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. Three months later, they were gone.
I didn’t cry the night you kept attacking me. The next morning I was outside shoveling snow, or as you would call it, getting off my fat ass for once, and I thought about the vile things you said. I imagined someone treating my sick relative like that. I desperately hoped they had never felt bad about their weight because of someone like you. I thought about people who are less able to withstand the pain comments like yours can inflict and it was overwhelming. My tears weren’t the result of an “obese” woman doing something physical, they were the product of picturing your actions directed at someone I loved, and not just using humor and sarcasm to try and dismiss what you had done to me. Looking at it that way, it was chilling and appallingly cruel.
I don’t know what else to say other than I think you behave despicably, and I hope whatever’s going on in your life resolves, or you have a Come To Jesus moment real soon. Because the world doesn’t need any more of your hate.