The Silence of the Trolls
The Initial Blow: When Trolls Attack
The first time an online troll came after me and one of my essays, my self-worth shattered. I strained my back over the coming months, trying to pick my self-esteem off the floor. I undermined any success in this regard as I returned daily to re-read their critique. I read mesmerised and open-mouthed. I struggled to catch my breath. The venom dripped and slid through the paragraphs and pages of my words.
My body reminded itself to breathe out as I once again combed the scathing assessment. The dismissal of a world I had worked so hard to shape into craft. The irony was that, at every read, I added my own negative meaning to their words. Meaning which magnified and bounced off the walls of my psyche. A headache joined a stomach ache even as my eyes begged me for the soothing relief of tears.
The rush of tears when they came were not enough to extinguish a new emotion — rage. Writing had saved me. Writing was my safe space where vulnerability met artistry. Writing was where the voices in my head came to be counted — came to find sanctuary.
I bent over once more, but this time to pick up the stained and grubby gauntlet of my anonymous attacker.
The Battle Begins: Engaging with the Troll
I rallied and fenced with the intellectual foils of the well-read. I lobbed clever comebacks and erudite references. With a surge of triumph, I was certain every hit was the one my naysayer could not recover from. I wasn’t to know that every retaliation only added to the menu of their gourmet feast. With a daily quotient of fact and reason, I fought to thwart their persistence. Anon gorged themselves on my naivety, twisting my words and misconstruing intent. With each fresh assault, I fell deeper into this destructive cycle. A cycle that kept me from the writing I avowed to love in this mired time-suck of frustration. This irony was lost to me as I continued to trudge through this baited slush pile.
I’m sure common sense tried many times to get my attention. Its hand stabbing the air, frantic, shouting: “Pick me, Mel, pick me.” Had I listened, my innate interest in people and their motivations would have saved me. I’d have understood sooner that trolls have psychological needs. Needs that are outside most of our qualifications to resolve.
The Wake-Up Call: A Friend’s Wisdom
It was a friend, exhausted by my daily reporting of tit for tat, who gave me a wake-up call through this toxic noise. They served me a version of the quote by George Bernard Shaw:
“Mel, you can fight with a pig in the mud and you’ll both get dirty. What you have to understand is the pig likes it.”
I stopped sacrificing intellect for insults. I ceased trying to win a race of mediocrity.
Self-Reflection: Understanding the Engagement
I came to understand that humans do nothing that does not benefit us in some way, even in negative situations. So what was in it for me? Why had I stayed in this festering war of words? Was I fighting The Ghosts of Critics Past? Was trying to win a battle against a blank profile picture a substitute for those who had, in fact, hurt me?
It followed, then, my rage was not that this troll had retched up untruths. It was rage at deep-seated and unresolved insecurities. It was only a question of numbers for a troll to keep going until it found the wounds many of us plaster over in order to survive. I was no one special to this troll. I could have been anybody. I only needed to be someone who would take from its grey, gnarled fingers. Take the proffered, shiny apple and bite down hard as it urged me to: “Come here, my pretty!”
The Anatomy of a Troll: Understanding the Enemy
I also came to know there are as many troll types as there are humans. My troll was your garden variety ‘Contrary Troll.’ A troll who was articulate and reframed arguments made (or not made) in my essay. Anyone arriving fresh to the ‘discussion’ was likely impressed by this troll. So impressed they might pick up their own flame thrower to torch an essay they, too, would not have read.
But with the comments section ablaze, my Contrary Troll’s work was complete. They took a piece of craft obfuscated and degraded it into a toxic punching bag. My Contrary Troll then laid down arms and slept. There was no doubt in my mind this slumber would only last until roused and aroused by their next fix. A victim who would sublimate the troll’s own fear of failure and feelings of deep inadequacy.
The Limits of Empathy: Recognising Boundaries
Of course, I didn’t have the tools to cure a stranger’s guessed-at lack of self-belief. I could not ease a difficult childhood, so they felt the warmth of unconditional love. Nor could I stroke their hair to quieten debilitating self-loathing. I could not look them in the eye in order for them to perhaps feel seen for the first time. There was no way to give succour to the silent anguish hiding between toxic, vile-fuelled lines. How was I, as a victim, to neutralise anonymous pain that was at the same time injuring and making me ill? I couldn’t, nor was it my responsibility. I had to put my own oxygen mask on first to take care of me — and then my writing.
My responsibility lies in showing up authentically and respectfully. To do my best work and keep improving at the writing craft for and under the glare of the public gaze. Should vitriol be the price for that? No. But it will be thus until the technology and will exists to change things. To make our online spaces uninhabitable environs for trolls.
Finding Common Ground: The Troll Within
But in a strange way, the experience with my Contrary Troll left me feeling not that much different from them. The difference lay only in manifestation. Were I a member of The Valley of the Trolls, I’d probably be a ‘Wordsmith Troll.’ A troll who, after reading a gift of words with the power to uplift, inspire, and transform, becomes jealous. “Damn, I wish I’d written that!”
This feeling has yet to send me to my keyboard to vilify someone but, instead, to praise and praise with sincerity. The feeling propels me to do better in my own efforts. Such that my work might inspire that same ‘jealousy’ in another. The type of envy that compels us to sprint towards our best work.
I did privately wish my troll a healthier antidote to their angst. But my health and mental acuity relied on me blocking and moving on without them. I believe attackers in our stories and safe spaces may deserve grace but not favour. Empathy without amnesty.
The Path Forward: Protecting Our Craft
“Block and move on, Mel” is my mantra now, no matter how much I am tempted to reach for a clever put-down. Silencing trolls doesn’t come from trying to defeat them. In fact, few weapons in our writer’s arsenal can defend against such studied malice. But, nor does it come through doubting and silencing our own voices.
Great work is our defense against online negativity, and we must do it with courage and finesse. Let us protect this work, always, blocking those without healthier tools to articulate their own reason for being.
