I froze in shock when I first noticed the message. I’d just gotten out of bed and was spending the first half hour of my day cleaning notifications from social media applications, as is my habit. That day, a troll was hiding in my Instagram message requests. Their comment, which said, “You’re actually disgusting, and you shouldn’t be promoting morbid obesity,” was submitted from an anonymous account at 4 a.m. The statement continued: “Stop pretending you love your body because you’re too lazy to diet or exercise.”
I was outraged, but mostly I felt surveilled. Who may have targeted me with this attack? The more I read, the worse things got. I knew I should delete the message and move on with my day, but curiosity got the best of me. I started looking for clues.
Despite the fact that the account had no images and the username made no sense to me, my troll was following one other user: a guy my age with whom I had a few mutual connections. I contacted him, and he responded shortly, stating that he, too, had received unpleasant texts, but the source had not remained anonymous. He passed the messages to me, and I was surprised to learn the troll’s name – it was someone I knew, albeit not well, and someone I would never have guessed.
I’d wanted to know who was sending the messages, but I hadn’t anticipated it to be someone I’d met in “real life”. As a journalist who has spent more than a decade sharing my fat liberation message online, I had previously received vitriol from blank accounts, but it was the first time I’d connected the dots – the first time I’d considered the fact that fake profiles are frequently run by real people, and that those individuals could be people I knew. Although we weren’t tight, my troll and I had spent enough time together that they knew how to aim deep-cutting barbs.
Initially, I sought vengeance; rather than reporting or addressing my troll, I shared screenshots to my Instagram stories, informing everyone that I had determined who delivered the messages. I felt self-conscious and stressed, not to mention concerned that I may run into my troll in person.
I had always assumed that I was surrounded by people who were vehemently opposed to fatphobia and other forms of discrimination, both online and offline. But after finding my troll’s identity, I began to question the motivations of everyone I’d spent time with. What if other friends and acquaintances harbored evil intentions toward me? I became paranoid, questioning how much I could trust everyone I encountered.
Scrolling through any social media comments section will always yield an endless stream of ugly perspectives – remarks intended to get under people’s skin. Although these comments are frequently made by anonymous identities, and it is simpler to believe that no one you know is behind a malicious message, there is no certainty.
However, over time, my perspective shifted, and I saw my discovery in a new way. Even though I had seen my troll in person, I realized I didn’t need to give their words any more weight than those of any other vicious keyboard warrior. Knowing their offline character made their vile remarks less threatening, not more so.
The attack is mitigated by presenting the drive to hurt as sad. The momentary pangs of agony produced by a troll’s statements are undoubtedly much easier to bear than being the person who sent them – someone who goes out of their way to prod others’ vulnerabilities and create distress.
I continue to use social media and occasionally receive nasty or purposefully cruel messages. But, rather than hiding away and feeling hesitant to write as freely as I would like, I share loudly and confidently, refusing to give in to those who would rather I remained silent. I feel more empowered than ever to provide an alternate viewpoint, and I know that those whose perspectives I value will never hide behind anonymous avatars.
