Love Bites: Thanking My Haters

When I was a kid, I was not well-liked. I was pudgy, awkward, emotionally dysregulated, wore hand-me-downs or handsewn clothes, and was cripplingly anxious. I was made fun of and had a steady crew of haters readily telling me I was ugly, fat and weird. Around 16 years old, I grew into my beauty – it felt fun and powerful. I turned from weirdo to ‘town slut’ in the small island village I grew up in. As with most of the hate I’ve received, it stung in the beginning.

But the continuous hum of hate has made working in journalism, and then the sex industry, easier. Both demand skin as thick as an arctic mammal; impenetrable from outside evils. In fact, I hypothesise that deep down I love my haters, and that I need them in a way; to pull me up by my hair when I can no longer stand.

See, without my childhood bullies I’d have stayed in my tiny hometown town, married and had children. Without my ex-boyfriend telling me I was a terrible writer, perhaps I would not have pushed so hard to become a successful editor by age 25. Maybe if a past boss hadn’t degraded me daily for my gender, I’d have stayed in Australia longer, not gone freelance, and never have moved to the UK.

I have love for those who propelled me forward, even if their intention was the opposite. I am a river flowing, and every hater is a rock I ebbed and flowed over, disrupting and realigning my journey, and ultimately taking me where I needed to go – perhaps, where I was always going to flow. The majority of my favourite women are also hated and, historically, unpopular women are simply those who spoke up, fought and refused to back down. So I take my hate on my chin; I swallow it greedily and savour it – ready for my next phase.