I Got A Hater Today And She Reminds Me Of Me

Her tone and attitude took me back to a pivotal moment in my life.

Erin King is the author of How To Be Wise AF: A 30-day journalling adventure to your inner Guru.

I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it. ― Maya Angelou

I got my first hater today. Not exactly a hater, maybe — more of a disliker.

She posted a comment on one of my articles. It wasn’t aggressive or mean, and it wasn’t even directed at me. It was directed at the subject of my post — love.

I’m not too bothered about her comment — I’m not crazy about being the recipient of someone’s venting, but to be honest, if she took the time to read my article, she’s earned the right to comment. Cynicism is probably just her thing anyway. She’s the one your mother warned you about and all that.

But it did get me thinking.

Her tone and attitude reminded me of a younger me, and reading her comment took me back to a pivotal moment in my life.

A moment that changed me forever and forced my feet onto the path that took me to where I am now.

I worked in a busy downtown bar in a major city, bartending.

A guy used to come in and chat with me regularly. He was a big guy, an aspiring actor. Super friendly and cute enough. He was interesting and funny, and I really liked him.

He was also dating a girl I worked with.

He would sit at the bar and chat with me while waiting for her.

She was sweet and pretty and nice, a genuinely good person. I really liked her. She was the kind of girl who could get any guy to do her work for her, but she pulled her own weight and was a great worker.

They were a great couple.

I remember a conversation with the boyfriend one day while he was waiting for her at shift change. He asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend. I made a big production saying that I didn’t believe in love, that I was too busy for it, too busy partying and having fun to get tied down.

As I was talking this shit, I had an out-of-body experience.

For a split second, I was up on the ceiling, looking down at myself.

“The lady doth protest too much,” shot through my mind like someone was screaming it in my ear. It startled me and sent me back down.

At that moment, I had a revelation. I was protesting too much.

It suddenly occurred that all my bravado was just bullshit, creating a cover for the little girl inside me hiding from love. A child ripped apart at the seams, dying every day, struggling to put herself back together.

That was the moment I decided to shut up about it and spend some time unraveling why I felt the need to protest so much about love. Why I had to convince everyone that it was garbage and I didn’t need it.

Emotional gymnastics are what we do when we’re afraid to be ourselves. When who we are is too painful and too much to bear.

We say words until they make sense. Until we’re comfortable. Until we’re safe.

The problem was, I’d been compensating for a very long time.

I partied, I didn’t get attached, and I did whatever the hell I wanted. I thought I was loud and proud, but I was just loud.

I was the loudmouth protector of my inner self. My inner child, the real me. I camouflaged her for safety, and I kept everyone away.

In retrospect, I remember many nice guys who actually seemed to like me. Guys, who I thought were too good for me, so it never crossed my mind to like them back. These guys made me feel vulnerable and frightened because they moved the part of me that wanted to be loved.

But I couldn’t let them in. My deeper self was too precious and badly wounded.

I couldn’t risk it. If she were to be exposed, I’d fall apart. I wouldn’t be able to function.

Would any of those guys have been great boyfriends? Probably. But that’s irrelevant. It’s long in my past, and I’m with the absolute love of my life now.

But it’s interesting to do some forensic psychology.

Insight is helpful, no matter when you get it, and I realize it wasn’t just the boys who made me nervous.

Certain friends had the same effect.

Lovely, genuine, caring friends. Friends who had wonderful supportive families — I had to push them away, as well. It hurt to be around people who had what I didn’t.

I didn’t care though, I drank the pain away at the end of each day. My inner child was so restless, she couldn’t sleep if we were sober. At night alone with my guard down, she crept up into my psyche for visits.

The only way to calm her down was with alcohol.

Night after night, I took one for the team so she could rest.

It took me years to unravel myself. To examine the threads that bound me and reweave them into something that fit. Something comfortable, with enough slack so I could breathe.

A coat with deep pockets to keep my secrets and hold my pain.

To knit inch by inch, a life where love is real, where it doesn’t suck, where you can fall for it and still be okay.

So when my disliker says she doesn’t believe in love, I think maybe she does. She just needs time to untangle herself to rework her own threads into something that fits.

She’s just quite not there yet.

Thanks for reading!

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