Dear Miserable Troll,
Thanks for writing to me about two weeks ago. I meant to write back sooner but I’ve been a little busy enjoying a nice, quiet, blessed life. I promised myself I’d write to you one of these days though, and I’m a person of my word, so here we are.
How are you? Did you open a new anonymous Instagram account? You’ve been missing from my DMs so I’m not sure whether you’re still following me, keeping up with my life, getting wound up by everything I do; everything I am.
I occasionally find myself thinking back to the day you wrote to me. I saw your message while at work, during one of those short breaks I like to take. The first time I read it, I was sure I was seeing my own things. So I read it again two, three times. My first reaction was to respond and call you a miserable little shit, among other things. But then I decided you weren’t worth it. So I laughed it off, and I laughed at you. Politely of course, because I was raised well.
I still haven’t forgotten what you said though. I bet you wrote and rewrote that message a few times before hitting send. The tragic thing is that even then, your grammar was still terrible. That kind of threw me off at first because I have trouble finishing poorly done writing, but I’m not a quitter, and I think that’s one of my finer qualities.
Which one is yours? Because it’s definitely not your grasp of written language, neither is it your heart. I wonder what kind of person purposely takes the time to insult someone, a stranger – assuming of course we’ve never met – and to do so by referring to a video of said stranger with her innocent baby. Did you think you were being funny, telling me that my sisters and I were known for our huge noses, but that mine was the largest of all? Did you think it was hilarious that you said my nose made my face masculine, that I only looked like my daughter’s mother because of hair and make-up, and that I could benefit from a nose job?
Did you think you were being helpful by pointing out that I didn’t have a flat stomach, which you called a “pottie”? You said you saw me at a flea market in “lovington” (sic) and were pretty much taken aback by the size of my nose and tummy. Did you come there because I said I would be there, or did you just happen to see me there?
I wish you’d had the balls to come up and talk to me, to tell me all those things to my face. The fact that you chose to do it from the safety of your anonymous handle leaves me feeling very cheated – I’d have loved to say something to your face too. Now I have to settle for this.
Your message was filled with so much anger, almost like you had a personal vendetta against me. Do I know you? Did I take something from you? Did I prevent you from getting something you wanted?
I showed it to my sister (one of the ones with the big noses) and she was convinced that you were someone I knew. Now because I’m kimenyi #1, I keep looking at some people wondering whether they could be you, the troll. My dad laughed it off, and my mom asked me to let you know that she’d like to meet you too. She’s not as calm as I am, so I don’t think that would end well for you.
But tell me, what is it about me that riles you up so much? Is it the curve of my hips or the bow of my lips? Is it the stuff I share or my thick natural hair? Is it the job I have, or the things I love? Have I been blessed more than you have, or are you mad that I have what you have?
Did you think that your little message would break me, or cause me to cry? Did you hope that it would magnify the insecurities I live with every day, and somehow shame me into hiding or silence?
If you did, then you obviously don’t know me very well. I poke fun at myself every day. Some days it’s how I cope with not having the body I want, though I’m learning that self-deprecating humour can also be highly overrated and a little unhealthy. And it turns out that you have to work for what you want, and I’m not doing anything to get that boy to be honest – unless you count prayer.
That tummy you were making fun of carried a beautiful baby who gives me immeasurable joy every single day, and I honestly don’t know what possessed you to think I had a flat tummy. I know you’re always on my feed, haven’t you been paying attention to what I post? You’ve got to do better sis. Fun fact, under the little pooch is a C-section scar with a keloid. I don’t like it, and I could choose to see it as another flaw, but I don’t. I see it as something else: I survived childbirth (many women don’t) and got out of it with a chunky, healthy baby.
And that nose not only supports my glasses (I have a flat bridge so my nostrils come through for me in big way), it’s how I’m able to enjoy all the scents this world has to offer – whether it’s that delicious baby smell, that food I’m always eating or the bullshit that was your message to me.
You wanted to hurt me, but I know that hurt people also hurt people. My question is: who hurt you?
What you said obviously came from a very dark, lonely place. So I’m not mad at you, I never was. I just feel sorry for you. I’m sorry for whatever you went through that made you this way; for whoever didn’t love you enough or care for you enough, for everything that has stood in the way of your happiness. I’m sorry that you chose to let everything that’s happened to you turn your soul ugly, and to project that ugly onto people who don’t even now you, much less care what you think about them.
I wonder how many other people you’ve written to, and what you’ve said to them. I’ve thought of what I’d say to you if I met you. Some days I think I’d just hug you and let you cry out all that anger and hurt you carry, but some days I think I’d give you a piece of my mind and really let you have it.
Today though, I’m going to say that I wish you love and light. I’ve been reading my Bible (almost) daily, and it says that The Lord will prepare for me a feast for me in the presence of my enemies (Psalm 23:5). You hear that? I freaking feast! Maybe you’re the enemy in my life, and when the time comes, I will sashay over there, guided by the scent of that food (which my big nose will no doubt pick up), and I will eat to my fill, and let it all hang out so you can gape at my “pottie.” I won’t even wear my Woolies body shaper that day. I want you to see me in all my glory.
A part of me wants to pray for creative ways to end you, and add a wish for leprosy that would eat away at your fingers so you’d never be able to type such vile things to me or anyone else ever again, but if I did that I’d reduce the chances of God answering my prayers for other, more important, things, such as that flat tummy you desperately want me to have. It’s amazing how we both want the same things for me. Whether it’s through diet and exercise, or the help of modern medicine, I hope I get them!