The Tumblr Post in 2007 that destroyed me

When I was 21, I read a Tumblr review of myself from a "fan" of The Hills that changed my life for the worst, until now.

“poor jill. i’m sure she’s absolutely a lovely person, but if people even noticed her, she’s going to go down in history as Lauren’s ugly friend. i wonder if she watched the show with her friends and family, what they said? did they silently eat popcorn and look at each other for positive encouraging things to say? she isn’t even named until the second scene she appears in, like she’s not important enough to be named right away! and when she is named, she’s off to the side of the frame; the camera’s focus is obviously not on her. i am working on a piano ballad called “all the ugly people in the world should be shot.” it is really upbeat and peppy.” - xx 2007 

The thing about that review is, it articulated—almost too well—everything I already believed about myself up until that point. (I have to admit, it was very well-written.)

I read that review 100 times until every time I looked in the mirror, that’s all I could see—someone insignificant, ugly, that didn’t deserve a name. Someone who could fade into the wallpaper at a party. Someone who scratched the surface but never made a mark. That review became the lens through which I saw myself, and I let it define me for years. 

Fast forward to 2024, and I’ve received so many death threats over my 15 years online that a negative review barely fazes me. But that review, in 2007, in that culture—it destroyed me. It was an era when people believed everything they read in magazines and on blogs. Perez Hilton was the king of the internet and social media barely existed. I wasn’t mentally equipped to handle that kind of scrutiny.

The review echoed the voices I’d already heard in high school—the silly pranks I couldn’t process were fucked up until my adult life, like 'let's leave a dead frog in her purse.' One guy who’d messed with me in high school sent me a Facebook message my freshman year of college. He said he'd had his wallet stolen in Spain, and that he thought it was 'karma' for all the years he’d been cruel to me. 

A year later he tried to fuck me in the backyard of a house party.

I always thought of myself as 'edgy,' thanks to my Panic! at the Disco phase. So, one night in my 20s, after partying at Le Deux, I ended up at Shamrock to get a tattoo by the famous Dr. Woo. I thought the perfect tattoo would be under the left side of my boob and it would say the word “loved”. I remember thinking, 'this is going to look hot.' I didn't think much beyond that at the time—just the thrill of doing something permanent, a statement of my youth, like it would somehow make me feel more ‘me’. But looking back now, I realize how much deeper it ran. That small, simple tattoo was a quiet plea for something I hadn’t even fully understood yet: a desperate need for someone to love me, to tell me that I was okay. That I mattered, so I subconsciously got it drunkenly tattooed on my body. I have a newfound respect for people who get the word “breathe” tattooed on their wrists

I spent most of my adult life searching for an answer to the question I felt I never received: Am I loved? I looked for it in men, in friends, in success, in internet fame—always hoping someone, or something, would answer it for me. It’s why I put myself in the situations I was in and chose those jobs and partners and experiences. I continued to seek validation in destructive ways, trying to prove my worth through people and external achievements, staring at my tattoo wondering if the words would ever jump off my skin and become a reality.

I had no idea what true happiness felt like. I don’t think I ever really smiled—genuinely smiled—until about a year ago. The funny thing about hating yourself is that you end up doing things to validate that hatred. When it's so deeply ingrained in you, it becomes hard to understand what happiness feels like. And even when you're on the other side of depression, learning how to feel joy, or how to accept compliments, praise, and love, becomes its own challenge.

About a year ago I was so completely sick of the narrative I had created about myself that I decided to seek help. I had to rewire my whole brain… 

I didn’t get a lobotomy but something worse. I spent countless hours alone, face-to-face with the one person I’d spent my whole life avoiding: myself. And with that work. I changed my story. A story I had worked so hard to perfect. I will get deeper into healing in upcoming essays.

Happiness is something I’ve had to learn rather than something I have inherently felt. It’s something I’m figuring out how to experience right now.

It takes a long time for some of us to accept that we deserve happiness—not because of how we look or what we have achieved, but simply because we exist.

I spent 25 years of my life wishing I was somebody else.

And now when I look in the mirror I’m so thankful it’s me who is staring back.

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