I Don’t Need a Reason to Cut People Off. My Discomfort is Enough

Over the last few months, a particular user (we’ll call him Bill) has been throwing red flags all over my nice green lawn. He’s perfectly nice, so I’ve quietly tolerated his presence. You know the rules: Someone must do something terrible before you cut them off, so I’ve sent him the occasional one-sentence response and tried to give him the politest version of indifference I could stomach.

As a young girl, I was taught tolerance was more important than autonomy. Other people’s comfort was more important than my own. Little girls were demure. We owed our presence to all who desired it. If we cut someone off, we needed an excellent reason, which must preferably be produced for the authorities in triplicate.

My “authority” is my mother. If I ever feel the need to produce my reasons in triplicate, it’s because she stapled guilt all over the insides of my skull. If I don’t want your friendship, I must first apply the standards she set for me as a child. I even do it years after her death.

A Fet friend once taught me that if I hear myself use the word “should”, I can assume I’m hearing my mother’s voice. I’ve found this to be true, so I’ve been trying to be less demure.

Yesterday, Bill said two frightening things: That he was addicted to emotional abuse and that he felt we’d become good friends. He informed me that I’d reached the point of total honesty with him because we’d worked through a friendship I had no role in creating. This kind of over-familiarity and one-sided narrative will always end badly. I know this.

Still, I’d kept Bill around because I’d been waiting for him to earn a block. I thought I needed to be legitimately hurt before I was allowed to cut him off even though I’d never invited his company. Even complete strangers were owed my presence. Clearly these were not conscious thoughts or I’d simply rationalise them away. They were all the sneaky “shoulds” Baby Boomers planted in my brain as a child.

Yesterday I realised I didn’t need to produce my reasons in triplicate. My discomfort was enough. I wasn’t at ease in his presence. I saw all the flags flapping around my fish pond. These were excellent reasons.

I have a stalker who reminds me an awful lot of Bill. He wrote to me many moons back, and I was still learning I didn’t have to reply to everyone who wrote to me. We exchanged messages. I tried my damnedest to be Nice with a capital letter.

But Nice earned me a stalker who’s been harassing me ever since.

This is a story many women can tell. Being Nice to strangers just clears a space for you in someone’s creepy brain. I now know it’s a terrible idea to be in everyone’s brain. It’s far safer to keep away from people who trigger my ick in the first place.