I really like to be liked. Try to find me a person that doesn’t.
In the same way that I’m yet to find a woman who can say no to a hairdresser when they’re asked if they’re trying to grow their hair, I have yet to come across a person who doesn’t want to be liked. (I’ve never met Katie Hopkins IRL so she doesn’t count).
Living in a society that places morality at it’s core, being a good person is of paramount importance to most normal folk. I watch people bend over backwards in a bid to make people like them. I bend over backwards in a bid to make people like me, and it’s exhausting.
I am so fucking tired of trying to make people like me.
I’ve done it forever.
I did it at school; as soon as the car door closed I would morph myself into the person that my school friends had deemed to be a welcome addition to their circle (or the person that I thought my friends wanted in their circle at least). I did it to get the attention of the first fella that I crushed on as a teenager; all of a sudden I cared a huge amount about Chelsea’s position in the Premiere League. I did it whilst writing my book and recording my podcast and I still do it before constructing a tweet or writing a blog post or even going to the pub with my friends.
Common sense dictates that I ought to be nice wherever possible. No pushing little old ladies out the way in the supermarket, no telling my friend what I really think of her gribbly boyfriend, no flying off the handle every time someone says something I don’t entirely agree with.
But, at the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw, the harder I tried to be the person that I thought everyone would love, the more I found myself wondering if I was becoming a person that I didn’t really like being.
When I started blogging I was hellbent on being an outspoken little gobshite ready to change the world. I was angry with the fashion industry and angry with my school and angry with the people that had implied that I wasn’t good enough. I was angry with a world that didn’t treat me fairly because I was a woman, I was angry with a world that didn’t like me as much because my stomach exploded over my jeans with enthusiasm. I was angry, about all of it.
But I was pretty happy. In spite of it all, I was pretty happy.
In lots of ways I am happier now than I was then. In lots of ways, I’m not.
In the years since I started blogging, I have done a lot of growing up. When all of this began I had just turned twenty and was full to the brim of the kind of confidence that comes only with ignorance. I wrote about this the other day, about my blogging journey if you like. It’s a complicated industry and one that leaves me, most days, feeling fairly overwhelmed. I basically have no idea what I am doing. If there is one thing I know for sure though, it’s that I wish I were still blind to the world that I am now in.
The biggest change? In 2014 I didn’t give a shit. In 2018 I have so many shits to give.
I have been extensively internet trolled in my little life. I’m not too glum about it really, since it was ultimately down to the chap that told me I looked like I was ‘the kind of lass to go to Glastonbury, get rattled by 15 lads and not even give my fanny a once over with a wet-wipe‘ and his pals that lead to me getting my book deal in the first place, but I’d be a moron not to make the connection between stranger’s (pretty nasty) comments about me online, and my subsequent obsession with being liked.
When your job literally relies on people not only accepting what you put out into the world, but approving of it, it’s hard not to become a little fixated on people’s opinions of ya. I know I take things too personally, I wrote about that the other day, but I am actively trying to find a way of existence at the moment that not only stops me taking things too personally, but that makes me okay with the fact that not everyone is going to like me.
I realise that this makes it sound as if I’m about to announce something awful. Like I’ve been sitting on this terrible character flaw that does in fact see me stealing from charities and ridiculing old people in the street. I haven’t, I don’t. I hope I’m not about to become unlikable, but I would like the opportunity to not massively care if I did.
What is that they say about peaches? You can be the juiciest one in all the land, but there will still be someone out there that doesn’t like peaches.
To be honest with you, I don’t even really like peaches that much.
I have a dad that a lot of people hate. A lot of people love him, but a lot of people hate him. He’s probably what you’d call a sharp peach.
By association that meant a lot of people were going to hate me too. This is why I was internet trolled in the first place to be honest, I can’t do right for doing right. I’ll always be too fat or too ugly and I will always be criticised, no matter what job I do, for not working hard enough and for being spoilt.
Someone said underneath a Daily Mail article once that I was ‘too ugly to be a pop-star/model like most celebrities’ kids‘ so it makes sense that I’d go down the ‘aspiring author’ route.
At the time that hurt, a lot. It was not a lone comment in a sea of compliments. It was one and the same of most that I received.
But there’s a couple of big differences between the me that read that in 2o15 and the one writing it down now.
My favourite being that I’m not an aspiring author anymore. I’m an actual author, with an actual book, that I wrote all on my own. That makes me feel a bit better.
When you receive countless comments like that, you start to feel like you are the problem, so you do your best to right the wrong. I didn’t notice it at the time but I think I shrunk into myself a bit, tried to reign it back in, remove myself from the firing line.
I have been disliked, and funnily enough, I didn’t like it. So I started to do everything in my power to make everyone else like me. I became the biggest people pleaser in all the world.
And to be honest with ya pals, it’s sort of ruining my life.
I’m too scared to go after what I want professionally, I’m too scared to lose my shit on Twitter even though I HATE so many people on there, I’m a bit scared even to post what I want on Instagram incase people unfollow me.
This is THE biggest waste of my life. And girls, I’m wayyyy too young to be wasting my life on shite like this.
There are a few people that I need to like me, in order to live the happy and fulfilled life that I want to live.
My boyfriend, my family, my friends, my dog. Admittedly it doesn’t take much to get my dog to like me, but you know what I mean.
When push comes to shove, that’s what matters. And the bugger is, my obsession with being liked in a professional capacity, has a tendency of spilling over into my personal life. I just come one big ball of WHAT IF EVERYONE HATES ME.
The irony here of course is that, just like an anxious dog, the harder you try to make people like you, the less inclined they are going to be to do that. My brother for one finds my constant need to people please a massive pain in his arse. That’s a problem for another day, or another blog post at any rate.
But as for what the WORLD thinks of me? I am officially too tired to give a shit and it feels 100% fabulous.
There are lots of things that matter a great deal to me, my Instagram theme is no longer one of them. Nor is what the lad who thinks that I would EVER use a wet wipe, knowing what I know about what they do to the environment, to clean my fanny with says.
I am young and I have a lot to say and I want to say ALL OF IT. If people don’t want to hear it? Well they know where the damn door is. Byeeeeeee.