Hooked on Hate Comments

I know better but can’t look away.

Lately, I’ve been bringing extra attention to my time online and how it affects my body-mind-spirit. As a result, I’m online less with a lot more intention. 

And yet. When it comes to the time I do spend online, I’m embarrassed to admit this includes reading hate comments. 

I know they’re bad for me. I know that reading them causes tightness in my chest, a knot in my stomach, and whole-body dread.

I know better. But I can’t look away.

I’m not talking about expressing a differing opinion or engaging in good faith debate. By “hate comments,” I mean hurtful words devoid of care and respect. And while there’s certainly a time and place for anger, I see no place for hostility meant to cause harm. 

Hostile engagement—regardless of what the comment is in response to and regardless of the stance or opinion—is both destructive and ineffective. Not to mention that people who are secure in themselves—people who are out in the world making a positive difference—aren’t tearing others apart on the internet.

And look, I’ve long realized that even just reading hate comments is part of the problem. The proliferation of online hate is one reason I quit Facebook in 2020, Instagram in 2023, and never got on TikTok or X. It’s also why I’ve stopped visiting websites where hate comments are commonplace and why I block anyone leaving hate comments here, in my online home. And yet…

I keep finding myself in the nastiest of comment sections. Not on purpose—but as though I’m pulled by an invisible string.

And no, most of these are not on Substack. And I don’t visit social media platforms or websites that I’ve intentionally quit. But these days, you don’t need to go far online to find yourself in some version of the same savage thing.

Multiple times a day, I’ll be reading an essay or post, find an angry barrage of replies at the end, and get sucked right back in. I know they’re not good for me. I know even just reading them feeds the same hurtful system. I could click away, but I don’t. And while I’d never leave hate comments myself, I’m still there watching the pile-on and car crash.

I’ve been at the bottom of that pile-on.

Part of my morbid fascination with this stems from past experience being a target. The first, most dramatic occasion was in 2020, when I was newly sober and living alone during lockdown.

My life during that time was interesting, to say the least. I suddenly found myself completely isolated and teaching college by Zoom. I gave up booze when many folks were upping their intake. In giving up booze, I gave up a familiar-if-miserable comfort amidst early pandemic upheaval.

But then, as now, writing brought me joy and release. So when a popular website offered me $100 to write an anonymous article sharing a week in my life, I didn’t think twice. It was a fun project. I welcomed the money.

Now, I’ll admit that my lifestyle was and is unusual. In addition to being sober, I’m religious about daily routines, eat the same simple meals day in and day out, and am enthusiastic about minimalist and health-conscious living. The article shared a light, quirky window into that lifestyle. Nothing I wrote was aimed at anyone else. Even in discussing myself, I shared far less than what you’ll find here, in this very newsletter.

I thought it’d make for a short, playful read. I had no idea that people would react with rageful condemnation and fury. Oh, but they did. It was as though my entire being (along with my sobriety and health-conscious choices) was an outrageous assault on their senses. Anonymous commenters tore me to shreds. Knowing that most (if not all) were young women made it hurt worse.

In my naïveté, I emailed the editor, explained the comments’ toll on my mental health, and begged for them to take their money back and take down the post. In so many words, she said: Sorry, not possible. 

Fun if unfortunate fact: I went back to take a peek at those comments as part of “research” for this essay. VERY BAD IDEA. Four years later, it’s still pretty painful. But I wanted evidence in the form of quotes (directed at me) and brought back some gems: 

“Stop saying you ‘got sober’ when you really just cut out the occasional glass or 2 of wine with dinner. It’s incredibly reductive to people who have actually ‘gotten sober’ from battling serious drug and alcohol addiction. You can just say you don’t drink. LOTS of people don’t drink. Oh, right, but then you couldn’t humblebrag.”

“It sounds like she does a whole lot of nothing tbh”

“Oh for F’s sake.” 

“definitely a psychopath. this was terrifying to read.” 

But hold up! I did find this comment amidst the onslaught of haters:

“Please remember, if you post comments on someone else’s article—anonymously written or not—there is a human with feelings on the other end. Here’s to kindness.” 

Oh, wait. I wrote that. Forty-eight people voted it down.

The comments above—the ones I feel secure enough to repost—aren’t even close to the worst of it. There were dozens condemning my sobriety, my food choices, my daily routines, my work and livelihood, my relationship with my partner, even how I care for my cats! 

Not to mention that every single hate comment had scores of up votes. The meaner the comment, the better it did. The very few kind comments were overwhelmingly downvoted. 

So many assumptions and judgements. So much hatred in response to a short, light-hearted post sharing a tiny glimpse into the life of a stranger.

(Don’t worry—I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never visit that publication again.)

Image of me by Bobbi Barbarich

But it didn’t stop there.

Back in those days, I used to actively participate in this kind of fuckery. While I didn’t leave hate comments myself, I felt compelled to defend people under attack. 

I did this on Facebook and Instagram until I quit Facebook and Instagram. 

I did this on the design blog that I read at lunch. A design blog! Sounds safe, I know. But a group of women who frequent this particular blog would get vicious if posts: 1) weren’t prefaced by extensive, apologetic disclaimers that have lost all meaning from overuse, and 2) didn’t cater to their personal needs, circumstances, and preferences. 

Entitled projection coupled with anonymous hate is ubiquitous these days.¹ And, until recently, my response was to jump in and defend those under attack. Problem is, that just perpetuated more of the same. Online haters feed off engagement. When they get that engagement—in whatever form—they ramp up their cruel comments. 

Thankfully, I eventually realized this and no longer engage or comment on anything unless it’s to say something nice.

AND YET. 

I’m still there reading. And when the option’s available, you better bet I use my “up vote” to support kind people and my “down vote” against haters. Even when there isn’t the option to upvote or downvote, I can’t look away. 

That’s not even the whole of it. I’m also magnetized to the intimate cousin of hate comments: articles and entire publications premised on snark, gossip, and shaming. And look, I know there are some brilliantly written, wildly popular ones here on Substack. But, on some level, they’re another version of online hate. They invite it. They revel in it. Their comments are full of it. Rather than attack the author in this case, commenters join the author in slashing and trashing.

Reading along never leaves me feeling anything but awful—no matter how the comments are slanted and no matter who wins. The word “toxic” is overused, but I’m not sure how else to describe what happens in these comment sections and my own participation by reading them. Which of course begs the question…

WHY THE FUCK AM I DOING THIS?

Leaving and reading hate comments are two sides of the same coin.

Whenever I find myself doing something that’s unskillful and painful, the first thing I do is get really honest. I ask: 

• What’s my role and responsibility in this?

• How does it make me feel in the moment and afterwards?

• What holds the hook? What is my subconscious hoping for?

When others are involved, I also ask: 

• What might they be feeling?

• What might their subconscious be wanting?

When it comes to hate comments, here’s what I found: 

• The hate comments about me that hurt the most: 1) hold some element of truth, 2) reflect a limiting belief that some part of me fears is true, and/or 3) are unjust and inaccurate.

• The hate comments directed at others that upset me the most: 1) are unkind, inflictive, and predatory, 2) are unjust and inaccurate, and/or 3) could just as easily be directed at me.

In every single one of the above scenarios, whether hate comments hold a charge has way more to do with me than the person leaving the comments.

But the flip side is also true! Hate comments are an obvious, unflattering reflection on the person who’s spewing them. 

And while I don’t know exactly what folks are feeling when they leave online hate, I’m pretty confident they’re not feeling stellar. No one leaves hostile comments unless they’re miserable in some shape or form. And if they’re leaving hate comments regularly, I’m willing to bet they’re regularly miserable.   

Thinking about my hate commenters from four years ago, I wonder: Where are they now? Thinking about the design blog brigade, I wonder the same. If their comments are any indication of how they’re spending their life and their general trajectory, well…they’re probably not doing great.

The self-protection to hypervigilance to addiction pipeline

In response to hate comments, I protect myself through hypervigilance, monitoring, and managing every hateful online expression—even those not aimed directly at me. I’m scanning the scene, on the lookout for potential attacks against me, my character, my beliefs, and my choices. As you might imagine, this process is not only exhausting but deeply addictive. 

Addiction is an attempt at protection, and hate leavers and readers are acting from a similar impulse. We’re humans. We’re coming from a place of pain, loss, and fear. We want to be seen, feel safe, and be taken care of. And while this doesn’t excuse harmful behaviour, it sure does help it make sense.

Looking at my wider patterns, I have a habit of hypervigilance that predates online spaces. Some deep part of me is on the watch and fears confrontation, angry people, and getting in trouble. This part of me is drawn to behaviours that offer a sense of control. Such control isn’t real, of course, but addiction provides an illusion of safety while helping to numb and self-soothe.

As an extension of this pattern, I’m drawn to online hate that’s directed at others but could be directed at me. I have a perverse, painful fascination with how folks might see me and what they might say to or about me if given free reign. 

Is this irrational? Maybe. But our subconscious doesn’t give a flip about rational thinking.

On the other hand, my hate-monitoring habit does hold some logic. The 2020 hate comment experience was at once completely unexpected and proved my deepest fears true. More generally, the past four years have seen an explosion of online vitriol, cancel culture, self-appointed policing, and dehumanizing, moralizing, polarizing, either-or narratives.

And if you’re like me—if you don’t march in lockstep with one dominant narrative or the next—well, you know what it’s like. You’ll receive condemnation from both sides if they find out the truth.

So, you see, not so irrational. The protector part of me senses a very real threat. Problem is, my protector doesn’t understand that its hypervigilance is successful only in making me fearful and addicted to fear.

And so, I zero in on the hate comments. And so—like any addiction—it’s a misguided, ineffective attempt at protection.

Addiction doesn’t offer the protection it promises.

Reading hate comments may be an attempt at self-protection, but it doesn’t come through on its promise or do anything helpful. Instead it:

• Wastes time, attention, and energy

• Leaves me feeling rageful and fearful

• Does nothing to create helpful change (and in fact does the opposite)

• Reinforces the compulsion to keep checking comments

• Contributes to a harmful culture and ecosystem both online and off

For all its promise and pretense of protecting us, addiction does not work. It doesn’t keep me safe. It doesn’t meet my needs or heal my wounds. It doesn’t even make me feel better! 

Seeing and naming this—surrendering to the truth of my patterns—makes me more aware of my choices, my responsibility, my agency.

From there, I can choose and do something different. And the more times I succeed—the more times I look away from the hate comments—the weaker the pull of the unhelpful pattern.

Even better? Cultivating experiences that offer an alternative. Ones that actually provide what I’m after and make me feel better, not worse. When it comes to interactions online, I know exactly what does this for me: being here, reading your comments, creating a kind, caring, respectful community.

Every time someone leaves a kind comment on one of my essays:

• My heart fills with love and gratitude.

• I touch into what we share (even amidst our differences). 

• My heart goes out to you, in your places of struggle and challenge.

• I feel inspired to show up more fully, generously, and lovingly.

Your thoughtful, caring comments make a tremendous difference. They impact not just me, but every single person I come in contact with online or off. (Sort of like hate comments—but moving in an opposite, healing direction.)

 Speaking of which…

I’d love for you to share in the comments.

• Have you gotten hate comments online? How did they affect you?

• Do you read hate comments online? Or perhaps entire essays premised on hate, gossip, and snark? How does that affect you?

• What are your favorite types of comments to write? And to read?

Those are suggestions. Feel free to freestyle. Just please keep your shares about you and your experience. No unsolicited advice, please—and definitely no hate comments!

And before you go, please tap the little ♡. It offers “social proof” and lets others know there’s something useful here. The more people become paying subscribers, the more time I can devote to Sober Soulful, which I consider my most magical, most meaningful work.

1. I emphatically recommend the podcast Beyond the Self with Africa Brooke. See, for example, episode #020 The true cost of entitled behaviour and episode #024 Why you don’t have to speak up on every social issue.