Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman(56)

My armor wasn’t strong enough for that.

What was my recourse? What could I do? This was before Twitter had a “report” function (which, as far as I can tell, is just a pretty placebo anyway), and it’s not illegal to reach elbow-deep into someone’s safest, sweetest memories and touch them and twist them and weaponize them to impress the ghost of Lenny Bruce or what-the-fuck-ever. Hell, not only is it not illegal, I’m told it’s a victory for free speech and liberty. It’s just how the Internet works. It’s natural. It’s inevitable. Grow a thicker skin, piggy.

“Location: Dirt hole in Seattle.”

All I could do was ignore it. Hit “block” and move on, knowing that that account was still out there, hidden behind a few gossamer lines of code. “Paw West Donezo” was still putting words in my dead father’s mouth, still touching his memory, still parading his corpse around like a puppet to punish me for… something. I didn’t even know what.

I’m supposed to feel okay just because I can’t see it?

Yes. You’re supposed to feel okay just because you can’t see it. There’s no other way, we’re told. We couldn’t possibly change the culture, we’re told.

There’s no “winning” when it comes to dealing with Internet trolls. Conventional wisdom says, “Don’t engage. It’s what they want.” Is it? Are you sure our silence isn’t what they want? Are you sure they care what we do at all? From where I’m sitting, if I respond, I’m a sucker for taking the bait. If I don’t respond, I’m a punching bag. I’m the idiot daughter of an embarrassed dead guy. On the record. Forever.

Faced with a lose-lose like that, what do you do? Ignoring “PawWestDonezo” wasn’t going to chasten him, or make me feel better, or bring my dad back.

So I talked back. I talked back because my mental health—not some troll’s personal satisfaction—is my priority. I talked back because it emboldens other women to talk back online and in real life, and I talked back because women have told me that my responses give them a script for dealing with monsters in their own lives. Most importantly, I talked back because Internet trolls are not, in fact, monsters. They are human beings who’ve lost their way, and they just want other people to flounder too—and I don’t believe that their attempts to dehumanize me can be counteracted by dehumanizing them.

The week after it happened, I wrote about PawWest Donezo in a Jezebel article about trolling. I wrote sadly, candidly, angrily, with obvious pain.

A few hours after the post went up, I got an e-mail:



Hey Lindy,



I don’t know why or even when I started trolling you. It wasn’t because of your stance on rape jokes. I don’t find them funny either.

I think my anger towards you stems from your happiness with your own being. It offended me because it served to highlight my unhappiness with my own self.

I have e-mailed you through 2 other gmail accounts just to send you idiotic insults.

I apologize for that.

I created the [email protected] account & Twitter account. (I have deleted both)

I can’t say sorry enough.

It was the lowest thing I had ever done. When you included it in your latest Jezebel article it finally hit me. There is a living, breathing human being who is reading this shit. I am attacking someone who never harmed me in any way. And for no reason whatsoever.

I’m done being a troll.

Again I apologize.

I made donation in memory to your dad.

I wish you the best.



He attached a receipt for a fifty-dollar donation to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, designated “Memorial Paul West” for “Area of greatest need.”

This e-mail still unhinges my jaw every time I read it. A troll apologizing—this had never happened to me before, it has never happened to me since, I do not know anyone to which it has happened, nor have I heard of such a thing in the wide world of Internet lore. I have read interviews with scholars who study trolling from an academic perspective, specifically stating that the one thing you never get from a troll is public remorse.

I didn’t know what to say. I said:


Is this real? If so, thank you.

It was really hurtful, but I’m truly sorry for whatever you’ve been going through that made you feel compelled to do those things. I wish you the best. And thank you for the donation—it means a lot. I love my dad very much.



He wrote to me one more time, our final contact:


Yes it’s true. Thank you for responding with more kindness than I deserve.

I’m sorry for your loss and any pain I caused you.

All the best,

[REDACTED] (my real name)





I returned to my regular routine of daily hate mail, scrolling through the same options over and over—Ignore? Block? Report? Engage?—but every time I faced that choice, I thought briefly of my remorseful troll. I wondered if I could learn anything from him, what he’d tell me to do, if he had really changed. And then it struck me—oh my god. I still had his e-mail address. I could just ask him. Even if he turned out to be a jerk, it would make a great story.

I sent the e-mail. After a few months of torturous waiting, he finally wrote back. “I’d be happy to help you out in any way possible,” he said.