When The Internet Turned On Mia Freedman And Why I’m Sorry For My Reaction
A couple of weeks ago the internet turned on Mia Freedman.
Like, turned. You don’t need me to explain why, her Roxanne Gay interview made head lines for a number of reasons that ranged from referring to Roxanne as Super Morbidly Obese to disclosing personal details about her concerns with catering for a women of Roxannes size.
Our hearts broke for Roxanne.
Since this happened Ive seen pretty much every aspect of Mia’s personal and professional life scrutinised online.
This wasn’t a shock, this happens all the time when you work in the public eye. You can take it with a grain of salt and be sure that next week it will be someone else’s life and if there isn’t anyone they’ll just go back to stalking and judging Karl Stefanovic.
What was a shock to me was my reaction.
I was relieved and almost happy, I mean Mamamia writes weekly articles about me and in my opinion doesn’t monitor the hate filled comment sections enough, when I write an article about anyone I try to keep any abusive and non helpful comments out of the thread.
Mamamia’s comment section is one of the worst sources of hate for me, “She needs a fucking wash” “shes so feral I feel sorry for the kids” insert spew face, so many spew faces…
But I get it, Mamamia as a media company doesn’t personally care that these comment sections hurt me and incite even more hatred towards me, that contributes to my crippling anxiety and leads my manager to pull me away from public events. Polarising topics lead to more clicks and more clicks mean more money.
And I should toughen up to it, or at the very least NOT READ.
But to have felt happy? Me? At another women’s public downfall, a downfall so great that she made a massive public apology and still the internet licked its lips and hurled metaphoric shit in her face.
Thats shameful, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have felt that way.
I spent a great deal of my life believing I was fat, wishing I was thinner, believing that the answer to all of my problems was to lose 5 kilos and when I wasn’t losing it? I’d hope to see or hear that someone else was gaining weight too, it made me feel better. When a friend popped over and mentioned that a girl we both know who usually looks rad had put on loads of weight… I used to gloat a bit… Like for some reason her weight gain made mine less depressing, you know what they say? Misery loves company.
It’s that same internal voice that gives women that little “oh fuck off” when you see the post baby body photo’s with a fitness blogger, her new baby and her banging body, while I stuffed another chip in my mouth and rolled my eyes at her.
When, as women, are we going to understand that another womens victory is not our loss? That another woman’s defeat is not our calling to pop a bottle of champagne.
I thought I was over all of that, I thought I had conquered “competitive womaning” isn’t that what being a Queen is all about? The sisterhood, picking each other up when we fall? Revelling in our friends celebrations?
When I take the boys skating I notice something beautiful, Sunny and Zeyke are two of WA’s best skaters for their age. Yet when they come across better skaters then them, they beam with excitement, they learn from them, they teach kids less experienced as them, I always thought to myself “Shit skatings cool, the kids are so at one with each other, theres fuck all competition despite it being a competitive sport.”
But then I went to the beach with Denim, he wasn’t surfing that day, just watching. Clapping, cheering on complete strangers and purely happy for their performances.
And I thought about “Dance Mums,” and “Toddlers in Tiaras” and how we are conditioned from such a young age to deem other girls success as our competition.. When were we taught to sit on the side lines cheering on a women we don’t know? but we had a lot of experience hearing women bitch about other women, tearing each other to bits, “Id look like that too if I had a personal trainer and a fucking chef” “She only married him for his money”
I wouldn’t look like that even with a personal trainer and a chef. And so fucking what she married for money? I’d want money too for shagging the old bastard.
And my internal response to last weeks witchhunt on Mia Freedman proved to me that I am still learning too, learning the art of being one of the queens I always talk about.
But I do know this much, we need to change the tone. My daughter loves nothing more then hearing me say lovely things about other women, how lovely her teacher is, how beautiful aunty Stella is. What a brilliant writer mummy’s friend is.
If we connect as women, then all womens successes are our triumphs.
And all womens defeats are our destruction.
So, I’m sorry for being cattily happy when Mia had the cuntiest of all cunt weeks last week.
I learned something about myself and I vow to change.
I hope you’re OK.