The Tiger Inside My House

CW: mention of PTSD and harassment

“There’s a tiger inside your house and you’re convinced it’s a bird.”

My therapist said this to me about an hour ago. We’d been talking about social media, my relationship with online platforms, and the trauma I’m still trying to understand and manage almost six months after the initial event. I’m an adult, I told her, I should be able to handle being online. She’d looked over the edge of her glasses and adjusted her computer screen (we were on Zoom), and I felt like a little child, like a small person right before they’re told they’ve done something wrong.

“You know those tiny birds that hang out around restaurants? You think one of those cuties is stuck inside your house, flying around, leaving messes that’re easy to clean up. But there’s a fucking tiger inside your house, Daniella. And you’re convinced it’s a bird until it’s right on top of you.”

I almost fired my therapist. Right there, right then. Almost clicked the ‘x’ at the top right of my screen, paid the invoice, and started looking for someone who had their shit together. But I didn’t, because I remembered what we’d talked about two minutes before she’d told me there was a tiger in my house. The PTSD responses I couldn’t control. Going face-blind (momentarily unable to see) and losing my auditory function (momentarily unable to hear) when I dropped followers online, or caught wind of unhealthy discourse, or saw certain names mentioned in passing.

“That’s not a normal response,” she’d told me. And then she’d said, “There’s a tiger inside your house and you’re convinced it’s a bird.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I listened.

“When we make something out to be easily avoidable, we take away our ability to treat ourselves fairly. This whole time, for six months, you’ve convinced yourself the abuse you went through is miniscule. That’s it’s a bird you can probably catch, let go, and move on from. But it’s not, Daniella. It’s a fucking tiger. There’s a tiger in your house. When it’s on you, when you lose your cognitive ability to person, that’s when you realize how big it is, and how heavy it is, because oh yeah, it’s actually a tiger.”

She was right, but I said no, because like I said before, I felt like a little child. No, it wasn’t a big deal. It sucked, but it’s over.

“It’s not over,” she said. “There’s still a tiger in your house, and until you open the door and let it back out into the wild, you’re going to pretend it’s a bird. You have to let it go. If social media is toxic for you, don’t engage with it.”

But I need to, I said. See, I write sometimes, and apparently I’m pretty good. People like what I’m doing —

“When they’re not trying to find your address…?”

I swallowed. Yes. Not those people. But a lot of other people like what I’m writing, and it’s the only place I can talk about being transgender. I need it. I need to make it work.

“On Twitter, right? The place where you were almost doxxed?”

I swallowed again. Yes. It’s the best place for marketing.

“And there are people on that website who tried to harm you? And you share communal, online space with those people? You do so willingly?”

Yes.

“That tiger isn’t going anywhere if you don’t open the door.”

I nodded. I know.

“If you can’t get rid of the tiger, you need to make a deal with it. Learn how to live with it. But it’s still a tiger. You understand that, right? All the compromises in the world won’t make it a bird. Now that we know it’s a tiger, let’s talk about what kind of tiger.” She waited for me to drink some soda and nod, and then she continued. “Can this tiger physically hurt you?”

Probably not.

“Do you have to pay attention to the tiger? I’m sure Twitter has a block function.”

That’s true. I don’t want people to hate me, though. I don’t want —

“And do you think the people — your abusers and thier friends — do you think they’ll try to hurt you? Or will they block you and move on? Can they hurt you, Daniella?”

I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know why they would want to.

“Do you know them?”

No, not a single one of them.

“Do they know where you live?”

Not those people, no.

“Are you afraid that your success might make them angry?”

That question made me stumble. I hadn’t mentioned being successful, but I nodded, because yeah, I think so. I don’t get it. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything, I don’t know these people —

“Are they people? Or are these strangers on the internet who don’t know where you live, don’t know what you look like, don’t know (my spouse), don’t know your life, don’t know anything. Not a fucking thing.”

They’re people. I think this whole thing happened, because they forgot we’re all people.

“But are they people who matter?”

I thought about that.

“Seriously, really. Who are they? Do they matter?”

No, I said. Not in the grand scheme, but they could lie about me again. They could hurt my career. I’m scared of them, I guess.

“See?” She smiled. “Not a bird, is it? Birds aren’t scary.”

No, I said. No, it’s a tiger.

I don’t know if I can handle having a tiger in my house. I don’t know if I can find the right coping mechanisms, or get myself into the right headspace to know I’m safe again. I don’t know; I’ll never know. But right now, I know there’s a tiger in my house.

There’s a tiger in my house and sometimes I think it’s a bird.