It has come to my attention that I am not universally beloved.

I know, I know. Weird, right?

But, like every person who has ever publicly expressed an opinion, I have gotten hate mail.

I imagine my professional ancestor, a Neanderthal inscribing tablets with his opinions on the stone-tipped arrow shortage, and I bet he got a few rocks lobbed into his cave with the words "you dumb" chipped into them.

Now, my hate mail is nothing serious: No death threats or death wishes or even vague suggestions that I should meet with any form of harm or distress. That I would take seriously, particularly in this quite literally insane political climate in which profiteers leverage fear to motivate the weak-minded.

What I get in my email inbox is more your garden-variety "you're ruining the country" type stuff. Mild and eminently bearable.

Back when I first started writing columns, though, for my college paper, even those tame insults would have gotten under my skin.

Criticisms used to send me into a spiral and each one would discombobulate me for days, weeks, sometimes even months. In fact, I still remember one such email from the head of the campus recreational center in which she said my column defending an anti-abortion colleague "sucked."

The writer was, in the parlance of today's youth, one of my haters.

Later in life, I've come to realize that I'm not Tom Hanks: Not everyone is going to like me.

Actually, there's probably someone out there who hates Tom Hanks, too.

"Ugh, I'm so sick of hearing how great Tom Hanks is," the person mutters to themselves over their bran flakes or soft-boiled eggs or whatever it is haters eat for breakfast. "So nice, such a good actor, blah blah blah."

If even Tom Hanks can't escape the haters, what hope do I have?

Usually, I respond with a "thanks for reading!" Rarely, I'll defend myself or argue the point, if I have the time and feel like the other person is reasonable. Usually, though, those words are wasted. And the email often really isn't about me. The writers are sad or tired or lonely or angry, and I'm a convenient outlet.

Instead, I clear out the inbox.

I delete and move on.

Plus, the most effective hater isn't sending me all-caps emails. She lives inside my brain.

My inner hater loves to point out every mistake I make, no matter how small. And she sees all of them. (There's a typo in that! Your hair looks crappy! What an unhealthy lunch choice!)

She also has another advantage over strangers lobbing insult-bombs from the internet: I listen to her. Whereas I have no problem dismissing the volleys of those who don't know me, who don't care about me and who, frankly, sometimes don't appear to have even read or understood my writing, the inner hater gets my full attention.

I suspect we all have inner haters.

Even the most confident can have their defensive armor melted by a self-critique.

As I've gotten older, I've gotten better about countering my inner hater's claims, but she still gets her licks in.

Lately, though, I'm treating my inner hater like an outer one.

It helps to first understand her: The hatred isn't about me. It's about her. She's feeling sad or tired or lonely or angry, and I'm a convenient outlet.

When all is functioning as I'd like and I'm feeling particularly immune to my inner hater, there's one thing I can do: Delete and move on.

Because, ultimately, there's no escaping haters. All you can do is defy their attempts to make you hate yourself.

Haters gonna hate. That's their job.

Our job?

Clear out the inbox.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: GoranH at Pixabay