Was Trump suicidal over his Twitter ban? I sure was when I got banned.
Last week Trump was permanently banned from Twitter for inciting the end of American democracy. It cut him off from the world, but only because he developed an allergy to the press room inside his house. I wonder if he sat in the bath mainlining Diet Coke and KFC while he contemplated swallowing a pack of Sudafed? Did he stare at the Washington Monument and think about free falling to the concrete below? Did he draft a text to Stormy that said “wanna suffocate me to death, you choose how”? The reason I wonder if he was suicidal is because I definitely was when I got banned last April. As a comedian and writer with no big credits, Twitter mattered so much to me (probably too much), so it sucked bigtime when I got banned.
Twitter was how I booked shows, got freelance writing gigs, and promoted my work. It’s also why I started comedy in the first place: years ago, a Big Deal comedian mentioned me in an article as her “favorite person to follow on twitter” and I went to my first open mic the next day. I took pride in the fact that famous people followed me. Trust me, I’m very aware of how sad that sounds. But Twitter was the only thing that made me feel like I meant something in the world of comedy. And I undid it all with one tweet. Here it is/was:
I pulled the move where I changed my name and profile photo to look like somebody else. I thought it would be very hilarious. Was it? I dunno, sorta.
My original plan was to change my name back to “bez” and change my profile pic back to a blurry photo of me dressed up as Prefontaine. Instead, I opened up the app to a suspended account.
I had an immediate panic attack. I scoured the internet and found most suspensions last two weeks. Since this was a first time offense, I assumed that would be the case. Two grueling weeks later, I still was suspended. I emailed them constantly (I had the time since I was laid off due to a global pandemic). To this day, I’ve never received a response from an actual human. In late May 2020, I got an automated email saying my account was gone forever.
When I opened that email I FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT. I drank like 1995 Courtney Love for a month. I walked through life in a daze and made mental Pro & Con lists for ending my life. It was dark. I wanted to check myself into a mental institution, but I was too afraid of getting covid. It felt like something died, but nothing I could actually mourn. The last remaining tether to my comedy “career” was severed, but somehow it felt like so much more.
I mentioned I was recently laid off and stuck inside because of a global pandemic, right? Was that weighing on my mental health like the slumped body of a senator who died of a heart attack in the middle of boning his fave escort? You betcha. My noggin was a feast of sadness and the antidote was the only thing I couldn’t get — my goddamn Twitter account back. I have my friends, family and boyfriend to thank for landing on the right side of my Pro & Con list. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to reach out to the people in your life, always, but especially in covidtimes. Eventually my grief turned to anger, which was a very good thing.
I was outraged. At a stupid social media platform. It’s like being angry at Alexa when you ask her to play These Dreams by Heart but she plays an a cappella version. There was no one to yell at or blame except myself. I was mad because I wasn’t allowed to make one joke tweet, but Trump could lock children in cages and discriminate against LGBTQ and stoke white supremacists and lie every time he opens his Adderall hole. The man is more pathological than the girl in my 4th grade class who told us she flew to London every weekend and was “best friends with Harry.” How had they not ONCE suspended the swamp demon who was licking dictator balls and treating democracy like his own personal rage room? The fuck, Jack Horsey but with a D???
In retrospect, I see why they suspended me, even though I still believe it should’ve been a timeout and not a plank walk into a lava lake. But even with my hindsight being clear as the crystal in my baggy sports bra, I want to explain why I did it in the first place: frustration. Four years of watching the president do monstrous, damaging, pure evil shit every day and getting away with it. If I reacted to Trump’s abominations without holding back, I would have been screaming at the top of my lungs every waking hour since his inauguration. Instead, I kept it down and lived my life and tried not to let it affect me. But when he began spouting lies about a deadly virus, I snapped. I was like, “THERE ARE REFRIGERATED MORGE TRUCKS IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD. THIS IS WHY I WAS BAWLING ON ELECTION DAY 2016.”
So I took my fury and I tweeted as him, I tweeted as the enemy. It was like all the anger and sadness he caused funneled into my fist and I was able to punch through a cinderblock. It was cathartic. It was also wrong. I should’ve just like, I dunno, lit a sandalwood candle or done some pilates or something. Hindsight, bro.
What I did wasn’t original, and other accounts have been banned for impersonating public figures. Cole Escola impersonated Bill de Blasio this summer at the height of the BLM protests when BdB was letting the NYPD paddle his lil bottom, daily. Ira Madison hysterically impersonated Amy Coney Barrett and got the boot. Unfortunately, every time a Blue Check got kicked off the platform it triggered another round of suicidal thoughts. Cole and Ira had successful careers to fall back on, pieces were written about their Twitter demises, people showered social media with “we’ll miss you!” It was a reminder of my lack of success just like, in general, because when I got kicked off I went quietly into the night like a lil puff of blueberry vape smoke.
When my tweet (premonition?) came true and Trump tested positive for the virus he fought so hard to dismiss, a little part of me thought I might get my account back. The same part of me also believes in Santa and that collagen powder will make me look twenty-five again. As we know, he survived COVID19 by battling it with his large hands and strongstong manbody, but I didn’t get my dumb Twitter account back.
Then, on January 6th, armed fascists invaded the Capitol with guns and bombs and confederate flags and zip-ties. Trump told them, “we love you, you’re very special.” He finally got suspended. Like, that’s what it took. It took an attempted coup. Jack & Co allowed him to tweet dangerous shit for years, but it was finally over. It felt good to see him get suspended, and not just from Twitter, but from Facebook, YouTube, Twitch, all of it. Sure, he still has the nuclear codes, but at least he can’t post them.
As I write this, both Trump and my suspension appear to be forever. Maybe one day I’ll get my account back. Maybe the damage he caused over the last four years can be learned from, then undone. Maybe I’ll get a new following somewhere else. Maybe one day America will have universal healthcare. Maybe. In terms of The Big Picture, one silly lady getting kicked off social media is a tiny chunk of ice floating off one of Pluto’s moons, so I guess I’ll get my shit together and move the fuck on and not kill myself over the dumbest crap imaginable. Tomorrow is Inauguration Day and we will have a new (human!) president. One day at a time, baby, that’s all I got.
