DOT18: Don’t call me a dick! I like Gemma’s vids. She explains why she goes for a certain hold and where to hold your body weight to stop the gravity swing.
FGH1: She won’t post another video ever.
Kait: How do you know?
FGH1: ’Cause she’s dead. Chopped up into little pieces.
Sizi: That’s sick!
FGH1: Yeah, well, she deserved it for whoring herself out on YouTube. Those tight leggings and filming her ass climbing up a cliff? She was asking for it.
DOT18: I’m reporting you for abuse.
FGH1: Go for it. It’s the truth. She got snatched and murdered for being a video slut. I’m going to find her body and show all you guys the truth. And then I’m going to use her bones as toothpicks.
Wow...
Josh wasn’t kidding.
I closed out of the comment section on the last video I’d posted before going missing and slouched on the couch. My spare laptop hummed on my thighs, granting heat to my legs, reminding me all over again that it was time to tackle the overflowing inboxes, the countless messages, DM’s, and tags.
I missed my main laptop that was still in my Jeep back in the valley. Eventually, I would have to go back for all my abandoned gear. My eyes trailed to my trusty backpack that I’d managed to stuff into the helicopter when they came to put out the fire.
I should probably empty that too and sort out my life now that I’m back.
But then again, if sorting out my life included dealing with this online mess? I didn’t know if I had the energy. I’d expected some backlash—it wasn’t the internet if there weren’t a few random trolls. But this? I wasn’t expecting it to go so dark.
Use my bones as toothpicks?
Who are these people?
I’d always allowed commenting on my videos on YouTube as I liked having an open Q&A session for an hour after I uploaded the latest recording. I’d answer climbing questions, coach a little on what they were doing wrong, and generally share pieces of myself with the watchers who made my career possible.
But after reading the filth that’d been spewed all over my last video...I second-guessed that strategy.
Over sixteen thousand comments and the longer the time went from my last upload, the more disgusting the comments became until the most recent posts were just assholes joining in for the hell of it.
Apparently, I wasn’t just dead. My corpse had been transformed into some sort of apparatus that men could climb whenever they wanted, using dildos for shoes.
I have to give them some credit for their imagination, I guess.
However, it wasn’t exactly inducive to wanting to put myself back out there.
I squeezed my eyes closed and inhaled deeply.
After so long away from social media and not having internet in the valley, I was tempted to just shut it all down. I’d enjoyed not having the distraction of an online world or feeling like I had to continually produce content.
I had more than enough money saved and invested to never have to work again. I didn’t need to put myself out there for assholes to tear me to ribbons just because they were bored.
But...it was comments like the ones buried beneath the filth that kept me going:
RO99: Gemma, if you read this, please keep posting. My brothers got to do sports when we were younger. They could pick anything they wanted, but my parents only offered ballet or piano to me. But I didn’t want to do ballet or piano. I wanted to play football like them and climb on the weekends like they did. But my parents said they were boy sports. I’m eighteen now and found your channel by accident, but you showed me that climbing isn’t just for boys. Girls can do it too. Girls can kick ass at it. Thanks to you, I started climbing and last weekend earned my first trophy from a local comp. Without you, that wouldn’t have been possible. So please keep posting as I need to keep learning!
Sitting taller, I braced my shoulders.
Thanks, RO99, you just reminded me why I love this gig.
This had long ago stopped being a job that earned me excellent revenue and had become a way to share what I’d learned with those who wanted to learn it. The trolls weren’t part of that equation. They were nothing.
Clicking on a new recording window, I scooted higher up the couch so I didn’t have a double chin from the camera shooting up my nose and prepared to re-enter the world that I’d fallen out of. At the very least, I owed my fans an explanation for my disappearance—if only to stop the speculation and snide comments.
Choosing the live feature, instead of uploading and posting at a later time, I fluffed my hair, made sure my hoodie was zipped up enough that no cleavage showed, and pressed the button.