The final blog: Trolls, projective shame and a heavy box of books

CW: Contains some strong and potentially upsetting language

an open box with 24 books inside

On the 15th of July 2025, the doorbell to my flat sounded. As usual, the familiar hoopla of our building’s intercom system followed. In these 1960s blocks of social housing, when a doorbell buzzes it alerts each flat. We all shuffle to the intercom phones by our respective front doors, never quite sure if the buzz is summoning us or a neighbour. A brief symphony of “hellos” and “ayes?” echoed through our various systems before someone let the courier in.

He climbed the stairs and, to the disappointment of my neighbours who have come into the hallway to observe, he stopped at my door. Setting down a heavy-looking box, he snapped a quick photo and disappeared. In the box were 24 copies of my book, ‘An Intersectional Guide for Male Survivors of Sexual Abuse and their Allies: Masculinity Reconnected’ fresh from the publishers. What a wild thing, to unbox for the first time, something that has consumed so much of my time, head space and inner emotional landscape for years. Additionally, it had been a challenging few weeks leading up to their arrival, opening that box went a long way to making it all worthwhile!

Just a couple of weeks earlier, the book, still not even printed, had already attracted the attention of thousands of trolls online. A high-profile public figure in the UK had retweeted one of my very occasional tweets. Strangely, it had nothing to do with my book; it was about the need for accurate reporting of research and inclusive language in state-funded news outlets. Fairly innocuous, however, that alone was enough to trigger a wave of hostility: thousands of people began commenting on my book because it was inclusive - they objected to it including trans men, and that I was a trans inclusive therapist. Many were threatening to disrupt book launches and directed antisemitic and homophobic slurs at me. It spilled over into my work email. Fake email accounts sent transphobic rants, further threats and accusations.

After the initial shock of this newfound, and hopefully short-lived, notoriety, I found myself sifting through the experience, trying to make sense of the threatened violence directed at me. It brought me back, as I so often return, to the subject of shame and the extraordinary lengths people will go to avoid confronting their own, often by projecting it onto others. X/Twitter is fertile ground for this. I can imagine the cathartic release of anonymously joining thousands of others in piling on an individual who symbolises the “other”—a Kleinian bad object. In my case, I morphed into a misogynist, an enabler of violence, “a Jew,” or an “uppity poofter.”

But shame alone doesn’t explain it. Many of us feel shame prone and don’t attack others. I suspect what turns shame into violence is the absence of its recognition - when someone's shame has never been seen. Those who have been shamed and never had that shame held with care can end up angry at the world. I recognise this in myself, and in some of the survivors I work with: when the success or freedoms of others feels like a personal attack. The desire to attack back and tear others down is strong.

And if, in that tearing down, a shamed individual can be part of a collective - part of an ideology that feeds on a mistrust of gender or religion, an anti-intellectualism or a preserved need to protect the weak and vulnerable (many of the emails I received accused me of letting abusers into schools or claimed I hated women) then even better! This temporary displacement of shame onto a bad object - and the resulting sense of connection with others - must offer some respite from the coiled, internal, shame-fuelled anger that lies perpetually poised to strike.

Strangely, the book has brought on this attention and, through writing it, it has also sharpened my understanding of shame and the dangers of it when left unseen. As American psychiatrist and author James Gilligan writes, “Shame is necessary but not sufficient for violence.” Shame, combined with the pain of a relational wound or unmet needs, becomes galvanised for violence. In the case of male survivors, that violence is often first turned inward through substances, risky sex, or cycles of abusive or dysfunctional relationships. And yes, for a minority, it can turn outward, directed at the world^[1].

If I had to distil the book into one core message, it’s this: healing from sexual abuse is not a solo venture. The work lies in finding ways to bring our shameful, shadowy parts into connection with people who will not punish us for having them. That connection is essential to healing.

I hope this book can be a moment of connection for those who read it. That’s why the language and tone have been just as important to me as the content itself. But, as with any attempt at connection, I anticipate that a minority of readers will respond much like the reactions I’ve seen on X/Twitter, with anger. They may rage against its inclusivity or feel, consciously or not, that the book has missed them - leaving them, once again, unseen. While others will embrace it with openness, curiosity and a yearning to find connection.

My hope, like that of many therapists, is that the book will be “good enough” to support the vast majority of readers on their path - whether that’s a survivor moving toward healing or an ally learning how to truly show up. Yes, the book talks about trans men, as it discusses many different male identities and experiences because, as I quote on page 3 of the book, “we are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep^[2].”

The content of this final blog isn’t what I had planned. I wanted to write something purely celebratory, but that wouldn’t reflect the reality of these past few weeks as the book has come into being. Writing more honestly, I can already hear my inner shame voice creeping in: 

"Have I said too much? "

"Will this impact my work with clients? "

"Therapists shouldn’t use social media - and you’re admitting to using it!"

But just because the book is finished doesn’t mean I, as a therapist, need to be finished too. I’ll continue to be affected by the world around me, and by the clients who trust me with their innermost worlds. Yes, I can still be impacted by my own shame - as well as the shame projected by others - and frankly, thank goodness. Because even when it’s painful, that ability to be impacted is what allows me to connect with clients in what I hope is a deeply relational way. Our clients, I believe, need to know that their emotions can affect us. It helps them see themselves in the world. To be impacted is to be an active agent in our communities and in the lives of those we support through trauma and recovery.

Staying with the theme of connection, many blog readers have reached out to share your anticipation for the book or appreciation for these blogs. That’s been such a valuable part of this process, not only helping me make sense of my own feelings but also making me feel less alone in the writing. As you can see, I did open the heavy box and it was bloomin' fab! Thank you and - enjoy the book.

a book prompted up in front of a book shelf

^[1] For more on this look up The Compass of Shame, developed by American psychiatrist Donald L. Nathanson in 1992 

^[2] Attributed to psychologist William James