MY name is Alexandria Funnell and some of my favourite pastimes include commitment, changing men, procrastination and jumping to conclusions. Standing at a 5’2’ stature, I certainly don’t have long legs, but what I’ve got, I spread around. I’m generous like that.
Back in my mid-twenties, years of an on/off relationship had left me feeling like a little mouse running on a wheel for some cheese. The cheese was his dick, and this dick cheese was driving me crackers. They say clickbait culture is causing social issues and rewiring our brains, but I’m more concerned with clitbait, because that shit is addictive.
As with most addictions, my incessant pursuit of this one particular ‘man’ (I use that term very loosely) took me to places I never thought I’d go.
Things were actually going pretty well between us at that point, when with limited warning, he announced he was leaving on a work trip to Turkey for ‘a while.’
“I genuinely think a part of my brain exploded that day.”
Despite promising to keep in touch, days of silence, followed by sporadic texts left me just about ready to Turkey slap him. Driven by the desperate and pathetic need to hold his attention, I made the decision to send a provocative picture of myself. Obviously, I cut the head off. Primarily because it’s not like objectification requires a face, but also, I was young, and had been taught that nude photos were incriminating, and clearly I did enough of that without the addition of naked photos being thrown into the mix.
So I sent the photo, and eagerly awaited his imminent return to Australia upon its receipt.
An hour went by. Then two. Before I knew it, ten hours had passed.
As I anxiously waited, I went from desperate for his attention, to fucking furious. Eventually, almost 24 fucking hours later, the response came through.
It was a simple smiley face: 😊
Nothing else. Not a word.
It was the emoji that broke the camel toe’s back, and I genuinely think a part of my brain exploded that day. The humiliation, regret, fury and emotional exhaustion of relentlessly pursuing an emotionally avoidant man who could barely muster a mere smiley face at the sight of my beautiful, near-naked body laid out before him like a pathetic fruit platter had officially broken me. That experience completely rewired a part of my brain.
I.
WAS.
DEVASTATED.
Funnellism had always been something I had written in my spare time, sort of like a hybrid of a dear diary, crossed with a batshit burn book. But I’d never really planned to share it with anyone. No way. I was too scared of being creatively vulnerable, plus I was sure it would hinder my chances of ever being truly loved. And what would it mean for me professionally? I was adamant that people ever read my writing it would ruin my life. But as it turns out, writing is the main thing that actually gives me life, and stifling my authentic voice wasn’t really bringing me joy anyway. I figured if people were judging me for my fake self, I might as well be judged for my true self? So I let her rip!
“I’d spent years proudly playing the victim in my narrative, whilst simultaneously trying to be the hero – you can’t be both.”
I blocked that guy from every form of contact, deleted my entire social media footprint, locked myself in a room, and wrote for eight weeks straight. I laughed and cried as I poured so much of my story into words and turned my pain into humour. It was like a counselling session with myself, which suited me very well, because I love my own advice.
From the ashes of self-loathing, Funnellism was born.
When I finally released my writing I felt proud. It was like bringing a hugely hidden part of myself out into the open. Essentially I’d created an entire alter-ego which I misguidedly thought would be a bulletproof defence against anyone who dared hurt me. Funnellism became the ultimate safety net against all forms of rejection, because now at least I had an outlet for holding these men accountable. I suppose I was sort of cancelling people before it was cool? Unsurprisingly, it was very popular. I loved the validation, and having the support of thousands of readers egging me on and telling me how funny and smart I was felt great. But it also became somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Seek and you shall find, and I certainly found many worthy subjects willing to play out the chemically chaotic dance of dysfunction with me. Different characters, same exhausting story. But somewhere between not a girl, not yet a woman, I realised I’d spent years trying to be the hero of my own narrative by proudly playing the victim, and you can’t really be both.
“Dare I say it, but I think my balls have finally dropped?”
SPOILER ALERT! Glorifying your dysfunction and mining your trauma for lols isn’t sustainable long term (neither is coal, you fucks). Eventually you get sick of your own bullshit, and I haven’t really followed the Funnellism modus operandi in real life for years.
You know how cats proudly present their owners with dead rats as gifts to show their love? I’m both the owner, and the cat – Funnellism is the dead rat. It was cute, and it meant well, but it’s not the kind of self-love I gift myself these days.
So if Funnellism has been an ode to my wits and tits, this new chapter is more about being smart with my heart.
Dare I say it, but I think my balls have finally dropped?
After years of writer’s block, I’ve finally found my flow again (what a wank) and I’m excited to be launching a new batch of writing over at alexandriafunnell.com in the coming weeks.
This doesn’t mean I am distancing myself from Funnellism. I said what I said, and at that point in time, those dicks deserved every bit of it. It was healing for me, and an a weird way, it was for them too. I’m proud of the things I’ve written. But I’m also thankful I don’t find myself in those extremely painful experiences anymore. I’ve learnt the power of boundaries, identifying my patterns, and I’m getting better at de-escalating situations before they reach that explosion point of no return. I’ve found the true gold lies there, and that’s the minefield I’ve been navigating these past couple of years. Those are the stories I will be sharing with you in the next chapter.
I hope you will keep reading…
It's like fundamentalism without 'da mental' part 