Eva Bradley: Hate mail on Facebook

We all love to be liked. And each of us hates to be hated. But in a world where saying one thing will create two equal and opposite reactions, how do we walk the line?
I've known for quite some time that among a certain demographic of a specific gender (I like to call them my future mothers-in-law) my writing strikes a chord and goes down a treat with a gingernut and strong cup of tea before bed.
But because we are Kiwis and kind, we are quick to heap praise, whether we believe it or not, and terrified of expressing any sort of dissent even when its well deserved.
The happy consequence of this is that for quite some time I have lived in an ivory tower where I simply assume everyone likes my column, or at the very least is mildly ambivalent.
The myth was blown apart this week when, after nine good years and countless happy mothers-in-law, I was delivered my very first hate mail. It was not just your garden variety "what a bore, can't you try harder" hate mail.
It was passionate, unbridled, frothing-at-the mouth you-should-never-have-been-born hate mail.
It was sincere, pure in form and intention - and absolutely bloody brilliant.
Written by hand in an obvious state of disquiet, there were moments when the author had gotten so worked up describing his feelings about me that the biro had broken through the page. The erratic script had been clearly manipulated to ensure anonymity, especially in the parts where the writer had signed his name and address.
The venom was chiefly directed at my unforgivable and morally bankrupt state of being single, 30-something and dating in the 21st century.
Apparently, I was no longer a teenager in fact I was over the hill, past my use-by date and (perhaps most deplorable of all) - I was allegedly boring the men in my life to tears with my obsession with sex.
The poor darlings.
In a world where few of us get passionate about anything these days, the ardent vitriol that had gone into the composition seemed wasted on only me.
So I scanned and shared the letter on Facebook, as one does these days, and was rewarded with a record 80 comments from friends who came up with all sorts of theories about the author's motivations.
He was a jilted lover, a failed romantic.
A sometime inmate of the sorts of places where breakfast is served with a straitjacket on the side.
Regardless of which theory was correct, it seemed apparent from his references that despite having an unbridled hatred of every word I had ever written, he had in fact read every one of them.
Which further prompted the inspired suggestion that instead of getting mad, I should perhaps get even, and post him random clippings of my column every day for the next six months.
Now wouldn't that just spoil your morning porridge?
But eventually ambivalence won out and the letter got lost somewhere down the back of the couch or between bank statements.
It did serve a nobler purpose for a brief moment in time, however, as I reflected on why as individuals we are all so desperately eager to be liked.
Few of us will send back a steak, admit that, yes, your bum does look big in that, or helpfully pass over the breath freshener when it really is needed.
I've always believed that love and hate are two sides of the same coin and that true power belongs to those who couldn't give a toss one way or the other.
The illusion that I am universally liked may forever be shattered thanks to this week's post.
But I have to admit I take a curious delight in the fact that somewhere out there in a small, dark flat in central Hastings, someone is loving to hate me.