That’s personal

What happens when you put yourself out there

[Quinta dos Sete Nomes, Sintra, 2017]

(versão Portuguesa)

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Until recently, I never imagined I would be sharing my personal stories with you all. I’ve written fiction and non-fiction, but never wrote seriously about my life. Journaling has always been sporadic, usually unruly streams of consciousness to process emotions, make sense of my thoughts, and register beauty. 

On the 5th of June 2021, I created a file called «My stories». The calendar tells me that I had just finished a big work project, and we’d been out of Covid lockdown for about a month. Still, it was just a regular Saturday.

The first story was a memory of being a kid and thinking we lived inside Earth (really?). There were other memories, and stories about books — books that changed my life in some way (I went back to one of those texts when I wrote The Neverending Story). That file became the place where I tried to connect the dots in my life and outside of it. I had no intention of sharing it with the world.

Then came my metastatic breast cancer diagnosis. About two weeks later, I created another file, where I collected the words written in those two weeks, and in the months that followed. Again, I was writing for myself, or so I thought at the time.

When this publication came to life, about a year ago, writing about my life no longer felt like a choice; it was something I had to do (I wrote about it here). It has been a crazy, beautiful journey, even if I am no longer publishing every other week. Life and other drugs — I’m looking at you, ribociclib — have a way of getting in the way, along with unforeseen repercussions that come from putting myself out there. 

Fear of exposure

A friend recently told me it was courageous to publish stories about my life, and I said it’s not courageous if I am not afraid of it. 

I do have concerns, and there are moments when I ponder what I write — this is the internet, and it can be an unforgiving place. But before, I felt paralysed by the thought of people judging me, of being confronted about the things I write, and just by a general embarrassment about becoming someone who writes about themselves (that’s not what «real» writers do). 

When the will to share outweighed the fear, the monster in my chest grew smaller. When confronted, it revealed itself as a figment of my imagination, a nightmarish invisible friend that had no place in reality. 

Somehow, now I know that there is no shame when the writing comes from the heart, from what feels true at a given moment. I am trying to give myself the grace I’ve extended to others: we’re doing the best we can with the tools we have. 

I am not immune to bad reviews, but now the fear of receiving them is not stopping me from saying what I feel like saying. Even when I share articles on social media, like Reddit, and people disagree, I can see where they are coming from and understand that what I write is not for everyone. And I’ve learned that there are people out there that do enjoy reading these stories and essays, and I am very grateful for them. 

My current fear is that my words will show just how self-absorbed I am (I do spend an awful lot of time inside my head), or that they will expose some flaw I’m not aware of (I imagine a therapist reading my texts and shaking their head). But maybe that is a good thing — a way to work my way through my blindspots.

Writing about life as it unfolds

In the early days of this publication, I dug through the words I wrote in the first months post-diagnosis. They had matured, and deepened, before I turned them into articles. At the same time,  I kept writing, pitching myself new ideas, and raising questions; the new texts were born from these greener words.

It still takes time, sometimes months, from the first idea to the published text. Sometimes I start to write a story, then stop, then start again. I have half written stories waiting for their moment to come to light.

It’s hard to be objective when going through things. Time brings perspective, emotional detachment from situations, and the ability to understand the lessons.

I hope to write stories that have a clear beginning, middle, and end, where we can glimpse the character’s arc, my own hero’s journey. But life is messy, and sometimes I don’t wait for the end of the story to tell it because I’m not sure where the end is.

Some words come with a heavy heart

There are texts, like the last one I shared, that weigh on me for days, weeks, before and after publication.

Trying to write to the person I was in the first months after the diagnosis, means plunging into the darkness, asking the tough questions, and dealing with the answers. Down there, things can be intense and deeply felt. 

When I share the stories and essays on online groups, the aftermath becomes even more wearing, even if I feel so, so grateful for it. There, I find people dealing with the same doubts, people who react to my words and share their own stories, and, sometimes, the weight of those stories builds on mine.

When I started publishing, I didn’t expect it to change me. I assumed it would be a one-way street, but then things started coming through from the other side. I’m embracing them with my usual caution. And you are one of them. You came from the other side, with your reactions, your stories, and your presence, and that still amazes me. 

Connecting, even if it is with just a brief online interaction, helps me to come out of my head, and see that you are out there, feeling what I write, or going through the same.

Thank you for being here.