A woman on the other side of the world who I don’t know has just had confirmation that she is dying and my heart has been ripped out of my chest.
I had to hide in the bathroom, press my face on the cold tiles and fight back tears.
I don’t even know why I started following her blog. I can’t remember how I came upon it.
She generally writes about how broken she is, really raw stuff about good and bad sex and love and hate; I love to voyeur on her life, she writes as the fierce passionate visceral woman that I long to be, we are a similar age and she makes me feel like I haven’t lived.
She has really lived. Mental, physical and substance abuse; dreams followed, achieved and crushed. Or she can really write. I’m not sure. Can one’s life be so fiercely lived?
Maybe it can, but perhaps the consequence is that you live the cliché: your flame burns brightly and therefore more quickly.
I have sat in the dark and read her blog consumed with the strongest conflicting emotions: disgust and envy, desire and shame.
I might love her.
I can’t bring myself to link to her blog, I don’t want to share her in case someone else doesn’t feel the same about her. Finds her tawdry or toneless or meh.
And all just words. I don’t even know if they are true. There’s no law that says blogs must be autobiographical, she could be a complete work of fiction.
In the post that announced her terminal illness, she also, for the first time, mentioned her children. She was vulnerability and mess, feelings of inadequacy that I identified with rather than idolised. It made me sorry. Maybe she wasn’t who she wrote at all.
Either which way, soon she will be gone.
It will be weird now, reading each post, wondering if it is the last, her power diminishing.
I had already decided to start blogging again. It brings me pleasure. It’s for me and I don’t need to justify that further. She has bolstered me to find the courage to write exactly how and when I want.
This is for her.