So anyway, there I was over the summer, standing there, outside the tent, thinking, HOW did this happen? Cancer, that too, but the sharing thing. What the actual. Here’s how I overcame the overshare cringe factor.
Historically, pre-C, I mean, I really wasn’t the person that shared their feelings online. GOD NO. We didn’t really do feelings growing up in our family, latterly at least. It was the 90s. Feelings hadn’t been invented yet. Unless it was ironic, sardonic, cynical, sarcastic, cloaked in dark humour, or even better, down right insulting, but in a funny-ha-ha-just-for-laffs kind of way, then it wasn’t worth the air time. It was colourful and competitive. I rattled through my 20s and 30s, not quite stiff-upper-lipping it, but just being relentlessly positive. Always just fine thanks very much. Busy.
And then the cancer thing happened and… I didn’t quite panic. I just knew that if I didn’t out myself I would ‘crawl into a horrible dank cancer hole’, is what I wrote in that first instagram post on my private page, “and that would be a pretty dark place to hang out in”. Plus, ‘I’VE GOT CANCER!!!’ is kind of on loud speaker in your head the whole time for the first couple of weeks and I really felt the need to get it out before I imploded. Outing the cancer and talking about it reduced its power and kept me out of the dark.
So, to blog, to instagram was a considered decision at the time, but I really started to question it over the summer. Partly because I’d reached the end of active treatment. Where am I going with all this now? But also because it ‘aint always easy, this sharing business, especially when your chin’s on the floor. I found it much easier before, when I was pumped full of adrenaline and gratitude and just being carried along by the weird cancer train (at break neck speed, doors very locked, me, game face on at the window). And partly because when you’re low, everything really does seem a bit pointless doesn’t it? Especially blogging and the socials. Dark humour lost its place. “Today I am sad. Today I am less sad. Today I am glad. Today I am mad. Are you sad or glad? I think I am actually going quite mad.”
My holiday read was ‘How to Live’ by Sarah Bakewell, the biography of the French renaissance Nobleman Michel Eyquem de Montaigne. Paragraph one page one stopped me in my tracks. She’d nailed how I was feeling about it all.
The 21st Century is full of people who are full of themselves. A half-hour’s trawl through the online ocean of blogs, tweets, tubes, spaces, faces, pages and pods brings up thousands of individuals, fascinated by their own personalities and shouting for attention. They go on about themselves. They diarise, and chat, and upload photographs of everything they do. Uninhibitedly extrovert, they also look inward as never before. Even as bloggers and networks delve into their private experience, they communicate with their fellow humans in a shared festival of the self.
I mean, who wants to contribute to that doleful picture? When very low (and cynical), all around me, all I saw was cancer giving people permission to talk about themselves, ad nauseam, under the guise of ‘raising awareness’ or helping people.
I read on. I learned that Montaigne is in fact credited as the original life ‘regurgitater’. Following a near-death experience, (which he wrote about at length and in such a way that me thinks he might also have been the original Drama Queen), he came to two key conclusions that helped him live better.
First, that the key to stop worrying about death (he was obsessed for a while) is to stop worrying about death. You’ll know that to do when you get there, it almost certainly won’t be as bad as you think it will be, and you’ll probably be relieved by the time it comes.
Second, he started writing. About everything. Reams of stream of consciousness-style essays that quite often went nowhere or came to any conclusion. Observing, meandering, ruminating, all the while trying to make sense of the here and now and him in it. It made him ‘pay attention’. He regularly forced his mind out of thinking to pure observation and then wrote about it. Early mindfulness I suppose. A lot of it wasn’t even very good, apparently (which gives me hope). The most important thing is, his writing helped him rise out of his personal ditch.
Reading those first few chapters got me thinking and in part (along with a general lifting of mood) helped me feel better about publishing blogs again. And better about reading everyone else’s ‘festival of self’, appreciating and participating. What he did in the 15th Century really isn’t that different to how we do things now – it’s just now we have more tech.
It somehow made me feel less like I was contributing to the horrifying narcissism of the modern social media-led world and more like a contemporary version of what we humans have been doing for a very long time. “Writing about oneself to create a mirror in which other people recognise their own humanity”. Better.
So, I’ve come full circle. Although I won’t always find it easy, I’ve decided I’m kind of OK with this blogging malarky again. For writing for writing’s sake, not expecting anything of it, or worrying about what it makes me. It’s just my own little way of getting through this weird old time and keeping my head above water. It makes sense to get it all out on the table while it’s happening and while I’m feeling it, because that’s when it matters to me and who fucking cares if it’s a bit.. well… sharey. The truth is, it doesn’t even really matter if no one reads it. This is the first blog I’ve published since June and I’ve got a stack of writing in my book. So. Here we go. I’m strapping myself in. It’s time to Be More Montaigne.
P.s. Can I just add one caveat to that? if he turns out to be a total pillock, well, let’s just bear in mind that I haven’t finished the book yet?