I started writing to organize the pain of death – 03/31/2024 – The Worst of the Week

Mari asks what I was like when I was 20.

I was exactly the same as I am today, but I still didn’t need to disguise the fact that I’m not 20 anymore.

Carina wants to know when I understood that I was a writer.

I’ve told this story a few times, but it’s a beautiful story and it doesn’t hurt to remember it.

I was 13 years old when my grandfather died. Until that date, I didn’t remember a single afternoon without his company. He was a peculiar figure: he loved to give me gifts from newsstands, he warmed our socks behind the television, he had a hearty snack five minutes before lunch and he left almost all the fruit to soak in a glass full of apple cider vinegar.

His wake was at home and he was lying in bed. As soon as I arrived, I went to get a glass of water and found my grapes submerged in a glass full of apple cider vinegar. Before he died he sanitized my grapes.

Without knowing what to do with that pain (I didn’t even know how to feel it), and without space to ask for help (the adults around me were suffering too much) I started to narrate, inside my head, everything that happened at the wake. .

I narrated who arrived, who cried, who brought food (they gave me a horrible soup with so much oil that the vegetables floated in a shiny, golden color). I made lists of the people who were there and my grandfather didn’t even like them. And he listed the reasons why he didn’t like those indigestible types much.

So I also started making a little mental script of how I felt.

I was holding, for the first time, a small imaginary trunk. A box with my entire childhood and her farewell. The box contained the reason for the loneliness (and despair) that I would carry forever.

But I didn’t have the key to open it, so I carried it closed and heavy, knowing it would be a long way before I figured out where I could store it. It was funny because, at the same time, I was happy: the boy I was so in love with had asked me to be his girlfriend the night before.

To account for everything that was happening around that death, outside and inside me, and organize the hundreds of thousands of thoughts that my brain demanded every second, I began to, mentally, describe scenes and sensations. And I calmed down.

The next day I started writing on paper, years later on a computer. I’ve never been able to stop doing it since.

Adriana wants to know if I’ve already lost friendships and loves because I’m “like that”.

Look, maybe I lost them “just like that”, but I suspect that, if I had been “roasted”, I wouldn’t have even found them.

Vera wants to know what my legal entity does that my individual doesn’t do.

Look, my “PJ” promotes a lot of sex, trouble and revenge. “PF” just wants therapy and cuddles.

Décio wants to know if I have any “sadomasochistic” desires.

I only fall in love with people who are more cultured and intelligent than me in the exciting hope that they will humble me. But they also tend to have more character and mental health than me, and they don’t agree with my veiled and dark desire.

So I find a weak point and reverse the polarity of enjoyment, hoping that they can handle it. And they don’t even contribute to that. Normal people can be offensive.

Elisa wants to know if any of my projects were “an unexpected success.”

Yes, I am a privileged and spoiled white woman who narrated in 160 pages (which do not come from the same place and provide absolutely the same examples) her panic attacks. How this sold so much and was still made into a film I still wonder to this day.

Ana Julia wants to know what happened to my legs: “I saw a photo of you and you look like salami”

I sunbathed a lot as a child and a teenager and I’m covered in white freckles. The name “head” is leucoderma guttata, but the real name is “80s”.

At the time, Pedro Bial hadn’t yet given “just a tip about the future” and told us to use sunscreen.

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