Rest in peace, you brave, truth-seeking, demon-fighting, raw, funny, smart, difficult, gifted, glorious woman. Nobody meant more to me when I was young, stupid and figuring out how to be an adult, a woman, a mother. But as you sang then, how could I possibly know what I wanted when I was only 21?
You could always see through the emperor’s new clothes.
Sinead O’Connor performs at the East Coast Blues and Roots Festival in Byron Bay in 2008. Credit: AP/Marilia Ogayar
You were no people-pleasing Barbie. You were always crazy-brave, unfiltered, unapologetic. You sang your own wild songs of lust and politics and anger at the top of your lungs, and treated your beauty with a thrilling contempt.
Most of the time, when famous artists die, I am more interested than upset. Even when I loved their music, I know that I didn’t really know them, post a tribute and get on with my day. The news of your death this morning, Sinead O’Connor, had me weeping in bed, like all those times a troubled, brilliant friend is gone too soon.
For years I watched half in admiration and half in dread as you careered through genres, religions, opinions and relationships, never hiding your wild ride through your own mental health struggles, never backing away from a political fight.
It’s pretty clear that, for those who cared for you, up close you were hard work. The good ones often are. But I also loved that you would not shut up, long after the point when a woman in the entertainment business should become invisible.
You were also tremendously funny, a bawdy, sweary presence on Twitter, with a keen sense of your own ridiculousness. Your memoir Rememberings made me laugh out loud many times, even as you told us terrible things.
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