I wish I had some of the things I wrote when I was a kid but privacy in my room or my thoughts wasn't a luxury I was afforded. Often I would stay up late writing my thoughts, happenings and dreams- then promptly flush them down the toilet before they could be discovered and interrogated. I think I would have never been anything but a writer had I had the encouragement of my words to reflect on. To push me forward. To comfort and protect me and buffer me from future catastrophes. As we all find out in life; our destiny is littered with trash to step over, obstacles to maneuver around and tragedies to overcome and heal from. There have been times I was starving and wishing for food. And times I have had a refrigerator full of food, but tried to starve myself into feeling again. I've done plenty to be ashamed of. There are plenty of people who should feel ashamed of what they did to me: rape, robbery, holding a gun to my head and shredding my very being into bloody lifeless confetti. Starting at seven I was on the path to self destruction. If I had been written onto the front pages of tabloids- most would be waiting- hoping- to hear of my death so they could all say , "See, I told you she would die young- she did it to herself- she wasn't strong enough". And that brings me to her. To Amy Winehouse. I have been insanely affected by her death. It's weighed on me since I read about it Saturday and it has been like a too tightly wrapped scarf since.
Truth, Goodness & Beauty
I don't know her on a personal level- but I remain a huge fan of her talent and that undeniable broken soul that would leap out and grab me every time I heard her sing. I related to her and somehow felt a connection. An "all of the shit we've been through has been fucking awful and evil- but look at us shine and kick ass" connection. The people that should of protected me did not. The people who wanted to protect me could not. It appears that she lived the same reality. In my head- we were kindred spirits. Damaged but in tact. Shattered but functional. A million little pieces held together by sparks of a soul engulfing voice. Her's singing. Mine writing. For whatever reason, she fell into the rabbit hole and never hit the bottom. Even in death, I feel like she is still falling as the press, and seemingly everyone else, is busy tearing her and her monsters down. Where is the compassion for her and why are so many viciously chewing on what's left of her? Is that what I have to look forward to: damages trump talent and goodness in the end?
I love this article from Russell Brand- that shows a different side of her. Friend Amy. Loving Amy. Ridiculously talented Amy. I wish someone would have saved her. Would of stepped in closer to draw her back to the surface and to the light. I can not stand to hear people say she was unsaveable, broken and so easily discarded. People I personally know attacking, pointing fingers squarely at her and writing her off- nearly laughing at her demise. Arrogantly spewing I told you sos and dismissing any traces of good . Had they known me 20 years ago- they would of said the same about me. When you wrap your head around that- you start to wonder who your true friends are. You discover which ribs the compassionate hearts beat behind and which eyes you should hide your demons from. Is it so impossible to give her, anyone, more compassion and empathy. If we can't -if we won't- extend some measure of humanity, then what's to become of the rest of us when we find ourselves falling down a rabbit hole?