Sinéad O’Connor Did Not Go Quietly
Nor should we.
I wanted to write something about Sinéad O’Connor later today, but felt I was at a loss for words. As I pause and turn that last sentence over in my mind, I realize I am not bereft of words but, perhaps, overly burdened by them. I shall attempt to explain further here.
I am sad, certainly. I am not gutted by her death, or devastated, but rather quietly certain that she lived a lot longer than many in her inner circle likely thought possible. One of her children died by suicide just last year. She wrote that she was lost without him. I believe she told the truth. I also believe it is folly to neatly tie one person’s death to another’s suicide, to say things like, “Now she is with him, where she wanted to be” or “She would have gone on if not for that loss.”
Hers was not an easy life, and there are a thousand reasons we may have lost her earlier than we did. That she lived to 56 is a testament to her ferocity and a willingness to fight on.
By her own admission, I do not imagine she always was an easy person to live with, or to love, and in this way I suppose many of us can likely see a bit of ourselves or our own family members in her, though we did not know her.
I do not know all of her music, though I certainly enjoyed much of it. This is not an elegy by a…