When a young unknown by the name of Sinead O'Connor charged onto the music scene in 1988 with her impressively self-produced debut album, The Lion and The Cobra, those who heard her sing knew they had just witnessed the arrival of an artist with a gift that ached to be shared with the world.
Knowing little of O'Connor's personal background at the time, I was initially struck by her timid, deer-in-the-headlights demeanor that quickly gave way to fierce confidence the minute she began singing.
In O'Connor I didn't just see someone who enjoyed singing, I saw someone whose only hope for survival was to sing, whether it be to unleash a seemingly bottomless well of regret and self doubt or to inhabit someone else's song to such an extent that it becomes hers and hers alone, as was the case when she threw herself into Prince's "Nothing Compares 2 U".
There was nothing fake, insincere, or "put on" about her and in that brutal, uncompromising honesty, I found something inherently refreshing, yet I couldn't help wonder what kind of impact success would have on her because, for every fan who buys your album, there are ten critics lining up to take you down a notch. Knowing that there was absolutely no way massive success wasn't coming her way, you couldn't help wonder how she'd fare.
Fast forward to the year 2017 and we judgmental strangers were made privy to O'Connor's videotaped hotel room breakdown, where the accumulated slings and arrows from a private life lived in full public view could be held in no longer.
I don't think anything has made me burst into tears quicker than seeing O'Conner's vulnerability laid bare for all the world to see. All that strength and bravado she'd shown in song had been proven to be nothing but a temporary pose; an attempt to hold onto one sliver of joy or happiness before the wolves close in.
To commandeer a beautifully apt Brian Wilson album title for my own purposes, Sinead O'Connor just wasn't made for this world, but I'm sure as hell glad she's in it because without her voice the world would be a less beautiful place and for all the Dr. Phils and others who see opportunism in her pain, I feel an anger hotter than a thousand suns.
Out of fear that the next time I hear Sinead O'Connor's name in the news, it is to announce her passing, I ask humbly, but with complete conviction "Who the fuck has her back?" because, so help me God, those who respond to such news by rushing out and buying her music will have been the very reason she hadn't been cut out for this world in the first place.
Perhaps rather than allowing that to happen, we choose instead to embrace their fragile artistry rather than make them question their own worthiness and right to the same happiness we all deserve.
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we're not worthy