I’m 27. Sometimes my life has sucked a helluva lot but I try to get past it by writing about it. Still, I simply cannot imagine not fighting to improve myself. And I’m officially mentally ill. I can only imagine how bad things must be to be completely self destructive. To lose sight of what makes you happy and destroy every single unique and special part of what makes you, you, in the quest for complete oblivion.
Amy Winehouse never wanted fame, in my opinion. She just wanted to sing. She was never comfortable being the centre of showbiz’s attention; she just wanted to be great. She wanted peace and we gave her no privacy. And now every paper, gossip mag and paparazzi who hounded her are gonna wrote about the tragedy and senseless waste of life. Even yesterday, the day before she died, the Mirror spewed forth yet another cheap shot article, essentially slagging her off yet again for being so obviously beyond healthy.
She was the ultimate cautionary tale of our time. The drugs, the drinking, and those bloody ballet shoes. We all seen the cuts on her body. We all read those stories about her obsessive need for Blake. Even when her family tried again and again to help her, the rest of the country read and laughed about her latest fuck up. It was all we could do. No – it was just all we did.
Could we have done more? Refused maybe to spend money on magazines and newspaper publicly humiliating a junkie? After the News Corp debacle, shouldn’t we really start to think about what kind of power the press have over the general public? Because the general public happen to include the very
stars people they base their latest scandal on, and most of them don’t deserve the treatment.
Everyone has their issues. Everyone has different coping methods. Some go for walks, some write blogs. Some unlucky sods shoot up. I’ve never seen the humanity of drug addicts more than when I lived in a hostel and seen the beautiful defiance in the women who lived there. For most, it was the only real security they’d ever had. No real responsibilities, no bills to worry about, and support workers who genuinely cared for their well being. These women weren’t forced on stage and made to perform. They weren’t laughed at by the people who claimed to care. They were given a dignity they didn’t know they deserved, because despite their choices and coping methods, they’d still been through hell and back, and survived. No one becomes a addict through choice. They may not have a life anyone would envy, but it is theirs now, again.
Amy couldn’t get away from the spotlight. She wasn’t allowed to walk away from the responsibilities of fame and money. There was no security beyond what she provided for herself. She couldn’t have got away from the constant barrage of rumour, gossip and worse, the truth of her life.
Amy was 27. Sometimes her life sucked more than a helluva lot. She tried to get past it by writing, and singing about it. She was incredibly smart and gifted. But she couldn’t imagine life getting any better, and it killed her.
I cheated myself,
Like I knew I would,
I told you I was trouble,
You know that I’m no good