21 November 2008

Sinéad O'Connor, Pitchfork 500 SoupSoup: bmicheal

SoupSoup: bmichael: Pitchfork 500-Sinéad O'Connor Nothing Compares 2 U

As with most simple, easy to move through posts I find over yonder on Tumblr, (compliment), I have made a Hillbilly mess of this. Somewhere herein, is a method in my madness.

The image in the composite is by Kevin Abosch, found over at Sinéad O'Connor dot com

There's a bit more below the image.

I think the Pitchfork 500 review is a bit harsh and uninformed, but hey, I not exactly impartial.

It was hardly surprised when she came forward about her illness, and This Interview in 2007 with the Times Online might help those who are particularly mystified by her.

"The other thing you quickly learn is that she lacks an edit switch, and in an interview the main person you want to protect her from is herself. As always she answers questions with disarming honesty, leaving herself wide open to more of the attacks and criticism she so hates. It’s like watching someone complain they’re hot, while continuing to feed the fire."

(,,,) "I began to have this quiet little voice every now and then – although ‘voice’ is the wrong way to put it. It’s your own thoughts just gone completely skew-whiff: ‘Look at that tree, you might hang yourself on it.’ Until the volume went up so loud that I took myself to hospital. There would be nothing wrong in your life, but you’d think about suicide all the time. It was almost funny. But after Shane was born I was really ill, and I was really worried because I was close to actually doing it. So when he was about about five months old, I took myself to hospital.”

She’d been to hospital before, a couple of times, but says they just left her crying in a bed for a week or so before discharging her. She’d also been to various therapists – including one, in London, whom she saw five times a week for well over a year. But this time she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, or manic depression. O’Connor describes the illness as like having a gaping hole in the centre of her being. She took the drugs she’d been prescribed, she smiles, “And within half an hour it was like cement going over the hole.”

(...) I wonder if she feels angry that so many professionals failed to notice that she was suffering from a treatable medical condition, and she shrugs and says that when she went into therapy she was young, and stupid – and famous, and rich. “I don’t so much get pissed off, I get sad about it.”

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