{"id":15325,"date":"2023-07-29T17:14:18","date_gmt":"2023-07-30T00:14:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/godammit.com\/?p=15325"},"modified":"2023-07-29T17:14:18","modified_gmt":"2023-07-30T00:14:18","slug":"nothing-compares","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/godammit.com\/nothing-compares\/","title":{"rendered":"Nothing Compares."},"content":{"rendered":"

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I knew this was coming but it was still a shock. When I read that Sinead O’Connor had lost her son to suicide, it was a a given that she wouldn’t stick around. Her panic and horror were familiar, and I relived it for a long time. I braced myself. And it seems like a miracle that she stayed as long as she did, a little more than a year.<\/p>\n

Even if you never liked her, you must have recognized an exquisitely sensitive soul without much of a protective membrane. She clearly was driven to tell the truth – not tell, but shout out – without thought of the consequences. I used to be like that, once.<\/p>\n

She told us that her son was her soulmate, the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally.\u00a0 And that’s just too much of a loss. I have been there. I’m still there.<\/p>\n

When you lose your soulmate, or your twin soul, whatever term you like to describe this, you literally feel hollowed out, less substantial, without the ballast that kept you safely rooted to earth. I’m not being poetic, just factual.<\/p>\n

Sinead O’Connor’s death is such a tragedy because it shouldn’t have happened and yet was inevitable. There are a million tributes and think pieces now that she’s gone, and while it’s a comfort to know that she was appreciated, it has really destabilized me personally. I feel guilty for being here after thirteen years. What kind of monster am I to go on without Max?<\/p>\n

It hurts me to write his name. It’s better to write about Lost Sons in general. I can go for weeks without hearing or saying his name. People don’t want to bring it up, unless it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his exit. I hear music that I know he would’ve liked and say aloud, “Max would have liked this.” My husband replies, “Uh huh,” but it feels wrong. He should say, “Yes! He would love it and he hears it now! He would love it because his taste was so impeccable and wide-ranging and in keeping with his brilliance! Why is he gone? Bring him back!” But it’s not my husband’s job to speak what’s in my heart.<\/p>\n

I always wonder if people who learn that I lost a son are thinking, “God, what an awful mother! Why didn’t she kill herself! I myself could never survive this!” One of my half-sisters actually said something like this, making it about her. Obviously she’s an idiot so she doesn’t count.<\/p>\n

But I’m sure that other mothers who aren’t idiots are thinking this, silently reprimanding me for my unforgivable ability to go on. I don’t blame them.<\/p>\n

I would like to apologize! Forgive me. It’s not that I’m shallow or not heartbroken beyond repair. At first, it was because I couldn’t abandon my younger boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of shattering the lives of my family members; it seemed too cruel to put them through it. Later, it was a courtesy to my husband, as I liked to remind him. Now it’s mostly a lack of courage. If I was sure we’d be reunited, I could do it. Even if we weren’t reunited, I remind myself, I’d be passing through the same door he passed through.<\/p>\n

The other day, I was lying in bed, looking at my beautiful antique dresser and the shit on the walls and I felt a wave of sentimental fondness for them. I remarked to my husband, “I’ll miss this room when I’m dead!” He laughed and said, “Well, that’s better than saying ‘I wouldn’t miss any of this crap’!”<\/p>\n

But I meant it. I’ll miss a lot of things when I’m dead. To be or not to be is a daily choice, not just according to Camus<\/a>:<\/p>\n

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest \u2014 whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories \u2014 comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

and\/but:<\/p>\n

Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I doubt that Sinead wrestled with this. I believe she followed her heart. I respect her courage and sense of purpose. If living without her boy was a battle for her, it was one battle too many. I hope he kept a seat for her. And if there’s no afterlife out in the cosmos, at least she passed through the same door. My she rest easy for eternity.<\/p>\n