Amy is Dead
Amy Winehouse is dead. A daughter; a sister; a niece; an icon. Dead. Horribly, horrifically, prematurely dead. Died alone in Camden Town. Alone. Frightened. Defeated too young. Beaten by drugs. Beaten by booze. Alone in her fight at the end. Abandoned by life; betrayed by her body; damaged by Fate. Where was her family? Where were her friends? How could they leave her alone, even for an hour straight? Where was the help she so desperately needed? Discharged herself, you say? Her human right? The right to live freely? She was not free; could not be free. She needed rehab, support, a cure. A straitjacket of people, presence, protection to halt the march towards her own private self-inflicted hell.
Where is she now? Is she happy at last? Does anyone really care?
I wrote the above as an exercise piece on a writing course this weekend, but wanted to post it. Whether anyone agrees with me or not, as a parent I find her death terribly sad. I grieve for Amy – for a life lost, thrown away if you like, but lost nonetheless. Talent wasted. For all the sons’ and daughters’ lives lost in such ways.