Rememberings

by Sinéad O'Connor

I was actually present before my first album came out. And then I went somewhere else inside myself. And I began to smoke weed. I never finally stopped until mid-2020. So, yeah, I ain’t been quite here, and it’s hard to recollect what you weren’t present at.

But I think you’ll see in this book a girl who does find herself, not by success in the music industry but by taking the opportunity to sensibly and truly lose her marbles. The thing being that after losing them, one finds them and plays the game better.

Onstage, I can always be who I really am. Offstage, not so much. I never made sense to anyone, even myself, unless I was singing.

My body won’t work if someone tries to cuddle me. I like my aunt Lily and it hurts her feelings I won’t cuddle her. I really want to. But I freeze and in my head I see a mountain of wolves all covered in blood, so much that they can’t move, and only one wolf is running about, the one who was at the very bottom of the pile when whatever happened happened and it has no blood on it. It’s looking for help.

I go to the record player. I make my brother Joe play it again. I say, “Who’s he?” “Bob Dylan.” I see from the album cover he’s as beautiful as if God blew a breath from Lebanon and it became a man.

Things aren’t safe at all when he’s out. My mother doesn’t like little girls.

I like this Dylan man’s singing. In my head I call him Lebanon Man. He has an empty baby carrier hanging open across his chest. I slip myself in. His voice is like a blanket. He’s really tender and he loves girls. I have his chest to fall asleep on.

It must be so depressing being a nun. I’m really scared God will make me want to be one.

The last time I heard Clothilde talking in my head at home, I’d been sent to bed during the daytime for saying Princess Anne was “preggers.”

I love the Sex Pistols. I love “Anarchy in the UK.” And “Pretty Vacant” and “God Save the Queen.” And I love the Boomtown Rats and Stiff Little Fingers. All the screaming, I love that.

I’m lonely but I’m writing songs for my first album, and songs are a lonely person’s occupation; songs are ghosts.

His eyes always brim full of gentleness when he looks at absolutely anyone. His whole heart is in his eyes at all times. He doesn’t have a temper and he isn’t afraid of people. I wish I were like him. I have a temper, and I’m afraid of most people.

But the bosses liked the “demure” look of the one where I’m looking at the floor and my mouth is shut. Apparently females seeming angry doesn’t “shift units.” And they’re already handicapped by my hair.

All I have to do is not fuck it up. So far, so good; I’ve had only one little slip where I threatened the Irish State on Twitter. Then I told an obvious lie and said my Twitter account had been hacked and the tweet wasn’t mine. Total lie. Crazy bitch.