Rememberings

by Sinéad O'Connor

I am an older woman now with a different voice. So this is only my first memoir. My intention is to live a long life and keep diaries this time so I won’t forget.

I found myself having to inform him over and over, each time in a slightly louder voice, that I was eighteen, thank you very much, and no longer my father’s concern, and the fact of my being female didn’t mean I hadn’t understood the contracts when my lawyer sat down and explained them to me. He mistook my indignation for concern that my father should not have to worry about me. In reality, my granny had impressed upon me several times that a woman must never reveal her cash stash to any male relative.

Similar to Christ’s, rap’s mission is self-esteem for those “previously deemed shit.” So it’s as dangerous as Christ’s. Because a lot of kids of all manner are listening, and no one in the industry wants their top floors threatened by either the wrong skin color or the wrong mindset—that is, anyone who cares about truth. Kids are the market, but you have to keep them believing they’re worth less than the stars or they won’t think they need what stars are selling. Wait till you see. When showbiz execs realize they can’t kill rap, they will hijack it. They’ll make millionaires of impostor rappers who say things like “You can’t be like me.”

Then she said, “Let me see your palm,” and I gave her my right hand. She said, “I see dark spirits around you.” Big gulp on my part. “Why are they there? How do I get rid of them?” “They are there because you are sad,” she said. “You must have a bath and fill a plastic bottle with the water afterward.” And she continued: “For each of your years on earth, you must strap a hundred-dollar bill to the bottle with elastic and give it to me. That is the cure.”

My intention had always been to destroy my mother’s photo of the pope. It represented lies and liars and abuse. The type of people who kept these things were devils like my mother. I never knew when or where or how I would destroy it, but destroy it I would when the right moment came. And with that in mind, I carefully brought it everywhere I lived from that day forward. Because nobody ever gave a shit about the children of Ireland.

Everyone wants a pop star, see? But I am a protest singer. I just had stuff to get off my chest. I had no desire for fame. In fact, that’s why I chose the first song. “Success” was making a failure of my life. Because everyone was already calling me crazy for not acting like a pop star. For not worshipping fame. And I understand I’ve torn up the dreams of those around me. But those aren’t my dreams. No one ever asked me what my dreams were; they just got mad at me for not being who they wanted me to be. My own dream is only to keep the contract I made with God before I ever made one with the music business. And that’s a better fight than murder. I gotta get to the other side of life.

I’m not a pop star. I’m just a troubled soul who needs to scream into mikes now and then. I don’t need to be number one. I don’t need to be liked. I don’t need to be welcome at the AMAs. I just need to pay my yearly overheads, get shit off my chest, and not compromise or prostitute myself spiritually. So no. It wasn’t derailed. It was re-railed. And I feel I’ve been extremely successful as a single mother providing for her children.

And I don’t want a pop-star career anymore anyway because nobody knows me and I’m so lonely.