I spent the last two nights reading Sinead O’Connor’s 2021 memoir, Rememberings. I’m not going to write about all the things this amazing woman’s said and done. You can pick up the book and read it yourself. What I will say is that I felt like I was listening to a compassionate soul, a friend, whisper in my ear. Sinead made me think, not just about her life, but about my own.

I still get shivers listening to “Fire on Babylon.” Sinead didn’t need to say she wrote it about the abuse her mother inflicted upon her and her family. That much is clear. But what I love is that Sinead opened her throat and funneled all her hurt and rage out her vocal cords and into the microphone. Her voice is unique, beautiful, like nothing I’ve ever heard, and driven by sheer unabashed power. I wish I could sing like that. At one point, I wanted to be a singer and I still love to sing. But I have a spastic larynx that’s inclined to shut rather than open.

There’s lots of information available now online about laryngospasms but when they started happening to me thirty or forty years ago, I knew nothing. I just thought, I am going to die. When I was really stressed and teaching a decade ago, I remember having one in front of the class at the end of a long first day of talking. In the middle of a sentence, I couldn’t breathe in or out. I simply stopped talking and breathing. I walked out and collapsed on the floor in the women’s bathroom. Fortunately, my kids called for help and the next thing I knew, my friend, Phil Roque, came walking into the bathroom carrying oxygen. He made a couple of jokes and helped me through it. Most of the time it happens at night. A spasm can be triggered by a nightmare, or a day of stress, or hidden butter on a sandwich (which is why I always ask, “Is there butter in it?) Many nights, I remember sitting up alone in my bed thinking, I’m going to die here and now, while my daughter’s sleeping in the next room. I learned to use self-talk to bring me back from the edge.

When I self-diagnosed five years ago, my GP had never heard of such a thing. She said, “Well, it’s in your throat so I’ll send you to an ENT.” He stuck a camera down my nose and said, “Yes, your larynx spasms. You’re right. Look.” My larynx looked like a mouthful of shut teeth. He sent me to a speech-language pathologist who taught me about pursed lip breathing, something I’d been doing myself on shamanic journeys. Now I think what I really need to do is let my anger out by screaming “FIRE!” as loud as I can into a microphone followed by a list of names. Maybe then I could take back my voice.

I love Sinead. I love that she shaves her head. I want to do that. It would be so freeing. I love that she’s psychic and has visions. That she’s intensely spiritual and always has been. That she advocates fearlessly against child abuse. I love that she talks honestly about mental illness, post traumatic stress, and agoraphobia. That she cuddles veterans and wants to become a health-care aid. I love that she’s claimed her asexuality. That in discovering The Koran, she put on a hijab, became Shuhuda, and converted to Islam because it felt like coming home. I love that she loves her children with all her heart and canceled her tour to grieve her son Shane’s suicide. I love that she lives alone in a garden cottage in Ireland and has a “crew of girlfriends” so she’s not lonely anymore in her retirement.

My favourite Sinead album is Sean-Nós Nua which she says “contains the very best singing that I ever did in my life” (223). The songs are “like ghosts; you have to inhabit the character of these songs to bring them alive.” It was produced by Shane’s father, the Irish folk musician Donal Lunny, and is as ethereal and Irish an album as ever could be. Nights I party alone with my piano and a glass or two of wine, I sing “The Moorlough Shore” and dream.

I love you, Sinead. No one compares 2 U.

An article in the New York Times, May 2021

.