I have nothing to add to the expressions of grief that followed Sinéad O’Connor’s death. The quite surprising outpouring, from The New York Times to Morrisey’s bitter blaming, has covered it amply and beautifully. I wasn’t surprised, but I was stricken. As I wrote to a friend, Sinéad called to me after I had run away from something I created, something that deeply frightened me. She called me to return. She was one of the artists, writers and scholars who healed and nurtured me into a new integration, a new perspective on what and who I was, who gave me the tools to kit myself back together into something stronger and more true than the damaged boy I was before. She had a wisdom and a defiance and a spirit that refused to be afraid of herself and of her power, of the qualities that gave her the unimaginable strength to gaze into a camera in front of the world and punch up, to proclaim truth to power and call us to fight for light and justice. Brave isn’t enough of a word to describe her, it was more than that, it was a solidity, an implacable force proclaiming her very right to be. And defying anyone to deny it.

She was a model for me, then, even as she was my challenger. Even as she demanded that I get back up and continue what I had begun. Even as she helped me to my feet and walked me back into town. “We’re here”, she said. “This is our destiny, this is why we were born. Get back to it. Look them in the eye. Be solid, don’t flinch. Be fearless, like me”.

And so I did. And so I am. But the battles have left scars. And those scars still hurt, they can still wound afresh, after years and years, they are raw. And the war isn’t yet complete. So I understand her. I know why she left.

“Being what you are, there is no other Troy for you to burn”. I know. Thanks, Sinéad. I love you so, so much.