I know it's Amy Winehouse who's dead and not Natalie Imbruglia. But I do feel torn, because part of me feels that we all have responsibility for our own lives, while part of me understands very fucking well indeed what it's like to lose control of your life and everything spirals out of your reach and to reach for something that will take the pain away, even if it's for a while.
I don't mind mentalist jokes and abuse, indeed, absolutely nothing matters to me any more, and I suspect Amy felt the same. Yes, it's sad for those left behind, but they were unable to feel Amy's pain and there was nothing they could do to help her.
It's a shit crumb of comfort to take away, if you actually knew Amy, but at least she has peace now.
I can't tell you how much I crave that myself. Peace. No more pain. No more despair.
But equally, if she was anything like me, I don't expect or want some well-meaning, better-knowing cuntwaft to come in and sort it out for me. It can't be done. The damage is all inside me, nothing outside can touch it, let alone heal it.
I'm standing at the top of the same staircase she was. I've take a few tentative steps down in to the comforting darkness. I'm on my own. No-one can hold my hand and lead me out. The damage is done and the only person who can decide which way I'm going to go, every day, is me. All the love, all the pills, all the money in the world can't drag me up again.
It's all in my head.
Either I escape, or eventually, the pain gets too much and I get my peace.
Either way you win.