In March 2016, Sinéad O’Connor, who died last month at 56 and whose funeral takes place today in Bray, Ireland, went missing. I remember this specifically because the Telegraph ran a live blog on the singer’s whereabouts after she had posted suicidal thoughts. A live blog. I pointed out to an editor at the paper that rolling updates about a person going through a severe mental health episode, an episode that might have ended fatally – and for all they knew, already had – was neither responsible nor compassionate. It was, coincidentally, Mental Health Awareness Week.
On that occasion, O’Connor was found safe, if not well. It was not the only brutal public example of how her mental illness manifested, and mental illness was the blunt – accurate – term she used. Of contemporary public figures, O’Connor was perhaps the one whose experiences of psychiatric disorder – she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and complex PTSD – spoke most to the realities of those who live with, or endure, the kind of warped brain that can make even the simplest thing feel like a Sphinx’s riddle.
