Saving a scrap
from Facebook. In response to the Daily Mail's series of articles recounting Diana's misery with Charles & commenters calling it "fake news."
None of this was fake. Her pain was real. She had real issues and she needed real help. What I don't understand is why this is continually trotted out in article after heartwrenching article for decades now.
This is not the Diana I want to remember. I want to remember the devoted mother Diana, the humanitarian Diana, the beautiful woman with the beautiful heart & soul who wanted to make the world a kinder, safer place--THAT is her legacy. Her sons understand that. They understand the awareness they have the power to raise around mental illness and I'm so proud of them for being brave enough to take on that very difficult but very necessary conversation.
I know she was troubled in her marriage. I can't bear every gory detail of it. People suffer--that needs to be acknowledged but putting the suffering on an endless loop like the media does will never solve anything. It's like ripping the scab off a wound over & over instead of applying a balm & letting it heal. Let it be. Give her peace.
End rant
This is an odd anniversary for me. I was profoundly affected by Diana's tragic death--20 years ago this August 31st. I was barely 17 at the time & I loved her dearly & wanted to be just like her (aside from the whole marrying a cold, spoiled prince part). I cried & collected every newspaper article, every special edition magazine about her, drew her portrait & sent it away with a condolence book set up at the English pub on South Street, drew another portrait & kept it in my bisnonna's trunk along with all the magazines & newspapers. I watched her funeral & cried some more & wrote poetry about crashes shattering Parisian nights like windshields (I was also heavy into Anne Sexton at the time so similes of the "like" variety were everywhere in my writing)...
It was such a jolt to a system that was already in overdrive. I felt how that car looked. I had dreams about the princess with her chest open, her raw heart in doctors' hands as they tried to massage the beat back into it...I couldnt get past the way she died--of a dislocated heart--ripped from one side of her chest to the other due to the force of the crash & the fact that she was sitting sideways with no belt on, her right side to the front of the car & her left to the seat.
My precious princess. Broken & gone. I know it must seem silly but I still cry when I think too long on it, like im doing now. You would think I knew her. I felt like she understood me. She went through hurt & had to keep it secret, like me. We were worlds apart-different countries, different socio-economic classes, different generations...but still. Teenage me was convinced there would be an instant bond if I ever got to meet her.
None of this was fake. Her pain was real. She had real issues and she needed real help. What I don't understand is why this is continually trotted out in article after heartwrenching article for decades now.
This is not the Diana I want to remember. I want to remember the devoted mother Diana, the humanitarian Diana, the beautiful woman with the beautiful heart & soul who wanted to make the world a kinder, safer place--THAT is her legacy. Her sons understand that. They understand the awareness they have the power to raise around mental illness and I'm so proud of them for being brave enough to take on that very difficult but very necessary conversation.
I know she was troubled in her marriage. I can't bear every gory detail of it. People suffer--that needs to be acknowledged but putting the suffering on an endless loop like the media does will never solve anything. It's like ripping the scab off a wound over & over instead of applying a balm & letting it heal. Let it be. Give her peace.
End rant
This is an odd anniversary for me. I was profoundly affected by Diana's tragic death--20 years ago this August 31st. I was barely 17 at the time & I loved her dearly & wanted to be just like her (aside from the whole marrying a cold, spoiled prince part). I cried & collected every newspaper article, every special edition magazine about her, drew her portrait & sent it away with a condolence book set up at the English pub on South Street, drew another portrait & kept it in my bisnonna's trunk along with all the magazines & newspapers. I watched her funeral & cried some more & wrote poetry about crashes shattering Parisian nights like windshields (I was also heavy into Anne Sexton at the time so similes of the "like" variety were everywhere in my writing)...
It was such a jolt to a system that was already in overdrive. I felt how that car looked. I had dreams about the princess with her chest open, her raw heart in doctors' hands as they tried to massage the beat back into it...I couldnt get past the way she died--of a dislocated heart--ripped from one side of her chest to the other due to the force of the crash & the fact that she was sitting sideways with no belt on, her right side to the front of the car & her left to the seat.
My precious princess. Broken & gone. I know it must seem silly but I still cry when I think too long on it, like im doing now. You would think I knew her. I felt like she understood me. She went through hurt & had to keep it secret, like me. We were worlds apart-different countries, different socio-economic classes, different generations...but still. Teenage me was convinced there would be an instant bond if I ever got to meet her.