Edie

For the life of me, I can’t remember why I went looking for Edie–only scrolling and scrolling through images of the same blonde waif. Cigarette in hand. Ribs I could count. Romantic in the same way a graveyard would be–only if I didn’t really think about it. 

Her name carries the fantasy of her fame-fed silver spoon. Images of her life as a muse to Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan blot out the addiction–the depression–the abuse. The anorexia. 

Ms. Sedgwick was “poor little rich girl” to those who couldn’t touch her–change her–shake the ground she danced on. The life given to her without her consent became reason enough to withhold compassion. Her failing health and laundry list of addictions–childish. It was her fault after all, or so say those arrogant enough to call a broken woman entitled. 

Those who could have her–could touch her–didn’t hold her much more gently. She was little more than a fantasy turned possession for them–and of course she found a home here. Who else was she taught to be? Who else would we have encouraged her to be? 

When a girl is praised for harsh edges and hollowed eyes; when a girl is used, abused, and neglected by her parents; when a girl spends her life starving herself to feel safe; who else could she have been? She was trying to stay alive–to feel safe–in the ways we taught her and then shamed her for. 

We decided that as long as one had big eyes and an artistic eating disorder, being strung out was sexy. With this decision, we killed her. We killed every other possible version of Edie. Who else could she have been? 

What else but broken and starving and wasted?

Edie’s life conforms, at every turn, to the plot of a tragic romance. Tragic because she died at 28, but oh so romantic because she was beautiful. Right? Oh, but that doesn’t feel right, does it?

Never has there been an uglier sentiment than: Her life was so sad, but, wow she was so beautiful.

Graveyards aren’t for romance, dear reader. 

They’re for respecting the dead.