Amy Winehouse and My Moment of Clarity

“Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine or idealism.” – Carl Gustav Jung

The untimely death of 27-year-old British soul singer Amy Winehouse served as my wakeup call.

When Winehouse passed away in her north London apartment on Saturday, she joined an exclusive but unenvied club of “27 Forever,” whose members include Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain. Of these deaths, Winehouse’s affected me most. I have her album “Back to Black” on my iPod. I admired her world-weary voice and her lyrical moxie. For her slight frame, she was someone you didn’t want to pick a fight with.

But her death wasn’t unexpected. Her family and outside observers noted it was a matter of time before the five-time Grammy winner met her fate. Some speculated that her breakup with her latest boyfriend Reg Traviss prompted her final spiral.

I’m not a therapist, but someone who has struggled with emotional issues. In my view, an addiction is like gasoline that needs only a match to start a conflagration. That match can be depression, low self-esteem, or abuse, among others.

On Monday I came to a point where I admitted that I need help with dealing with some of my issues. I will admit to one of them – spending. I believed that as long as I was earning a decent wage, I had the right to buy whatever I wanted. When I went through a breakup with an emotionally abusive boyfriend, I bought a 1.7 fl. oz White Linen eau de parfum spray and a diamond and emerald 14 karat gold ring. I justified the purchases by saying that I was in pain and needed these things to feel better. They merely made my finances worse.

I realize that I can’t keep living this self-destructive lifestyle. I’m part of a family, a workplace, a community, a group of friends, a church. They need me, and I need them. So, I’m getting help to get my act together.

My prayers go out to the Winehouse family, friends, and other fans. But I thank Amy Winehouse for giving me the slap upside da hed that I needed – even if she didn’t mean to.

Writing Diva