In Memory of Carrie Fisher
We remember Carrie Fisher, not Princess Leia. Be aware, if you are interested in ear buns, diaphanous white column dresses or assault weapons, this is not the remembrance for you. Carrie Fisher was soul connected to writers, artists, and those of us whose moods are managed by psychotropic drugs to function in the realm of normal.
She held her truth close to her heart and fed her pen with its blood. The truth: ugly and funny, humiliating and enlightening, unvarnished and finished was on the page, in the interview, and on the screen. Her truth was contradictory and yet, still true. Her mother drove her crazy and was her favorite person. Her father broke her heart and yet she cared for him. She hated that she was forever diminished to Leia and yet returned again and again to the role and the screen set family.
Most importantly, she refused to be minimized by her mental health issues. In her self-championship for better health, she became a champion for others paralyzed by depression or accelerated to high mania due to unforgiving brain chemistry. In spite of self-medication, bad love choices and the opinions of countless trolls she triumphed in art, love, and family.