I’ve read the article in the Guardian. I saw the posting by the Glasgow antifascists. And no, I don’t know what to say or think or do. Days later, I still can’t reconcile the woman I met years ago on Authonomy, who I thought I knew for years, who I met in person on a brilliantly sunny day somewhere down Munich, and who I considered a true friend, with that person.
I knew she was leaning towards conservative. I knew she was kinda drifting more and more to the right. I ascribed a lot of that to her ongoing mental health problems. No, I’m not saying you have to be insane to be conservative, but imagine, if you can, yourself in a situation where your paranoia makes you see terrorists everywhere. Right-wing views like tight borders might suddenly sound vastly attractive. No, I’m also not trying to make excuses, but I am and always will be a naive little bitch who wonders where we, as humanity, might be if every single one of us were able to apply just a little empathy.
Yes, I know. No empathy for Nazis. No quarter for fascists. Fuck’s sake, Tabby. Those sentences should never have included you.
The Tabby I knew, you can find her in the original text of this page, in italics, below. I grieve her. I still want her to be real. That person? I don’t know. I didn’t see her coming. And not a smidgen of me wants her to be real.
I e-mailed her. Tell me the truth, I asked her. Yes or no. She asked me to wait. So I’m waiting, hoping for some sign that it was all a lie, a set up, a fabrication. Maybe I’m fooling myself, maybe I’m mourning something that never was, but I can’t bring myself to abandon her yet. Stupid? Probably. Understandable? Hopefully.
Tabby is one of the sweetest, most kind-hearted persons I’ve ever met – the type who throws love bombs in the middle of a fight. Well, lurve bombs, to be exact. Irish ancestry.
She draws people like flames do moths.
Judging from the snippets I know, her biography would make an astounding read. It has everything from finding herself, aged 15, in a hotel in Paris with nothing but her passport and a corset, to almost marrying a lord. Accordingly, her writing has the gripping, gritty intensity of a Velvet Underground song, sometimes fantastical, sometimes semi-autobiographic, from undiluted darkness to pure nonsense.