Tabatha Stirling

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.

Update March 2023: Looking at the statistics of my website, I see that there still are people who end up on my page by searching for Tabatha Stirling on the web. If you’re one of those people, and you’re here because you still hold on to hope: Welcome. I’m still waiting, but the moment I know something I can share, I will. If you’re here because you’re looking for dirt: Get a fucking life.

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.

She’s also an awesome cover designer. Check out her writing here and her designs here.