In a galaxy far, far away.

Request: the Ford family during a thunderstorm. 

Short but fluffy! 

— 

You always see the lightning before you hear the thunder. Carrie stirred against Harrison’s chest as the room lit up for a moment, then shook with the force of the thunder clap. Almost instantly, they heard the piercing cries of their older daughter, Emma.

“It woke her up,” Harrison said without opening his eyes. “Shit.”

As soon as he said that, a higher pitched, louder wail split through the air. “We’ve got a sympathy crier,” Carrie muttered as she sat up. “I’ll get Billie, you get Emma?”

He nodded sleepily and kissed her forehead. “Deal.” Harrison stood up and moved swiftly to his daughter’s room. Even though he knew there was no danger, hearing her cry tore at his heart. “Hey Miss Emma,” he cooed as he opened her door slowly.

“Daddy!” She practically flew to him and wrapped her tiny arms around his chest.

“You ok, Peanut?” He scooped her up and held her close as another roll of thunder crashed outside.

“It’s so loud,” she sobbed, looking up at him with eyes that looked just like her mother’s.

“It’s ok, you’re ok… I got you,” he whispered.

“Daddy…” Her voice cracked again and her breath hitched in her throat.

“Hey, it’s ok.” He pulled back to look at his little girl; in the dim light of her room, with her white nightgown, she looked like a tiny angel. “You wanna come sleep with Mommy and me?” She nodded vigorously as he took her hand and led her down the hallway.

As they walked toward the bathroom, Harrison heard his wife’s voice sail down the hallway, mixed with the baby’s cries. “Hey Daddy, hi Emma!” Carrie said brightly as she continued to rock the screaming Billie.

“Awwww, little one, did the thunder scare you?” Harrison reached for the baby and took her gently from Carrie.  As soon as she was in Harrison’s arms, Billie stopped crying. She curled her tiny hand around his thumb, melting his heart.

“Ugh, traitor,” Carrie joked, reaching to pick up Emma as another bolt of lightening flashed through the sky. “Let’s go back to bed.”  

Harrison smiled as the family loaded into their bed. Baby Billie was sleeping on his chest, Emma snuggled on his left, and their mother - his wife - on his right. He kissed each of them in turn and watched his older daughter’s eyelids grow heavy and close over those eyes that looked just like his wife’s. Emma curled up closer as she feel asleep. The baby sneezed and closed her eyes, safe and warm on her Daddy’s chest. “Look at them,” Carrie sighed.

Harrison flashed her his lopsided grin. “How you doing, beautiful,“ he whispered to her.

"I’m good,” she muttered. “They’re both asleep… the barbarians have been pacified.”

Harrison chuckled. “For now,” he whispered as he pressed another kiss to her forehead. She shifted to her side and placed her hand on baby Billie, who wiggled between her parents.

A brilliant flash cut across the sky, lighting up the family. It was followed by a clap of thunder. He heard Carrie whimper and snuggle a little closer into his side. “You ok?”

She nodded against him. “It’s loud…”

“I know it is, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead and smiled. “You scared of the thunder, Fisher.”

Carrie shook her head vigorously. “No… it’s just loud and the girls… and everything shakes…”

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “I’m right here. Close those big beautiful eyes.”

She nodded. “The girls are happy. Your girls love you.” 

The thing that is getting to me the most about news of Carrie Fisher’s autopsy report is not the results themselves, but the way the media is handling it. Like it’s a Gotcha moment—like somehow we were tricked into thinking she was a better person than she actually was.

And that is profoundly bullshit.

Carrie was open about being an addict. Her opening line from her iconic stand up show (and book by the same name) “Wishful Drinking” was quite literally, “Hi, I’m Carrie Fisher, and I’m an alcoholic.”

She talked at length and in often brutal depth about her problems with substance abuse, her compulsive self destructive tendencies, and her dependencies to both illegal and prescription drugs. She wrote about it in her books, she talked about it on talk shows. She made an entire comedic stand up performance out of it, detailing the lengths she went to in order to try and regain some semblance of safety and normalcy in her life. 

She was brutally honest that every single day was a struggle for sanity after years and years of attempting to self medicate a mental illness that for most of her life was mistaken for feckless lack of self control. 

You know how they way “Religion is the opiate of the masses?” Well I took masses of opiates religiously! -Wishful Drinking

She was bright, and beautiful and bold about it. And she didn’t have to be.

Carrie Fisher didn’t have to stand there and take the shitstorm of criticism people launched at her for decades, let alone turn it into humor. She didn’t. She didn’t owe anyone outwith her immediate family an explanation for her erratic behavior over the years, nor the flack she caught for it. (Think of all the male actors in Hollywood who are in and out of rehab centers so quickly they could harness the revolving doors as a wind turbine. Then tell me the media press about her life and now her death are fair.)

But she did it anyway, because she knew it was important. And she took those bright lights of Hollywood shining down on her like a ruthless, malevolent child holding a magnifying glass under the sun—and she turned that merciless heat and pointed it at things that mattered, often at the expense of herself, opening herself up to ridicule and the severe cruelty of others who lambasted her for everything, ranging from her weight, her mental illness or her audacity to simply grow old.

Is it tragic that her addiction likely cost her her life? Yes, of course it is. Does it invalidate any of her achievements? The strength and vibrancy with which she lived her life and touched the lives of millions around her for the better? 

“I call people sometimes hoping not only that they’ll verify the fact that I’m alive but that they’ll also, however indirectly, convince me that being alive is an appropriate state for me to be in. Because sometimes I don’t think it’s such a bright idea. Is it worth the trouble it takes trying to live life so that someday you get something worthwhile out of it, instead of it almost always taking worthwhile things out of you?” 

-The Princess Diarist

Carrie Fisher mattered, her voice mattered. The things that she said and did, mattered. They still matter. And they are no less true and poignant in the light of these revelations.

Addiction is a disease. It’s a dysfunction of the brain’s reward system which requires constant management and care and often goes hand in hand with other mental health disorders. It is not simply a question of willpower or the perceived lack thereof. And while sobriety is to be praised and encouraged—of course it is, of course it absolutely unquestionably is—you cannot possibly know what may cause a person to slip or to feel like they can’t cope without that crutch. And shame on anyone who says it was therefore deserved. 

Shame and my heartfelt wishes that you never go through the things that can lead to serious addiction. Or that you are ever abandoned, derided and regarded as less than human because of it and your death turned into a smear campaign against your memory for the sake of a sensationalist headline.

Yes. Carrie Fisher was an addict, she had drug dependency problems related to her mental health. There was a time she kept it hidden, but after she made the decision to come out about it, she stuck by that decision and became a champion, for herself and everyone like her who struggles. Because she never wanted anyone to suffer like she did in order to get help. And she did it with as much grace and humility as she could manage—and a whole lot more indignity, immodesty, crass humor and love as well. Because that’s who she was and she cared. 

And that’s a hell of a lot more than can be said for those crowing over her death like it’s just deserts.

Fuck you.

People do not exist to stand up to your demands of a perfect ideal of humanity. You do not get to place that burden on the shoulders of someone then tear them apart when they fall under that weight—famous or otherwise.

Fuck you and your whole pretense at moral piety and the horse you rode in on.

Carrie Fisher was not your unproblematic fave. She was in fact extremely problematic, and no one knew that better than she did. 

“I heard someone say once that many of us only seem able to find heaven by backing away from hell. And while the place that I’ve arrived at in my life may not precisely be everyone’s idea of heaven, I could swear sometimes—if I’m quiet enough—I can hear the angels sing. Either that or I fucked up my medication again.” 

Celine and Cher 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽