This one hurts.

I’ll admit, I’m only a new Carrie Fisher fan. When the hype burned strong for Star Wars recently, I had the fortune of being surrounded by some intense and amazing fans. I’m talking watchers, readers, writers, etc. Having only seen the first three movies as a child and not particularly caring for them, my friends were eager to immerse me into the story and the lore and then I was hooked and ever so excited for the next few years. I haven’t gotten to all of the literature that exists yet but it’s only a matter of time for me. The princess and general Leia Organa was a fascinatingly written character that I’m glad wasn’t immobilized in a book by George Lucas.

But that’s not why I adored Carrie Fisher.

I flipped through the bios and interviews and started to read about her because the moment someone tries to convince me some actress didn’t age well I go check them out so I have a few real arguments while I’m scoffing at how unnecessary comments like those are. Of course, Ms. Fisher was and always has been, beautiful, and her writing and producing and honesty has far outstripped her, anyone’s, physical beauty. So I wrote off those comments as words from people who don’t understand how time works.

But that’s not why I adored Carrie Fisher.

I heard she hated her slave outfit.

I heard she told Daisy Ridley to fight artistic choices like that before The Force Awakens if that’s not who she wants to be. And then I read her saying it.

I heard she has bipolar and openly talks about her mental illness and her drug abuse. And then I watched her talk about it.

I heard her dog was Instagram famous. I follow him, though I’m not sure if I’ll be able to follow the feed for a while.

There’s a sort of rough humor people seem to stumble out of the fire with if the fire made them stronger. I’ve heard it in voices of men and women who’ve been in the forge once or twice. Some of their armor trembles or sounds ready to crumble if you tap it too hard. That’s the character we most see on screen too: inwardly scared and uncomfortable underneath their plate metal, hoping only to achieve enough happiness to sweep away and forget why they had the armor on in the first place.

Some people seem to want angels out of their role models. They want the right about of vulnerability to toughness, and they don’t want them talking about their struggle too much. I think that’s fucking stupid.

Carrie Fisher stepped out in general’s boots into the moonlight and died drowning in it, strangled by her own bra.