Goodbye, Mr. Williams

I've struggled the last few days to wrap my brain around the sudden and disturbing death of Robin Williams. I didn't know the man. We never shared a meal, or even passed one another on the street. His death in particular, more than any Hollywood icon I can remember, has hit me like a ton of bricks.

Maybe it's because he was everywhere during my childhood. A genie, a robot, priest(s), and presidents. A Jewish shopkeeper with a fantastic imagination. A doctor with the belief that laughter heals. Peter Pan. A radio announcer during Vietnam. An inspiring professor at a school for boys.

Above all of these roles, the fathers he played have stuck with me. From Mrs. Doubtfire to the Birdcage, the movies in which he played fathers were the ones that spoke most loudly to me, as they reminded me of my own father and his love for his kids. As an adult, I see parallels between his characters and my own husband...it takes a special kind of man to give everything to and for his children, and those were the characters that came to life when the camera rolled on Robin Williams. The screenwriters gave him the words, but his delivery spoke to to our souls.

I have been brought to tears (from laughing and sadness) more times than I can count thanks to him. He brought light and laughter to all he knew him, and by all accounts was a genuinely good man. One who clearly adored his children, and spent a great amount of time building up those around him.

And yet, he was haunted. The laughter he brought to others wasn't a result of joy, but of deep, dark pain.

I've read a lot of speculation the last few days about him and his death. There are many who say that his cause of death, suicide, was selfish. "He should have asked for help" they said. Or, "if he really cared about anyone, he wouldn't have left them." The difficulty with all of that is that depression, especially to the degree I imagine he dealt with it, is not logical. Depression that deep leaves the victim feeling as though the only option, to end the pain and save their loved ones, is to leave this earth. It is a firmly held belief that just existing while suffering from such crushing darkness is a burden and hindrance to the ones we love. It is BECAUSE we love them that the thought of suicide seems a good option. The only option.

It's easy to say, "just ask for help" and I agree that it's important to get the message across that help exists, either in the form of family members or strangers, through resources like the Suicide Prevention Hotline. The difficulty with telling someone to "just ask" is that when the panic of being crushed by the sheer weight of life becomes too much to bear, reaching out is the last thing anyone wants to do. Not because we don't want to be saved, but because the fear of reaching out for help only to find that it doesn't work and you're back in the abyss is paralyzing.

Depression does not discriminate. It does not care if you're young or old, black or white, rich or poor. Your marital status, religious affiliation, sexual orientation and job status are inconsequential. Almost 25% of the American population suffers from some form of mental illness, and yet our system for dealing with and treating that mental illness is woefully inadequate. Medical treatment in general, and especially mental health treatment, is cost prohibitive for many, even those with insurance. County mental health centers are maxed out, overworked and understaffed. There are waiting lists up to a year long for treatment. It is only when you threaten suicide that someone jumps to action, and even then it's not always immediate enough. "Just hold on" they'll say. "We can see you in 8 weeks."

The stigma surrounding mental illness has to be addressed before the system can be repaired. We have to create resources that are easily attained by the general public. It's easy to sit back and say that the mentally ill are to blame...that their demons and fears are not our problem, or that their choices (drug use, alcohol abuse, suicide) are selfish and they deserve what they get (all things I've heard the last few days). The truth of the matter is that we don't blame the man diagnosed with cancer, or the woman with ALS, so why do we blame the sufferers of mental illness? We have to remember the operative word...illness. We treat the cancer, soothe the symptoms, cool the fever. We must turn our attention to the mental health crisis in this country, and the woefully inadequate resources that exist if we're going to have any chance of overcoming these diseases.

I've been in that darkness. I know the pain of believing that the only course of action that was fair to those around me was to end my life. I am not ashamed of my disease. I am eternally grateful for the people in my life who forcefully pulled me back from the edge and in to treatment, and grateful that we were able to afford that treatment, if only for a short time. It was enough to save me.

Granny Wendy: “So, your adventures are over.”
Peter: “Oh no, to live. To live would be an awfully big adventure.”

Thank you for sharing your adventure with us, Robin. May you finally be at peace, and may your loss initiate the conversations that must happen so others may be saved.