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| A legend. |
I didn't get it before that. It seemed senseless. Tragic. Even selfish for someone to give up on themselves and leave loved ones behind to deal with the aftermath. In the shock of having lost one of the great comedians of our generation, many are questioning and wondering why. Why would someone who seemed to have it all choose to end their lives? I'm not asking why.
I'm finding myself shaken by Williams' death in a way I've never experienced before. Other famous icons of my youth have met tragic ends in recent years. Michael Jackson. Whitney Houston. We've lost incredible actors I've admired, like Heath Ledger and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who undoubtedly had years of amazing performances we'll never see. But all those deaths were not as unexpected, as most had struggled publicly with addiction and their deaths were related to those struggles. Robin was different with his manic energy persona, his whirling dervish of comedy, whipping jokes at you so fast you caught perhaps only a quarter of his genius, the rest lost in laughter. He brought us so much joy, we assumed he must have been overflowing with it. Instead, he was giving it all away, keeping none for himself.
Perhaps I'm more affected by this loss because 10 years ago, I experienced my one and only bout of clinical depression. I learned there are different types of depression. Situational is one, meaning caused by a traumatic event and usually temporary. The other is chronic, caused by chemical imbalances in the brain and it can last a lifetime. Fortunately, I had the former, brought on by an especially harrowing split with a fiancé that simply broke my spirit. I won't go too much into the relationship other than I thought I had finally found my Prince Charming only to discover too late he was a narcissist who manipulated and lied and cheated, while making me feel I was responsible for his transgressions and somehow wrong to be angry or upset. After all, if I would be just better in some way, he wouldn't do these things to me.
Even though I finally found the strength to leave, the experience wounded me beyond repair. I'd had plenty of breakups in my past, from which I recovered just fine after the usual ice cream sessions with girlfriends. This one was different. I was 36, still single, convinced that my last chance at a happy married life and family had just evaporated. I felt rejected not by one man, but all of humanity. I felt worthless and unlovable. I sunk into a well of darkness. I cried daily until I couldn't, and then I just stared into space. I was functional. I managed to get up, go to work, even join friends for dinner. I put on an act that I was okay. But I was a hollow inside. Just a few steps above an extra on The Walking Dead, really. I would cry in my car the whole way to any function, where I went through the motions, before ducking out as quickly as possible and crying the whole way home. At home, I would lie on my sofa, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how happiness felt. Nothing that I used to enjoy held any allure anymore. I'd imagine my own funeral and wonder if anyone would come. Would anyone care? Would anyone miss me? I couldn't imagine anyone's life being lessened by my absence. I was nothing. I meant nothing to anyone. And all I could see before me was more nothingness.
That's when I got it. I understood for the first time. Depression is a horrible state of mind. It's a sickness that seeps constant emotional pain. When in it, you just want it to end. Every waking moment is filled with a debilitating despair of the soul. Even when you see something sweet that makes you smile for a moment, like puppies playing, you feel like you're only smiling because you're supposed to smile at puppies. And then you're sad because what is wrong with you that you don't want to smile at puppies??? You become desperate to stop feeling this constant weight that makes breathing hard. That makes moving hard. That makes living hard. You become exhausted from the effort. And when you truly have difficulty even imagining a different reality for yourself, you begin to sympathize with those who choose to exit life altogether rather than carry on in such a hopeless, painful state.
My depression only lasted about eight months. I went to counseling, took antidepressants for a short period and finally began to see light at the end of the tunnel. While it took years to fully recover, I was at least able to experience happiness again and laugh without faking it. I kept building from there. I am so thankful I made it out of that hole. Since that time, I don't use the term "depressed" in a casual way when I simply have the blues. I know the difference now. I know the desperation to make it go away, even if it means you go away too. For anyone who hasn't been there, I'm not sure there's a way to fully convey what it's like. Just be grateful you don't know.
It's heartbreaking that Robin was unable to find a way out. Our world is a dimmer without his incredible comedic brilliance. Rest in peace, Robin. May we all gain a better understanding of the illness you suffered and help each other find the light at the end of the tunnel.
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