Robin Williams' death – his suicide – did it rock you? I'm guessing that it did. We've been obsessively pulling out videos and stories about him ever since. Suicide is a big deal. I hope it rocked you.
His distinctive voice charmed the nation for years and many consider him a comedic genius. Personality poured out of him with a fluidity unbridled by creative mental strain, some say. To me, he seemed a person, an approachable person – somebody who was just a somebody. Since his death, so many journalists, bloggers, commentators, and random people – all who didn't know him – have tried to interpret his life and understand his suicide.
The truth, of course, is that we can never understand. The biological factors, the psychological factors, the personal experience never tell us how a great man can take his life. Why wasn't he afraid to end it all? Did he think he was helping his loved ones? Did he see the inevitable pain those who knew him would carry for the rest of their own lives? Was his own pain too great to spare them?
I read somewhere that depression and the numbers of suicides have experienced spikes in recent decades. Songs have been written about it. Books have been published to help loved ones cope. When I type "suicidal" into Google, it provides a helpline.
But many still misunderstand depression and suicide.
Some called Williams free. Some wrote long statuses on Facebook about what he meant to them. Others wrote posts that went viral. Some felt a twinge of discomfort and compassion, even fear. Sometimes the right message was said the wrong way. Sometimes the wrong thing was said the right way.
So here's my question. Did you wonder? Did you worry?
I did.
My own experiences with depression have left me sensitive to the possible, hidden experiences of my siblings. Some of my friends have told me about their struggles. What if? What if my best friend decided to end it all? What if someone decided he was only weighing me down? What if he thought it wasn't worth it?
If you didn't worry, you should have. Not everyone is brave enough to admit they need help.
I haven't blogged about this until now because I felt that I could not say anything that hadn't already been said. And if I say anything at all, I want it to be thoughtful.
But finally, I wonder how many people really understand; and that ignorance drives me to write.
I suffered for years on my own, sure that my pain was my fault. Why couldn't I just get over it? Why couldn't I just be happy? Did I not love everyone? Was I selfish?
My faith was a crutch. Crutch – so often a negative meaning. My faith was my broken leg and my crutch. I thought I was a terrible sinner for feeling so wretched – that I had no joy because I was not holy enough. If only I loved God more…. If only I loved my neighbor more….
I'm sure many people have recovered from their depression and thrown out their religion, scoffing at it for putting them down. Actually, my Catholic religion does not blame me for depression, although I didn't know that at the time; and even though it (mistakenly) tore at me, my faith was what kept me going. I never refused to get out of bed and I didn't coop myself up in a corner of my room. I did walk around in a despondent state, rarely if ever looking anyone in the eye, giving short and to the point answers, dreading and loathing small talk, hating compliments. "My hair may be pretty but that doesn't make it better. I may be a good dancer, but that isn't helping me. Don't tell my father I'm mature – you don't know me."
My inner faith, mistakenly telling me that I was at fault for how I felt, told me that if I just kept trying and was the best that I could be, everything would get better. I felt moments of joy and happiness, but as I continued to agree to everything that was asked of me and volunteered silently to do still more, my overall mood was not improving.
I felt happiest when I was making a little boy smile. I've known him since he was born and we're very close. His family spent a lot of time at my house and I spent most of that time with him. I was their babysitter, and I would hold him and hold him until his crying stopped and he fell asleep in my arms. And I felt content and happy in those moments.
But when I wasn't at peace, I asked myself, "Why don't you kill yourself?" I thought about it more than once. But I'd say not more than four times. The answer I always had for myself was, "What difference would it make?" No one would care. No one would know the difference. They might cry, but they'd soon go on with their lives and not remember. I felt convinced that I improved the lives of those around me, even though I noticed that they managed to instinctively fill in the gaps when I was out of the house. But I felt, unseen by all, I was doing something for them, even if they didn't care. And that gave me a sense of purpose. And I think it kept me going.
I was also terrified of suicide. One of the symptoms of my depression was always thinking of the in-depth, personal details. I was afraid of pain, and of panic like I experienced in panic attacks, and of changing my mind at the last moment when it would be already too late. I decided that if I were to kill myself, I'd have to use a gun. We had one in the house somewhere – I had seen the locked safe just once. But even if I could have found it and unlocked it, I wouldn't have known how to use it.
And already striving so hard to please God, I wouldn't want to make all that for nothing.
I would say that, at the time, I was never so defeated that I was genuinely suicidal. The question held a touch of humor for me. It was too serious a thought to be taken seriously.
But… I don't know how I was spared seriously considering it. No one was there to help me through. And I don't know that anyone could have helped me. I didn't want help.
Sometimes I still have episodes of depression – much shorter episodes, thank God. And recently, I experienced such a deep exasperation that I momentarily did give up on life and suicide became real. And even knowing everything I do about depression, I still would rather keep it to myself.
It makes you think doesn't it?
Sometimes people talk about suicide as though "if only someone had realized and gotten them help!" Sometimes that's not enough. Because suicide is not a question of cure. You can catch an injury before it turns into a bad case of gangrene. You can prescribe treatment to a medical issue and heal the body. You can diagnose depression and try to correct it – but depression is tricky. It's too complicated for even someone who has experienced it to explain.
And suicide – it's not a disease. It's a choice. It's a choice to reject life.
Sometimes depression doesn't go away. And despite all the efforts of anyone – no matter how qualified – sometimes depression seems inevitable, incurable, and indomitable. It can lead to a new level of despair that few people know exists. That despair is what drives some people to the precipice of suicide. Even if the best help is available to them, some people still choose suicide.
That's the very bitter reality.
It's a sin against life. It's a sin against hope. It's a sin against all mankind. How dare you tell us it's not worth it. How dare you leave us such a legacy.
How dare you….
How could you leave us alone?
The more I thought about Robin William's death, the more I was grateful for life. I looked around me and I said, "What if I lost any of these people?" Even my enemies – would I be able to handle the news? I was a thorn in their side – or at the very least, I did very nearly nothing to make their lives more worth while. That would almost be worse than losing a friend. But if I lost a friend – his or her memory would be like playing catch with a rose bush, unresolved questions of guilt coming in stitches. And there's the possibility that I could have taken my own life and all those people would have been ripped from me. By my own choice.
We need to start paying attention. Depression is a mental illness and as such, a person doesn't have much control over it. Sometimes drugs help, balancing the chemicals in the brain. Sometimes therapy helps. And yet part of me believes that there's got to be something so simple, so fundamental and we're missing it – whether it's a loss of place and identity, or the loss of a deeper meaning, or just a crueler world…. There's got to be a factor, perhaps unmeasurable by science, that speaks to the human person that would cure case upon case of depression.
Perhaps it's just my own lucky experience with depression, but I feel like the solution must be right under our nose.
Because suicide must not happen. It's the last breath of hope disappearing from the world.
