On the Loss of Robin Williams, Depression, and Mental Health

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 – Dylan Thomas (1914-53) 

One of the most beautiful things about humanity is our collective and individual ability to grieve. Upon the tragic death of anyone, but especially someone well known, we are united in a common outpouring of grief that affects friends and strangers, parents and children, and husbands and wives alike. When someone who is a public figure dies, the beautiful and painful process of grief which people experience at the death of anyone they love is magnified by the thousands, even millions, on a wider and larger scale. Everyone who knew the person will feel something indescribable in their heart and soul, something that touches them in a way that causes them to reflect and ponder the eternal questions that most people prefer not to think about day to day.

To paraphrase Dylan Thomas from above, Robin Williams (a “good” man, and a “wild” one) did seem to “go gentle into that good night”, and his quiet, lonely exit from the world stands in stark contrast to his ebullient personality which shined and sparkled in every movie and on every stage he graced. All of us who use Facebook and Twitter were awash last night in updates and statuses reminiscing about our favorite Robin Williams movies. For me, the actor and comedian will always be Aladdin’s heartwarming “Genie”, and the hilarious “Mrs. Doubtfire” (1993), the delightful British nanny who was actually the loveable, divorced father Daniel Hillard in disguise.

The sweetness and joy these childhood memories occasioned for millions of people did something to ease the sense of raw loss which so many of us felt, and continue to feel, at Williams’ untimely death. Williams’ wife Susan Schneider and daughter Zelda both offered beautiful, heartfelt statements in loving memory of their husband and father, and it is telling of the world in which we live that his daughter took to Twitter to share her thoughts on what must, for her, be a titanic loss.

It is surreal to think of the laughter and joy Williams inspired in millions throughout his acting and comedy career, and then to think of his tragic death. I share his wife’s hope that people will not remember the manner of his death, but instead think fondly on the happiness he brought to so many. The circumstances of his death, however, inevitably remind all of us of that uncomfortable topic of suicide.

A wise man once told me, “No one ever really wants to die. Instead, what suicide really is, ultimately, is someone desperately saying “I can’t bear my life as it is right now.”” His words have haunted me, in the best possible sense, for years. They make perfect sense: no one really wants to die, but instead, people desperately wish they were living a different life. How many of us can relate to this desperation at different moments in our own lives?  TAC’s Rod Dreher reflects beautifully on Williams’ death, and his own struggle with depression, here. I have never attempted suicide, but as one of millions of people who have struggled with depression and PTSD, I would be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind, even if only for a fleeting moment.

For all the extraordinary advances neurology continues to make, the brain, our most important organ, is still the part of the body about which we know the least. We will likely never know exactly why Robin Williams decided to end his life yesterday, but it is my hope that his death moves all of us to reflect on the uncomfortable subject of suicide, and the closely related subjects of depression and care for people struggling with mental illness in this country. I cannot help but see suicide as a failure; not the failure of the person who ended his or her life, but the collective, tragic failure of a society to show this person that he or she was, and is, loved. Incredibly, life invariably does get better, and the worst wounds do heal over time. I know this from my own life.

You come to realize an incredibly profound paradox when you live with or have lived with depression: amidst all the paralyzing moments of fear and low self-worth, when the depression alienates you from your true self and convinces you of your own inability to overcome it, the most beautiful rays of hope flood in. These rays, whether you prefer to think of them as the grace of God or a proper balance of serotonin (or maybe both), remind you of the incredible beauty resplendent in all creation, in your fellow human beings, and (amazingly) even in yourself. This alone is proof beyond proof, for me at least, of the existence of the transcendent, and the existence of God. My problem for the past two years was not belief in God; in that I somehow never wavered. Before I began treatment for my depression, my problem was that I couldn’t internalize that I bore the image of God along with the rest of humanity. It was vital for me to understand the beautiful theology of God’s love for mankind; what I struggled to internalize was the incredible reality that He could truly love me.

Robin Williams’ tragic death will be, to some of the crueler among our species, a brief, forgettable moment in the ever-changing news cycle, while to others it may serve as a kind of rallying cry about society’s collective failure to care for those struggling with different kinds of mental illnesses, especially depression. I hope, as his wife wrote so beautifully, that the world focuses not on his death, which is a tragedy that need not have happened, but on all the moments of laughter and joy Williams gave to all of us. His death leaves the world a slightly colder, stuffier place, bereft of that infectious, ebullient joy he inspired in all who heard and viewed him. That itself is a tragic loss.

In closing, I would ask that any of you struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts reading this please talk to someone. Anyone at all. I know from experience that a caring, devoted therapist can do wonders. Doctor-prescribed medication can also do wonders. Even if you don’t believe in God, please also feel free to head to the nearest church, synagogue, or mosque you can find. If you feel you have no one to talk to, you can always talk to a clergyman. If you prefer anonymity and are having thoughts of suicide, please feel free to call The Suicide Hotline at 1-800-784-2433.

Please know that, even if you don’t think so, your death will make the world a sadder place. Your death will hurt people. People will mourn your loss, and literally everyone you ever met over the course of your life will wish you were still among the living. Remember — you don’t really want to die, you just wish your life was very different from what it is. You can change that, and build the life you deserve — suicide is never the answer.

I can tell you, from experience, that life is a dynamic thing that really does get better. Even if you don’t want to believe it, know that your life will improve. You will find people who care deeply for you, and, chances are, there are already some in your life who truly treasure you. What I hope you will take away from this piece, if nothing else, is that your life is of truly infinite value. You bear the image of God within you at all times, and no matter how much you don’t think this to be true, it is. Think of Robin Williams, how his comedy made the world a better, happier place, and how his death leaves everyone wishing he were still with us. May his memory be eternal. Your life as it is may be deeply unsatisfying, even terribly painful, but do not let that prevent you from living the life you deserve to live, and experiencing the joy everyone deserves to feel.