So much has been said so much more eloquently than I can say it in the aftermath of Robin Williams's death. The shock of it, such an unexpected and brutal end to such a talented and seemingly vibrant man, is not something we as a population are used to experiencing. It's hard to swallow. It's unfathomable. We can't wrap our brains around it, wholly, the soul-sucking desperation that forces one to that moment, that decision, that unthinkable act.
They call hypertension the silent killer, but I think the title is just as applicable to depression. Even barring the worst-case scenario, even for the lucky ones who glimpse a spark of light in the darkness, who cling to the hand of someone who gets it at their core, who claw and scrape and scream their way out, or at least to higher ground ... even if, there are still casualties. Pieces of you. Bits of your heart, your soul, your self.
Depression is a killer. A bully and a sneak and a thief and a killer.
I find myself looking at pictures of Mr. Williams and trying to see something in his eyes, something that might have tipped off someone to how very close he was to the precipice. We all want to think, don't we, that if someone we loved were in That Place, we would spot it a mile away, we would get them help, we would pull them back, pull them close, tether them somehow, somehow save them. But in these pictures, still shots from movies and candids from red carpets and awards events and paparazzi, these pictures that underscore the truly remarkable kind of life he led and the pressures that must have been inherent in that, all I see is blue, eyes that are clear and striking and that hint at kindness and softness and brilliance and sensitivity. Laugh lines crinkling their corners.
I didn't know him, of course, but it's what I think I see, now that it's too late to pay attention.
What I don't see is what bothers me most. It's what the friends and families of victims (Yes. Victims.) of suicide must look for in retrospect every day for the rest of their lives, as they what if and why didn't I and if only their way through their bottomless grief and misbegotten guilt.
One day I hope mental illness can be spoken of and accepted for what it is: disease. Disease that requires awareness, proactivity, treatment, gentle understanding and tough love and all of these things in huge, heaping doses, daily, hourly, every single moment. Disease with a prognosis that ranges from complete recovery to utter despairing loss, that responds to treatment against all odds, when one believes only a single thing in all the world: that they are lost beyond all hope.
One day I hope depression can be met with a volley of support and open arms instead of judgment and censure. With acknowledgment that sufferers are brave, not cowardly, not weak, not a single solitary bit less than ... and that people who have never experienced it cannot. Even. Imagine.
For now the best we can do is to pay attention. Watch. Share. Listen. And know that no one is immune.
