anniversary of Robin William's death
It's right around the anniversary of Robin William's suicide, so there are the requisite tons of essays on depression and "why funny people kill themselves", reposts of articles written at the actual time of his death, and all the other related low-hanging fruit for bloggers and writers. Apparently I'm no different.
I found myself talking out loud to this piece written around the time of Williams' death (before the autopsy report and announcement he was in the early stages of Parkinson's Disease/Lewy Body Dementia). Go ahead and read it.
This resonated with me:
"It can be impacted by events in the outside world but the thing about it is that it doesn’t need to be. It’s always there, at best surviving inside you like a dormant virus waiting patiently for its chance to flare up and take total control; at worst, totally in control, pulling you down into a thick murk you can’t break free of no matter how hard you may struggle."
This, in a lot of ways, speaks to me.
While this not as much:
"Put simply, it doesn’t matter how happy you should be, how awesome your life is, how successful you are, how many people look at you and think you’re on top of the world and are understandably smiling through every second of it - if you’re depressed, there’s a very good chance you’re always depressed."
Because for me, it's not just depression. It's manic-depression, or rather Bipolar Disorder. "Bipolar Disorder II" if we're being precise (and probably "rapid cycling" as well, along with co-occurring occasional panic attacks). They used to call it Cyclothymia. All this means I have mood cycles - part of the cycle is depression, part of it is mania (for my personal odd value of "mania"), and on each side of the two, something approaching what "normal" people feel for moods and energy and personality.
I also take exception to the author's view of certain coping strategies:
"Then someone made it clear to me that most addicts aren’t addicts because they feel too little, they’re addicts because they feel too much. And what they feel is often constant and agonizing, so they seek out something, anything, to make them feel better."
I don't have experience with chemical addiction, but I can tell you as someone who struggles with depression - the coping mechanisms I use aren't all about feeling better. It's often about simply feeling less. I want to feel less despondent, I want to feel less hopeless, I want to feel less like a waste of space and breath. I have no illusions of feeling better. I just want to feel less overwhelmingly awful.
I would venture to guess, nay, I would bet good money that this is the root of most depression-based suicides. Death is an end. A wholly conceivable and understandable end to the pain and torture the brain brings.
This is something at least one commenter on the article noted:
"People who don't understand like to say "It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem."
But it's not a temporary problem. It's a permanent problem. It's always there; sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, but always there."
When you can't imagine being better, it is enough to imagine being done.
For me, depression is not every minute of every day, but I do know I will never be *rid* of it. It will always come back. Maybe for a short stay, maybe for a longer one, maybe I'll get lucky and it will be a relatively easier bout this time or next. But it will Always. Come. Back.
I won't even get into Williams' diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease, and (1) how the meds for it seriously fuck up your brain chemistry and (2) how thoroughly that shit will erode your physical and psychological control, both of which are kind of important to living any kind of life anyway, and exponentially so for a performer.
This isn't my "here's another post so you'll know why I offed myself" letter. Fortunately for me, depression is not every minute of every day. I have days of "normal" thinking and feeling. I often enjoy and look forward to my "manic" days (even if not everyone else does). I've just resigned myself to having a lot of days that just plain suck.
This is, however, my statement of understanding. I don't know for sure what Robin Williams felt or thought. I can say that I completely understand and can imagine a headspace where ending the pain made sense to him.
I found myself talking out loud to this piece written around the time of Williams' death (before the autopsy report and announcement he was in the early stages of Parkinson's Disease/Lewy Body Dementia). Go ahead and read it.
This resonated with me:
"It can be impacted by events in the outside world but the thing about it is that it doesn’t need to be. It’s always there, at best surviving inside you like a dormant virus waiting patiently for its chance to flare up and take total control; at worst, totally in control, pulling you down into a thick murk you can’t break free of no matter how hard you may struggle."
This, in a lot of ways, speaks to me.
While this not as much:
"Put simply, it doesn’t matter how happy you should be, how awesome your life is, how successful you are, how many people look at you and think you’re on top of the world and are understandably smiling through every second of it - if you’re depressed, there’s a very good chance you’re always depressed."
Because for me, it's not just depression. It's manic-depression, or rather Bipolar Disorder. "Bipolar Disorder II" if we're being precise (and probably "rapid cycling" as well, along with co-occurring occasional panic attacks). They used to call it Cyclothymia. All this means I have mood cycles - part of the cycle is depression, part of it is mania (for my personal odd value of "mania"), and on each side of the two, something approaching what "normal" people feel for moods and energy and personality.
I also take exception to the author's view of certain coping strategies:
"Then someone made it clear to me that most addicts aren’t addicts because they feel too little, they’re addicts because they feel too much. And what they feel is often constant and agonizing, so they seek out something, anything, to make them feel better."
I don't have experience with chemical addiction, but I can tell you as someone who struggles with depression - the coping mechanisms I use aren't all about feeling better. It's often about simply feeling less. I want to feel less despondent, I want to feel less hopeless, I want to feel less like a waste of space and breath. I have no illusions of feeling better. I just want to feel less overwhelmingly awful.
I would venture to guess, nay, I would bet good money that this is the root of most depression-based suicides. Death is an end. A wholly conceivable and understandable end to the pain and torture the brain brings.
This is something at least one commenter on the article noted:
"People who don't understand like to say "It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem."
But it's not a temporary problem. It's a permanent problem. It's always there; sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, but always there."
When you can't imagine being better, it is enough to imagine being done.
For me, depression is not every minute of every day, but I do know I will never be *rid* of it. It will always come back. Maybe for a short stay, maybe for a longer one, maybe I'll get lucky and it will be a relatively easier bout this time or next. But it will Always. Come. Back.
I won't even get into Williams' diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease, and (1) how the meds for it seriously fuck up your brain chemistry and (2) how thoroughly that shit will erode your physical and psychological control, both of which are kind of important to living any kind of life anyway, and exponentially so for a performer.
This isn't my "here's another post so you'll know why I offed myself" letter. Fortunately for me, depression is not every minute of every day. I have days of "normal" thinking and feeling. I often enjoy and look forward to my "manic" days (even if not everyone else does). I've just resigned myself to having a lot of days that just plain suck.
This is, however, my statement of understanding. I don't know for sure what Robin Williams felt or thought. I can say that I completely understand and can imagine a headspace where ending the pain made sense to him.