On Judging Robin Williams and the Media
Mmkay, here's my take on the criticism surrounding all the media coverage of Robin Williams' suicide, and, for that matter, that of Philip Seymour Hoffman's death from a drug overdose: I'm all for ANYTHING that pulls back the curtain that keeps people in darkness, shrouded in shame, feeling alone. Does the media go overboard with this stuff? At times, yes. They recognize what these icons mean to people and capitalize on the fact that we are thirsting for answers; some way to find the WHY behind the choices.
I am NOT IN ANY WAY comparing myself to Robin Williams in terms of being someone people know. I will say this: the number of messages & letters I've received over the years from people who read my books have convinced me that shining the light on deeply painful issues can not only give other people HOPE, but can also help them choose to enter recovery AND choose to live instead of give up the fight against the darkness. I chose to reveal my own struggles with shame by writing stories about people experiencing same. At the time I wrote my first book, Courage in Patience, all I was doing was trying to find a way to process my pain.
Little did I know that it would lead to the healing and inner-strength that it did.
For those of you who are new here, Courage in Patience and Hope in Patience are about a teen's start on the road to recovery from Childhood Sexual Abuse/Abandonment/Neglect/Suicidal Ideation/PTSD, and Big Fat Disaster is about a teen's struggle with Binge Eating Disorder/Rejection/Suicidal Ideation. I, like most authors, drew on what I know of those experiences, as someone who lives/lived them, and I did not hold back on what it feels like to be in those places. At times, I have been criticized for my bluntness. "It's too much," they say. "There's no way those things could happen," they say. I know that the critics have not walked in my shoes, or the 25 million others who fight the same fight that I do.
Was it easy to publicly identify myself as a survivor of sexual abuse, or reveal that I manage an eating disorder--especially one that causes weight gain in our thin-crazed society-- on a day-to-day basis? NO. But in doing so, I healed even more because I was affirmed that the shame of what happened to me was NOT MY FAULT, and I realized that by speaking publicly about it, I was helping others find their voices, too. I know that others experience the same compulsion that I do, and that others have found hope for recovery as well.
I think Robin Williams' death is so impactful because so many grew up with him and perceived him as a happy, recovered person. Even those close to him are saying that he deflected with humor. Let's not rush to judge a person who, while bigger than life, was, at the end of the day, a person.
I can fully attest to backslides/relapses, because God knows I've experienced them-- and while I no longer feel suicidal, I am perfectly capable of coming undone a little if someone from my past drops into my life and reopens some of my scarred-over wounds. I am incredibly fortunate to have a kick-ass support system who remain steadfast and keep me grounded even when on the inside, I feel like the same little girl who was stunned when her caretaker did not act on her outcry, and experienced decades of self-loathing and a never-ending sense of guilt/shame, rocket-powered by unceasing anxiety. It was like being wired ALL THE TIME, always on the alert that I was on the verge of being attacked or touched without my permission, and waking up every damned day feeling like someone who had done something so terrible that no one would love me if they really knew who I was.
I was one of the lucky ones. My therapist saved my life numerous times by practicing tough love with me and using his ninja skills to help me separate facts from crap. It was sometimes only my fear that killing myself would screw up Daniel and our girls' lives that kept me with them all. I could not risk my children growing up wondering why I didn't love them enough to stay, knowing all too well what abandonment feels like and does to a person.
More than once, people who know me NOW will say to me, "I just can't imagine you being a victim. I can't see you as a person who is afraid of the world." All they have to do is ask my husband and children what I was like 10 years ago, and the stories they could tell you would convince you of the power of therapy with a talented psychologist, the power of tough love, and the immeasurable pull of unconditional acceptance of the ugly truth coupled with the absolute insistence that the ugliness does not belong to ME, but to my perpetrator and caretaker.
Sometimes, I even pass for "Normal" (whatever that is) these days, which makes me laugh, I won't lie.
Love saved me. I was lucky. But I don't think of Robin Williams as someone who did not give a damn about those who loved him. I think of him as someone whom the darkness overtook, and he wasn't strong enough at that moment to separate facts from crap. In other words, he was human.
If one lesson can be taken from all the coverage of his death, or that of Hoffmann, I think it is the need to recognize signs of a relapse in a person with addiction issues, or signs of depression in a person who has struggled with it, and reach out to them with love and determination to convince them to seek treatment from a qualified, experienced mental health professional NOW. Don't be afraid of offending them or making them mad: be bold and express your concern and desire to see them get well. Help them make an appointment and take them to it. Don't assume that they are strong just because they can be self-deprecating and funny. Hold tight to them.
Even if you've never been where they are, trust me, it's real and it's scary and it's loud with the lies that no one will care if they're gone.
Don't let them believe those lies.
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
https://www.rainn.org/
http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
I am NOT IN ANY WAY comparing myself to Robin Williams in terms of being someone people know. I will say this: the number of messages & letters I've received over the years from people who read my books have convinced me that shining the light on deeply painful issues can not only give other people HOPE, but can also help them choose to enter recovery AND choose to live instead of give up the fight against the darkness. I chose to reveal my own struggles with shame by writing stories about people experiencing same. At the time I wrote my first book, Courage in Patience, all I was doing was trying to find a way to process my pain.
Little did I know that it would lead to the healing and inner-strength that it did.
For those of you who are new here, Courage in Patience and Hope in Patience are about a teen's start on the road to recovery from Childhood Sexual Abuse/Abandonment/Neglect/Suicidal Ideation/PTSD, and Big Fat Disaster is about a teen's struggle with Binge Eating Disorder/Rejection/Suicidal Ideation. I, like most authors, drew on what I know of those experiences, as someone who lives/lived them, and I did not hold back on what it feels like to be in those places. At times, I have been criticized for my bluntness. "It's too much," they say. "There's no way those things could happen," they say. I know that the critics have not walked in my shoes, or the 25 million others who fight the same fight that I do.
Was it easy to publicly identify myself as a survivor of sexual abuse, or reveal that I manage an eating disorder--especially one that causes weight gain in our thin-crazed society-- on a day-to-day basis? NO. But in doing so, I healed even more because I was affirmed that the shame of what happened to me was NOT MY FAULT, and I realized that by speaking publicly about it, I was helping others find their voices, too. I know that others experience the same compulsion that I do, and that others have found hope for recovery as well.
I think Robin Williams' death is so impactful because so many grew up with him and perceived him as a happy, recovered person. Even those close to him are saying that he deflected with humor. Let's not rush to judge a person who, while bigger than life, was, at the end of the day, a person.
I can fully attest to backslides/relapses, because God knows I've experienced them-- and while I no longer feel suicidal, I am perfectly capable of coming undone a little if someone from my past drops into my life and reopens some of my scarred-over wounds. I am incredibly fortunate to have a kick-ass support system who remain steadfast and keep me grounded even when on the inside, I feel like the same little girl who was stunned when her caretaker did not act on her outcry, and experienced decades of self-loathing and a never-ending sense of guilt/shame, rocket-powered by unceasing anxiety. It was like being wired ALL THE TIME, always on the alert that I was on the verge of being attacked or touched without my permission, and waking up every damned day feeling like someone who had done something so terrible that no one would love me if they really knew who I was.
I was one of the lucky ones. My therapist saved my life numerous times by practicing tough love with me and using his ninja skills to help me separate facts from crap. It was sometimes only my fear that killing myself would screw up Daniel and our girls' lives that kept me with them all. I could not risk my children growing up wondering why I didn't love them enough to stay, knowing all too well what abandonment feels like and does to a person.
More than once, people who know me NOW will say to me, "I just can't imagine you being a victim. I can't see you as a person who is afraid of the world." All they have to do is ask my husband and children what I was like 10 years ago, and the stories they could tell you would convince you of the power of therapy with a talented psychologist, the power of tough love, and the immeasurable pull of unconditional acceptance of the ugly truth coupled with the absolute insistence that the ugliness does not belong to ME, but to my perpetrator and caretaker.
Sometimes, I even pass for "Normal" (whatever that is) these days, which makes me laugh, I won't lie.
Love saved me. I was lucky. But I don't think of Robin Williams as someone who did not give a damn about those who loved him. I think of him as someone whom the darkness overtook, and he wasn't strong enough at that moment to separate facts from crap. In other words, he was human.
If one lesson can be taken from all the coverage of his death, or that of Hoffmann, I think it is the need to recognize signs of a relapse in a person with addiction issues, or signs of depression in a person who has struggled with it, and reach out to them with love and determination to convince them to seek treatment from a qualified, experienced mental health professional NOW. Don't be afraid of offending them or making them mad: be bold and express your concern and desire to see them get well. Help them make an appointment and take them to it. Don't assume that they are strong just because they can be self-deprecating and funny. Hold tight to them.
Even if you've never been where they are, trust me, it's real and it's scary and it's loud with the lies that no one will care if they're gone.
Don't let them believe those lies.
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
https://www.rainn.org/
http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
No comments have been added yet.
