Robin Williams: A Depressing Connection
For a moment yesterday, I got to enjoy the fact that I had only a two-degree separation from Robin Williams. My brother-in-law was a member of the film crew on The Fisher King and had the incomparable experience of goofing with Mr. Williams on-set. I can only imagine the personal satisfaction of having that memory. But my thoughts went much deeper than that.
Like so many around the world, I felt considerable angst over his death. Yes, because he was a genius and an exceedingly rare talent, but more so because he became, by his suicide, the light which shines on a problem that is remarkably tragic. Suicide is so often the end-game of depression. Commercials on television say that the disease hurts, not just those who suffer from it, but also those whose daily lives come in contact with that person. One might wonder how it’s even possible for someone like Robin Williams to have suffered from depression, but that’s just it – like cancer, it doesn’t distinguish, nor is it fussy about the people it infects. Who on the planet was more loved than he was and yet he suffered in this way.
Tony Dokoupil, in his article Deadly Stigma: Robin Williams’ Suicide Exposes Silent Epidemic, cites the fact that, in this country, while so many other leading causes of death are in decline, suicide rates remain static. In fact, the CDC claims that the rate of suicide “among Americans 45 to 64 has jumped more than 30 percent in the last decade.” It’s a frightening statistic, and the causes for such an increase are legion.
I’ve been angered by responses to his suicide, claiming it was cowardly or self-centered. These statements are only possible by those who have no intimate familiarity with depression or have never been driven to the point of wishing to take their own lives. At the moment you make the attempt, there is no thought about who will suffer by your departure, there is no consideration about your ego; there is only the hyper-focused desire to stop the pain. In fact, the thought process is often counter-intuitive: you start to believe that committing suicide will save those you love from having to put up with you. I have two children whom I adore. I enjoy the love of a girlfriend who makes my day, every day. Yet, five years ago, standing several feet back on a NYC subway platform, I watched a train pulling into the station and took a step toward it. In that very second, I recognized the way out – I knew it would entail an instant of pain and then there’d be no more. If I had been standing three or four feet closer to the edge, I might not be writing this post today. The distance of those few feet gave me the second I needed for my brain to think of my sons and girlfriend, and I stopped. It was the wakeup call that told me I needed help; so many aren’t fortunate to have had that moment of clarity.
Robin’s death is a tragedy, but I can only hope that it will serve as a larger gift to all of us as a reminder that depression must be studied in greater detail, that the root causes: the physical, social, and environmental influences be identified, and that this horrific form of mental affliction must be cured.
Like so many around the world, I felt considerable angst over his death. Yes, because he was a genius and an exceedingly rare talent, but more so because he became, by his suicide, the light which shines on a problem that is remarkably tragic. Suicide is so often the end-game of depression. Commercials on television say that the disease hurts, not just those who suffer from it, but also those whose daily lives come in contact with that person. One might wonder how it’s even possible for someone like Robin Williams to have suffered from depression, but that’s just it – like cancer, it doesn’t distinguish, nor is it fussy about the people it infects. Who on the planet was more loved than he was and yet he suffered in this way.
Tony Dokoupil, in his article Deadly Stigma: Robin Williams’ Suicide Exposes Silent Epidemic, cites the fact that, in this country, while so many other leading causes of death are in decline, suicide rates remain static. In fact, the CDC claims that the rate of suicide “among Americans 45 to 64 has jumped more than 30 percent in the last decade.” It’s a frightening statistic, and the causes for such an increase are legion.
I’ve been angered by responses to his suicide, claiming it was cowardly or self-centered. These statements are only possible by those who have no intimate familiarity with depression or have never been driven to the point of wishing to take their own lives. At the moment you make the attempt, there is no thought about who will suffer by your departure, there is no consideration about your ego; there is only the hyper-focused desire to stop the pain. In fact, the thought process is often counter-intuitive: you start to believe that committing suicide will save those you love from having to put up with you. I have two children whom I adore. I enjoy the love of a girlfriend who makes my day, every day. Yet, five years ago, standing several feet back on a NYC subway platform, I watched a train pulling into the station and took a step toward it. In that very second, I recognized the way out – I knew it would entail an instant of pain and then there’d be no more. If I had been standing three or four feet closer to the edge, I might not be writing this post today. The distance of those few feet gave me the second I needed for my brain to think of my sons and girlfriend, and I stopped. It was the wakeup call that told me I needed help; so many aren’t fortunate to have had that moment of clarity.
Robin’s death is a tragedy, but I can only hope that it will serve as a larger gift to all of us as a reminder that depression must be studied in greater detail, that the root causes: the physical, social, and environmental influences be identified, and that this horrific form of mental affliction must be cured.
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