Once More Unto The Breach: For Robin Williams (and Fellow Warriors Who Also Fight the Dark)

“Killing oneself is, in a way, a misnomer. We don't kill ourselves. 

We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive.” ~Sally Brampton

Robin William’s suicide shook me. Deep.

Initially, because it was another loss in the halcyon days of my childhood, as I was entranced by everything Mork (I felt like an alien too, brought down to Planet Earth to do..something). And my next obsession would be The World According to Garp – a movie which left such an inspirational mark on my soul, I’d later create my literary persona in honor of it.  In addition to Robin Williams’ endless displays of creative genius, he was also quite candid about battling the depressions that lurked beneath his exterior. He identified himself as being a part of the struggle, with those who also wrestle the dark.

Another reason why I’d grown to adore him.

Then, on that August day - something happened. Or nothing happened.  Or everything happened. But on that day, Robin Williams decided to remove himself from the living. The realization gutted me. Not only was he a role model as a creative, but also a survivor – seeming able to repeatedly emerge from the ravages of addiction and depression. For those who manage to do the same, though on a much smaller stage called everyday life - he provided hope.  His presence convinced us that we could also win the fight.

Robin’s death was a wake-up call. It snapped plenty of us back to attention. There is no rest for the weary. You will always wrestle the monster. That none of us are ever really safe. Depression, as with all mental conditions, does not simply dissolve quietly in the night. His suicide was a harsh reminder that no matter how much time you spend in the light, you will fight this condition to the death.

But how tempting it is to forget. Once you’ve clawed past the weeks, months, and years of being crushed by the darkness. After you’ve stabilized, perhaps having found the right meds, therapist, psychiatrist, regimen, program, self-preservation and coping mechanisms. Once you’ve experienced a remarkably good patch, and you’re out in the world functioning like a normal person. Once you’ve pieced your life back together from the last time you swore you wouldn't recover.

Who wouldn’t want to forget the despair. The unrelenting bleakness of it all.

You forget how easily life can turn on you. How your brain can suddenly lose its footing. For your thoughts to switch gears, and once again, begin plotting your demise. For those who don’t know, no explanation will suffice. For those who do, no explanation is needed.

And oh how the sweeping, judgmental remarks about Robin’s death drop-kicked my already broken heart. Only because I know enough not to question or shame a sufferer's actions, no matter how great their superficial life may appear. He was rich and famous, they scoffed. How could he not be happy? How could he make such a drastic decision? Didn’t he think about his family? He was so selfish.

  

"People are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.”(1) To believe that someone struggling with severe clinical depression would “suddenly” kill themselves is farcical. The internal wrestling is long and arduous. And if a genetic predisposition is at play, it's a haunting that looms at the moment of birth.

And who really knows how long Robin hung on? Quite a while, I’d imagine. Maybe he was tired of fighting. Maybe he didn’t want a Parkinson’s diagnosis to have the final say. Or (as my son so simply stated) maybe he’d seen enough. People diagnosed with depression are often deeply in tune with suffering, the brutality of the world on a sensitive soul, and the transitory nature of life.

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I don’t have a romanticized notion of suicide, of which most depressives (and artists) are accused - but I get it.  It's extremely rare for our kind to have never pondered an exit plan. By the time I was twelve, I knew how I’d kill myself, if despair ever threatened to swallow me whole. I’d buy a gallon of ice-cream, crush a substantial amount of sleeping pills into the mix, and spoon it all down. I’d seen the technique in a movie, and thought to myself: that's a pretty serene way to go. 

I wouldn’t be officially diagnosed with clinical depression until twenty years later, but even as a girl I sensed life was different for me. I would become a member of the invisible community who live with and manage a mood disorder; always battling the impulses, compulsions, and images of our self-destruction.

And I stress the term clinical, because the word depression is thrown around much too freely. Depression isn’t moodiness, or even appropriate sadness.  One is supposed to feel a certain downheartedness about life, when encountering change, disappointment, tragedy, and loss; when we begin to feel the unavoidable pain and inequities of life. These emotions are a part of the human condition from which we process, integrate, and recover.

To be clinically depressed is an entirely different beast.

Once in the midst of a severe depressive episode, I became extremely fearful of driving. It was if I couldn’t trust myself to not veer into oncoming traffic, or drive at top speed into a concrete barrier. I didn’t want to die, I wanted relief. Relief from the desperate hopelessness that (I thought) was my existence. That’s what it’s like. Everything distorts. Being alive feels like a full on physical assault. It beats you to a pulp, brings you to your knees. The only thing you’re sure of is that you won’t outlive this thing. "That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end." (2) 

Maybe Robin Williams couldn’t see the end, and sought relief.  That's it. The act did not tarnish his legacy. And damn us as a society, for performing a post mortem on a gifted man’s soul, when only accolades and gratitude are in order. I feel the same about other artists to whom I’ve been inevitably drawn; Van Gogh, Plath, Woolf, Hendrix, Sexton, Winehouse, Hathaway, Hemingway, Hunter S. We are lucky to have experienced them. That they hung around long enough, despite their internal agonies, to offer such extraordinary gifts to humanity.

And I consider myself lucky, lucky enough thus far. Lucky enough to have insight into my condition. Lucky to not remain ashamed and silent. Lucky to experience longer stretches of stability, yet knowing the darkness will inevitably come again. Lucky enough to have proper therapeutic care and medication, that make it possible for me function and stay alive, so I can endure the world and experience it, and still want to write about it. That’s the best assurance people who fight the dark can give  – despite the innate urge to self-destruct, we do want to live.

I've always found comfort in the movie Good Will Hunting, particularly the scene where Robin Williams shares the Shakespearean quote Once more unto the breach, dear friends with Matt Damon. The quote is historically one of encouragement and perseverance; of finding the will to soldier on. The desire to be victorious, despite being weakened by the brutality of war.

It is my hope that even at our lowest, we hold tight to those words. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more unto this war, this horror we call depression. Hopefully we can convince ourselves once more; to hang on, persevere, to give life another try. No matter how beaten down or disillusioned or weary we might become.

And for those who cannot bear the breach once more, and chose to cease the journey, I simply say: Godspeed.

 

Godspeed, Robin Williams. Thank you.

Because there but for the grace of God, go I.
 

                                                                                                           

(1) Sally Brampton, Shoot The Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression

(2) Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation