I feel the need to say something about the death of Robin Williams. How can I have an entire blog dedicated to mental illness and not say anything? When I was 12 years old, Mrs. Doubtfire was released. I saw it in the theaters and it broke my heart. It wasn't a movie I could watch over and over again or ever had a desire to own. Sure there were funny aspects of the film, it was a funny movie. But it was the perpetual anguish in Robin William's piercing blue eyes that tormented me. This was a man who held his afflictions in his eyes, because every single other facet of his existence was owned by comedy. While the not-so-comical suffer in a state of overt despondence; crying excessively, head to the ground, 18 hours a day beneath the covers, speaking only of the heaviest parts of themselves and the rest of the world, comedians like Robin Williams, Jon Belushi and Chris Farley agonized and deteriorated in a way that was unrecognizable to the rest of the world. Looking back though, my 12-year-old instincts were always sensitive to fellow sufferers. I wanted to die and I could spot one like myself from a mile away.
I wonder what my life would have looked like if I had been better at hiding my depression. Would so many people have tried to save me, would they have known how much pain I was in if I had devoted my every minute to camouflaging it with comedy? With the stigma connected to mental health problems did these men stand a chance? I mean, men, growing up in America, admired by other men for their success and ability to entertain without ever exhibiting anything beyond the mirth they shouldered at the surface, no definitely not. We are a nation that honors beauty, power, money and fame over anything else. Suffering is for 3rd world countries and happiness is for those who have earned their faces on a magazine. All other properties of our existence is inconsequential. Which creates an unresolvable conflict, it's no wonder so many people are either killing themselves or each other.
It was Robin William's surface that made him who he was, that made him a success. What would have happened to him, his career, his reputation as a comedian, had he come forth and said, "I need help, this isn't funny anymore." When I imagine the jokes on Facebook and the cruel response of the media, I realize how grateful I am today that I have had so much support by my own friends and family. Perhaps, in this sense at least, it's easier being a woman and living in the tiny little world that I reside in. I have little to live up to and fantastic people surrounding me. But what about the cultural impasse impeding on so many others that are struggling with a mental illness in our society? How do we even begin to challenge the stereotypes and social disfigurement that accompanies terms such as "Schizophrenia," "Clinical depression," "Bipolar Disorder," and "Substance Addiction" when they have been ingrained so deeply in our understanding of human behavior and what is and what isn't acceptable? Don't get me wrong, I'm just as guilty as the next one. In spite of my multiple hospitalizations and suicide attempts, I am still quick to plant the crazy card on someone. It isn't until I step back and access the sympathetic part of myself that I pick the card back up and remember how truly painful struggling with a mental health challenge really is. Unfortunately I have no answers to this problem, only the hope that talking openly about it might create a small crack in the barriers that have been built around the subject and that maybe one day it will spread and something will finally begin to crumble.
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