Yesterday afternoon, news broke of the death by hanging of Robin Williams. He was 63. As one of the most beloved (and longest lasting) comedians in the world, Williams' death came as a shock to most, even those who knew how long and hard he has battled against his own demons. By now, more than enough has been said about the quiet desperation present in his work, and how his outward appearance as a manic funnyman was most likely a response to the crushing sadness he no doubt felt for his entire adult life. As someone who has dealt with depression for over half of my life, I understand both the temptation and the relief Williams must have felt at the end. It's true that the first thought most clinically depressed people must have had when the heard the news was a brief sense of relief to go along with the sadness. My mother fought breast cancer for over a year starting in July 2011, but it was her depression, brought on by both her disease and her disintegrating marriage, that nearly killed her and forced her to seek help.
Perhaps more broadly important, Williams' death has set off a widespread discussion of the true perils of depression, on twitter on the internet as a whole, with most people posting links to suicide helplines and at least the bare minimum of "everyone cares about you" or "don't give up." While there is absolutely nothing wrong with these sentiments, and they surely are welcome, one has to wonder how effective they truly are. While I'm sure someone uses them, there's not a single depressed person I know or have ever known that would even consider using a hotline. While this might seem counter-productive (why not seek help if you need help? No one refuses to go to the hospital if they break their leg), what I'm going to try to do is explain why. I've seen more than one person express sincere confusion and a lack of understanding of what, exactly this disease is and how it effects people. Its symptoms are as hard to describe as they are to experience, but I'll do my best.
For all the coverage of depression as an eminently sad thing, which it is, there's an aspect of it that never seems to be mentioned: how much of it is based on fear. Plenty of days, maybe most, I feel happy, capable and ready to take on the world. I'm not sad. I'm not bed-ridden. Yet, I know my depression is there, ready to take me, because I'm never not afraid. Afraid that I'm not good enough, that I'm not qualified, worthy, or even likable. Afraid that some day, everyone I know and rely upon for support, whether they know it or not, will uniformly reject me. I'm afraid that if that happens, I'll deserve it. It controls my life and the choices I make much more completely than the bouts of very real and crushing sadness I have to contend with every few days or weeks. The fear that something will happen that will force back into the cold, unfeeling maw that I claw myself out of is what drives me. It's why I rarely have nightmares, because I'm afraid enough in my waking life to compensate.
It's this feeling of general anxiety and inadequacy that makes me unable even to order a pizza, for fear that person on the other will know, somehow, how I'm feeling and mock me for it. Fear of rejection or mockery, fear of the uncountable stigmas associated with depression (or all mental illnesses), both in our culture and in our language dictates nearly every choice I make. It's why I choose not to go out most Saturdays, why I've almost never approached a professor for help, why I spent several hours during my first trip to Las Vegas Summer League in 2012 crying from nerves in an empty hallway, and why I've never asked a woman out who I wasn't already friends with. The concept of going outside my painstakingly established comfort zone is utterly alien. Thankfully, I've managed to expand my comfort zone over the past few years and carve out something resembling a normal life.
The two most important steps to dealing with depression, more important than any sort of medication or therapy could ever be, are first accepting the disease and then establishing a support structure to deal with its effects. The former is almost impossible for some people, as it seemed to be for my mother for the longest time, but it's the most important step imaginable. The second is less important by definition, but still critical and necessary. There's much made of the simple act of listening to someone's troubles, and though I can say from experience that it's very helpful, I understand how daunting a task it might seem. Perhaps more importantly, all we need is a friend. Someone to hang out with and to escape the pressures of the depressive mind is life-savingly important. I can count on one hand the number of times I've actually talked through any of my issues with the people I consider my best friends on the planet, either in my day to day life or on the internet. This doesn't mean they aren't my support structure. Even my dog has been stupendously helpful in this regard.
Robin Williams' fight is over, and believe me when I say it was a fight just as involved and dangerous as any other disease. He was afraid, but he was not a coward. He was hurt, but he was not weak. His daughter, Zelda, is less than two months younger than I am, and now she is without her father. There's nothing that can repair her loss, but perhaps her loss can help other people, which I'm sure Robin would have wanted. Even without ever knowing him outside the relationship defined by his comedy, I can say that, because that's the relationship he wanted. That persona is what he wanted the world to see instead of the sad, angry and afraid man he surely was underneath. Depressives inherently distrust success. They know how fleeting it is and how likely they are to be right back where they started or worse when it fades. That a man as successful as Robin Williams could feel strongly enough to take his own life is testament to this.
All I hope is that the proper message comes of this. Telling people to seek help is good advice, but not as good as offering help. Or even just being their friend.
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