I never really loved the work of Robin Williams. He was never my favorite actor, never my favorite comedian. I didnt go to see movies just to see him. I also dont find myself thinking of his death as tragic. No more tragic than any other artist who has put a gun into his mouth or choked down a handful of pills. Art and tragedy usually go together, and it is rarely surprising to find the tragedy that informs art spilling into the life that created the art. But he and I do share half of a coin. I have lived with depression for most of my life. Theres one thing I can guarantee you: if you ever felt touched by anything that he did, as a comedian or as an actor, if you ever felt that he spoke to something deeper inside you, inside all of us, that he ever touched the threads of human tapestry and showed you part of what you were made of, you owe that experience to his depression. His mania made it easier to swallow, because he could deliver that with ease and energy that made you laugh while it touched you. I dont understand all the circumstances that played into his death. I can say that if he took his own life that his mental illness was part of that, because it was part of him. Without that, he wouldnt have been who he was. He wouldnt have had that rare gift, to touch people and make them happy while making them wonder what it all means. It was woven into his being. We call it “mental illness” like it is a malady, something that needs a cure. Something we can take a pill for or change a diet in order to make it go away. How an individual manages their mental states differs, and I dont judge anyone for making the decisions necessary to cope with what is an uncaring and often indifferent world. But make no mistake, each and every one of us is better – our lives richer, our understanding greater, our ability to love heightened – because some of us wrestle every day with the demons in our own heads.
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 21:34:06 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015