The Word is Changed, Dear Sir

When I was 14, my parents were in the middle of an extremely ugly custody battle, myself and my sister the center of the shitstorm of an even uglier divorce. Two possible outcomes for my future dangled in limbo: the first option was that I would go and live with my father in Seattle (with a new step mother to boot) and 'start' a brand new life- make new friends in an unaccustomed state/city/school, or remain with my bipolar/manic depressive/possibly psychopathic mother and attend high school in Marin County, California, specifically at a high school named Redwood High. Those who know me closely and personally are aware my journey did bring me to Seattle from California to the sun-drenched desert of Arizona. Had I stayed with my mother I would have attended above referenced high school, and therefore would ultimately been an alumnus of the same school Robin Williams attended. The idea remained in my head for a long time, all through high school and even college - "Gee, I could have gone to the same school as this genius funny man who makes everyone laugh and laugh! Gosh, he must be super happy and so happy with his success and just happy all the happy all the happy all the time! I wish I could be like him when I grow up!"

Ah, the naiveté of the young.

Reading news reports, friend's reactions and scrolling my Twitter feed, Mr. Williams' passing is hitting everyone especially hard on a global scale. It's no enigma as to why. He was a kind, hilarious, genuine man who brilliantly captured the essence of what it is to be human and imperfect (in addition to why cats are fabulous, furry drag queens). We were aware of his past struggles with addiction which we were invited to witness, and admire the fact that he remained sober for 20+ years. For me, it's also perhaps because he reminded me of, as he aged, a little bit of my father (as Robin was a funny, kind and delightful man to be around, according to stories of those who knew him best). 

It seems within his last few weeks on this Earth, he was once again (possibly and tragically) grappling the monster of addiction, perhaps something he never fully came to terms with when he was sober for such a long stretch of time. While he stated he was not actually diagnosed with clinical depression, he spoke freely about his addictive nature, which made him all the more real and humbling for the admission of frailty. I find it telling he often spoke as addiction in terms that juxtaposed with thoughts on madness; he was quoted saying to Diane Sawyer in 2006:

"...you're standing at a precipice and you look down, there's a voice and it's a little quiet voice that goes, 'Jump,' ...the same voice that goes, 'Just one.' ... And the idea of just one for someone who has no tolerance for it, that's not the possibility."

This is the other layer to our suffering...it was more than the "funny man" that makes this a difficult loss for all of us. Many of us deal with depression on a daily basis. Many of us have lost someone to suicide. Even more of us struggle with some form of addiction. We feel this tragedy personally BECAUSE he was funny, witty, highly intelligent, and extremely successful doing something he loved to do. It is a reminder that regardless of how wonderful a person is and how much success they achieve, the exterior we reveal to others shows nothing of the inner demons we fight. We must remain vigilant, compassionate, and more cognizant that every person has a struggle we don't fully comprehend. His pain is over, but ours remains.

It is my belief the people who hold the most capacity for genius and comedy tend to be the most tortured. It's possibly our lot in life. We tend to over-think, feel, observe and analyze far more than the average individual, and it is perhaps because of this we often find ourselves isolated, alone, and very sad a lot of the time...so we make up for it by inspiring laughter in others. It's genuine, not a ploy for attention or popularity. We are not superficial people by nature. We are kind, brave, loving, real, deep, hilarious and tormented.

I try to be Zen about the fact that all things, situations and people are temporary. Our existence is fleeting. Nothing lasts forever, blah blah blah. My point, younglings, is this: we find it incredibly difficult to remain Buddhist about the fact that we lost an amazing person to a disease that is so misunderstood, judged, and erroneously labeled as a defect in character rather than a genuine malady. I am heartbroken over it. While I can empathize, no one will ever truly understand the pain an individual is going though, and sometimes he/she doesn't either. All we can do is be there for each other and talk to each other. FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, PLEASE talk to someone...if to no one else, drop me a line in my comments section or on Twitter, and I will be there for you.

I like to think he would want us to keep laughing. We have to, or we will succumb to the tiny voices in our heads telling us we should give up. In the brief time we were given to bear witness to the comic genius of this absolutely lovable man, so shall we do the same.


You, Robin, will be missed, Sir, for more than the moments of pure joy and emotion that gave us tears and laughter, for you accomplished in a lifetime what most of us wish we could and will never be able to get a chance to do: hit Pierce Brosnan in the head with a lime.

Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

You are not alone. Ever.

'A cloud can be transformed into rain or snow or ice, but a cloud cannot become nothing; it's impossible. Nothing can die. You cannot reduce being into nonbeing. Life is a process of change. Without changing, life is impossible. Once you accept that with joy, there is no fear.'

~ Thich Nhat Hanh