Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Rest in Peace, Robin Williams

For those of you who are avoiding reading about Robin Williams or have sensitivities toward the topic of suicide, please feel free to skip this one. (Plus, it's kind of ... stream of consciousness, a way for me to figure out what's actually going on inside my head at this moment, so it probably doesn't make much sense.)
When my sister texted me to let me know that Robin Williams had passed, I furrowed my brow and felt a little dip in my mood. It wasn't until hours later, as I laid in bed, trying to get to sleep, that it really, really hit me. I woke Three up with sobs, and I'm pretty sure he thought I was dying, since I couldn't respond in much more than guttural hiccups. 

"He was ... alone when he died," I managed to say through my tears. I didn't just mean that he was physically separated from people, and I think that Three picked up on that. He's oddly connected to my emotions that way; it's like he understands me better than I do.

That feeling of utter alone-ness. That's what I fear spiraling back into. Most of my days and nights, as of late, have been pretty awesome. My creativity is skyrocketing, and I have managed to make friends at work. I take frequent walks, and I'm contributing to our cash flow. But I have my moments. For the first time in my life, about a week ago, I actually contemplated suicide. Without getting into too much detail - because if I do, there is so, so much explanation needed that I might just go nuts - Three and I had gotten into a pretty serious discussion of our relationship. It wasn't that it was ending, but it was transitioning, something that both of us had felt and neither were really sure of the other's perspective on things. It didn't help that he was upset at something that happened at work, so his tensions were high, and my ability to communicate was slowly disintegrating, which wasn't helping. Long story, short, I remained in the car as he went into the apartment and just cried. I felt like I was of no use to him - or to anybody, for that matter - and that my own neuroses and bouts of depression were simply burdens that shouldn't have to be shouldered by anyone that I love. I thought about simply stepping in front of a bus (messy, yes, but I wasn't exactly at my best here) or ceasing to eat or taking too many pain meds (the over-the-counter kind; I'm not sure how effective this would be?). And I felt alone. Thankfully, Three came back outside and asked me politely if I wouldn't mind coming back into the apartment with him so we could talk or hug or just lay and hold each other. 

But I know the place that Robin Williams was in now. It's a very scary, bottomless pit that seems overly dramatic whenever you're in your right mind, but when you're there, it seems as if there really is no way out. 

I hate that I'm making his death about me. It's not about me. I never knew him personally, outside his movies and TV shows, but I still deeply feel his loss. But it's still not about me. His life was a tortured one, and those he did know and love are now without him. Of course, he didn't want that. And yet, this is still not about me and my assumptions and ideas. It's like when someone, even a person with experience in depression, tries to comfort me and relates their experience; I am grateful for the input, but they are not me. I am not Robin Williams. I cannot put out a bunch of words that can explain what happened. Because his suicide was not about me. 

But that does not mean that I cannot grieve, that I cannot love what he left behind. And so I shall. Starting with The Birdcage.

Rest in peace, Robin. May you truly rest in peace. 
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