Unforgettable in Life, Unforgettable in Death

Robin Williams is dead.

Those words are still so surreal to me.

You know it's a devastating loss when some of the big names in the comedy scene not only pay tribute to him during their respective late night shows but are struggling to hold back their emotions when doing so.

It is indeed a tragedy that such a bright spark has been extinguished. It's hard to imagine someone who was so full of life as being no longer with us. Watching him shapeshift between characters and jump around on stage amused and exhausted me.

At first I didn't understand why his death affected me so much. Sure, I adored him but I am nowhere near being a shrine-building looney. Upon more reflection, I realise now why his death has shaken me.

It's because the root cause of his death, the reason he decided it was best to end it all... was depression.

And that scares me. 

Maybe it's because I know, that as a Scorpio, I am prone to intense emotions. But most likely, it's because I know that I was once vulnerable.

I remember a time in my life when I could not bring myself to eat anything but Coco pops and milk. When every living moment was hardly that - I was a zombie, going through a blur of activities. As the sun rose, I turned on auto-pilot and as the sun set, I cried myself to sleep. And I still remembered the night when Paul babysat me via webcam while I tried to occupy my mind with random websurfing to make sure I was okay.

I don't know if what I went through counts as depression. I do know though that it was a dark place and that I wouldn't wish it on anyone. So if that isn't severe enough to be considered depression... I can't imagine the struggle that people with depression go through.

The thing that strikes me most is the fact that depression does not discriminate - even if you take the best care of your health, you can still be depressed. Even when you are as widely loved as Robin Williams, you can still be plagued by demons. Even when you are self-aware of your weaknesses and take proactive measures (Williams checked himself into rehab a month before his death) to try and regain your footing, all it takes is a moment to unsettle yourself and undo the good work.

ANYONE can be a candidate for depression. 

This death has been a wake up call.

I hope that even if someone might mistakenly self-diagnose themselves as being depressed, that as their friends, we'll take the time to lend an ear, a shoulder to cry on and an understanding stance instead of just dismissing it as a phase. If there's anything to be taken from this tragic loss, it's better to be overcautious than dismissive.

There's so much I, and I think society as a whole, needs to learn about depression and to be honest mental health issues as a whole. I think we need to change our mindset and create a more supportive, compassionate community. We need to get eradicate the stigma of mental health issues and engage in dialogue.

I will end this post on this status update from Peter Coyote on Facebook. It's food for thought. 

Robin William’s Last Gift

Robin and I were friends. Not intimate, because he was very shy when he was not performing. Still, I spent many birthdays and holidays at his home with Marsha and the children, and he showed up at my 70th birthday to say “Hello” and wound up mesmerizing my relatives with a fifteen minute set that pulverized the audience.

When I heard that he had died, I put my own sorrow aside for a later time. I’m a Zen Buddhist priest and my vows instruct me to try to help others. So this little letter is meant in that spirit.
Normally when you are gifted with a huge talent of some kind, it’s like having a magnificent bicep. People will say, “Wow, that’s fantastic” and they tell you, truthfully, that it can change your life, take you to unimaginable realms. It can and often does. The Zen perspective is a little different. We might say, “Well, that’s a great bicep, you don’t have to do anything to it. Let’s work at bringing the rest of your body up to that level.”

Robin’s gift could be likened to fastest thoroughbred race-horse on earth. It had unbeatable endurance, nimbleness, and a huge heart. However, it had never been fully trained. Sometimes Robin would ride it like a kayaker tearing down white-water, skimming on the edge of control. We would marvel at his courage, his daring, and his brilliance. But at other times, the horse went where he wanted, and Robin could only hang on for dear life.

In the final analysis, what failed Robin was his greatest gift---his imagination. Clutching the horse he could no longer think of a single thing to do to change his life or make himself feel better, and he stepped off the edge of the saddle. Had the horse been trained, it might have reminded him that there is always something we can do. We can take a walk until the feeling passes. We can find someone else suffering and help them, taking the attention off our own. Or, finally, we can learn to muster our courage and simply sit still with what we are thinking are insoluble problems, becoming as intimate with them as we can, facing them until we get over our fear. They may even be insoluble, but that does not mean that there is nothing we can do.

Our great-hearted friend will be back as the rain, as the cry of a Raven as the wind. He, you and I have never for one moment not been a part of all it. But we would be doing his life and memory a dis-service if we did not extract some wisdom from his choice, which, if we ponder deeply enough, will turn out to be his last gift. He would beg us to pay attention if he could.