With Monday’s announcement of the death of Robin Williams I’m sure that like me, you have been inundated with shocked reactions, tributes and more articles than you could possibly read about depression and suicide. Well, as loath as I usually am to jump on any social media trending bandwagon, this one I’m getting on board, because this is a topic that has been on my mind as of late. About a month ago I finished reading a book where the main character kills herself and I wrote a blog about the emotions that journey churned up inside of me. You can read that post here. A couple of weeks later one of my followers on Twitter asked how I would describe suicide in one word. She told me that it was for a survey. I told her short-sighted.

In my opinion, the biggest symptom of depression is short-sightedness. When you are depressed, truly, clinically depressed not just bummed out over something, you become short-sighted. You can’t see beyond the pain. You can’t see beyond the haze, the loneliness, the dejection and the failure. The burden that your heaviness places on all those that you encounter. It’s as if there is an all-encompassing fog. You can be surrounded by people, hear them, feel their presence, see them swirling the fog around you, but be completely unable to reach them. Unable to absorb their words, unable to feel their comfort, unable to process their presence. You are absolutely alone. No one can understand what you’re feeling, no one has ever felt like this before, and no one cares. So you sleep. You sleep more than anyone needs to sleep, because in sleep you escape. The pain eases and the fog lifts. You are free to just be.

 

The second you open your eyes, however, it all rushes back in with a whoosh and the weight of it takes your breath away. Do you get up and fight through one more day, or do you sleep some more? Eventually the lure of sleep becomes stronger and the need to fight wanes. The struggle seems insurmountable. There’s a looming giant blocking your path that takes a step closer every time you reawaken until you are finally forced with the decision; do you stand alone on the field of battle with no weapons and your reserves of energy spent to fight the goliath, or do you peacefully slip into sleep forever? In that moment, that pivotal all-encompassing moment the decision is easy. Your short-sighted depression has already told you that you won’t win against the giant. So why delay the inevitable? Why cause yourself more pain?

I have definitely seen people react to a suicide by calling the person selfish. I disagree. Suicide is not selfish. Suicide is the only logical answer in a disconnected world where sophistry rules. In a mind where all thoughts, interactions and beliefs belittle, shame and discourage the self. For those people, in the grips of that disease, suicide is the only logical answer. It not only ends the mind-numbing pain, it removes the burden placed on all those around you. Your family, friends, and co-workers will no longer have to deal with you. To a depressed mind, suicide is the cessation of a great burden and the removal of pain for everyone involved. The theme song of “M.A.S.H.” – “Suicide is Painless“ was clearly written by someone who knows the grips of true depression.

Of course, to a healthy mind, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And everybody has felt depressed from time to time, so they assume that they can relate. However, I think the best comparison I have ever heard is that somebody who has only been momentarily depressed (in my opinion any episode that lasts less than a year is a moment) telling someone who is clinically depressed that they know what they’re going through is like somebody telling an amputee that they can relate because they once had to get stitches. It’s just not the same. Clinical depression is a disease that affects everything you do, every day of your life.

I have been clinically depressed for 21 years. This way of life is all I know. So when I heard that Robin Williams had committed suicide, unlike all of the people around me, I was not shocked. I was saddened, but I was not shocked. In my mind it made perfect sense that this man, with a history of depression and addiction who made a living making people laugh uproariously for years, would commit suicide. You heard me right. I lumped his comedy in with his darkness. There is a reason that the majority of painted clown faces are crying. I would hazard to guess that most comedians are, or have been at some point in their lives, severely depressed. David Wong an editor at Cracked.com wrote this article about that very topic, and he hit the nail on the head. Even going as far back as the class clown in school, there is usually something lurking beneath the comedy.

I was not the class clown growing up. I didn’t discover the magic of laughter until later in life. Now I use it all the time. I love to make my friends laugh and I revel in that moment of power that that laughter brings me. I made them laugh. I must be worthwhile after all. But if you really look closely, you’ll notice that my particular brand of humor is self-deprecating. I tell funny stories of me doing embarrassing things. I make funny faces and noises. Sometimes I do so unintentionally and when a friend says, “say that again, “obviously making fun of me, instead of blushing at my out of place remark or reaction and fumbling forward, I repeat whatever I did or said with pride, usually exaggerated a little bit for better effect. I do so because I know that I’ll get the laugh, and there are times that that laugh is the only thing that connects me to the people around me. That laugh is the only thing that I have that says that I belong and that those people want me around. So I make them laugh again and again, and each peal is a gentle pat on the head saying “There, there. Someone wants you.”

Sounds pathetic doesn’t it? Well it feels pathetic too. And I can tell you right now, that reaction does not come from low self-confidence, or low self-esteem. It comes from my depression.

It’s a part of my disease that I recognize and acknowledge. I always have. That’s why when I was an actress and the cast was encouraged to greet the audience after the show I would drag my feet. I would take extra-long to get out of costume and make-up so that by the time I made it to the lobby there were only a few patrons left. I yearned for their praise and applause, but I knew, that like the laughter I could provoke, that praise wouldn’t penetrate to create a connection and so would leave me feeling hollow after time had passed. It would leave me seeking more and more, and it would leave me broken if I didn’t get a steady stream. So I didn’t allow myself to drink from that well. It didn’t matter if people liked my work, as long as I didn’t like myself. Somewhere in my brain or my heart or my very being I understood this. I also understood that as long as I let my depression have free reign in my head, I would never like myself. So I waged war on my depression. I took the battle to the goliath before he had a chance to get too close and overwhelm me. I didn’t go alone either. I armed myself with knowledge, therapists, pharmaceuticals, exercise, sunshine, diet, vitamin supplements, emotional-release therapies, herbal remedies and a good deal of thick-headed stubbornness.

 

Did I win the battle? Nope. I’m still depressed and probably will be until the day that I die. The difference is that now I know how to manage my disease, and I understand that that management is going to have to change as my disease shifts and fluxes with my life. Depression is a wily little fucker, and just when you think you have everything figured out it’ll throw you a curve ball. It keeps things interesting.

The one weapon in my arsenal that is new, is talking about my disease with more than just a therapist or a really close friend. A huge weight lifted from my shoulders the moment that I decided to throw caution to the wind, stare all of the stigmas in the face and admit to my condition. There are those in my acquaintance who do not approve of this choice. I don’t care. Having a mental illness does not mean that I am weak, and it does not mean that I have been “strong for too long.” I think we’ve all seen that meme floating around. It means that for whatever reason, physiological or environmental, my body does not produce the correct chemicals in the correct amounts. End. Of. Story. There is nothing shameful in that. Therefore, I am not ashamed to openly admit that I suffer from clinical depression and anxiety, and if that admission makes some people uncomfortable, that’s their problem not mine. I will not hide a huge part of who I am for the comfort of others, and nobody else should have to either. It is in the hiding and denial that the giant is allowed to creep ever closer.

Robin Williams has undoubtedly left a rich legacy behind him. I thank him the most for unwittingly opening up the door for a frank discussion about depression and suicide. Thank you for that. May you stand in the sunshine and finally be at peace.