As I read through all the posts about Robin Williams today I couldn't help but think of my favorite films that featured him.
Aladdin immediately came to mind. I went to see Aladdin in the theaters with my sister Tempest and our Uncle Rob when I was 10 years old.
Rob was technically our step uncle, but he was the only one of my step dad’s family that I actually claimed as my own. I liked Rod. He had cool books at his apartment, like the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a slew of Choose Your Own Adventure Books.
Rob always said interesting things. On the way back home from the Aladdin he did this cool trick where he predicted which cars would stop and turn with 100 percent accuracy. (When I learned what a turn signal was that trick didn’t seem quite as magical.)
I talk about Rob in past tense because like Robin Williams, Rob Morrison also lost his battle to depression. Rob took his own life in a way similar to how Robin Williams reportedly did.
Depression and suicide are so hard to comprehend. As someone who has bipolar disorder and suffers from depression the countless number of “there’s hope, let’s fight the stigma” posts that I see on Facebook in light of Williams’ death don’t encourage me. Maybe because I know that a week from now I’ll see another insensitive comment making light of mental illness and be reminded that we don’t see these diseases as the clinical brain disorders that they are.
Mental illness and addiction are clinical illnesses and they need to be treated as such.
When it comes to depression, I often hear people say you can’t understand this beast until you’ve had to slay it yourself. I think there’s truth in that. But I also think it’s important for people to have an awareness of what it’s like to suffer from depression. So I started thinking about what it was like for me.
My darkest bout with depression occurred in 2005. By the time my depression reached a stage that I would call full blown, I found it difficult to connect my thoughts. It felt as if the electrical cord that connected my brain to reality had been cut. I couldn’t piece together information to write stories. I had trouble following my sources during interviews. I remember staring at computer monitor for hours, hours, trying to come up with a lead about a high school senior I had been assigned to write a feature about.
I felt fatigued. Not tired, fatigued. I once heard someone describe fatigue as carrying around wet afghan on your shoulders. This is how I felt, how I constantly felt. My limbs felt like noodles. Similar to how I had experienced after a bad case of the flu. Only this didn’t go away.
I had no motivation. No motivation to eat. No motivation to go to class. (I was in my last semester of undergrad.) No motivation to go to work. (I had a part-time job at the local newspaper.) No motivation to shower. (I reached a point where to the thought of water actually terrified me.) No motivation to even get out of bed. (Eventually the thought of simply getting out of bed also terrified me.) I had no motivation.
I slept a lot when I was depressed. As much as possible. I cut back on my hours at work, skipped class, and isolated myself from friends. I did anything I could to get more sleep. And I thought maybe if I got enough sleep I wouldn’t feel as fatigued my motivation would come back.
I tried to drink more water, and go for walks and pray. But none of these things work. I tried to watch college basketball, but even the Kansas Jayhawks couldn’t bring me out of this funk.
Eventually my prayers changed to pleas for God to put me out of my misery. I wanted my life to end. There came a time where I had no other desire than that to end my life, to escape the sorrow, and fear and darkness that consumed me. I had no suicide plan. I didn’t want to end my life myself, but rather I wanted
God to end it, if for no other reason than as an act of mercy.
You see, I believed in God. I still do. And I believed that if there was a Hell then surely I had already entered it.
Well, God didn’t end my life. My depression lasted for almost five months. It took a couple months of being on Paxil for the depression to lift and it took several more months for a doctor to accurately diagnose me as bipolar.
It’s been almost 10 years since that depression and I am alive. My life has trials, but I am a live. I have a life. And I love it.
When I hear stories of those who have lost their battle to depression I say a prayer of thanks that by God’s grace I overcame mine; I say a prayer of help that I may overcome the episodes of depression to come; And I say a prayer of wow at the beautiful thing we call life.
Robin Williams had a beautiful life. May he rest in peace.
