September 3, 2014
Nanu nanu. Living with mental illness is a little like living on another planet, as many of us who suffer from depression know. Nobody understands what we are going through, or at least they don’t seem to get it except when something terrible happens. Like a suicide, successful or not. As Andrew Solomon has shown in The Noonday Demon, all depressed people think seriously about suicide. If they are treated, most don’t succeed at offing themselves. Artists still seem to live on edge of the abyss. The demon often takes over. E.T. can’t phone home because there’s nobody there.
Sylvia Plath chronicled her path to oblivion, and a few other artists have created similar poetic if harrowing memoirs of depression. Robin Williams spoke very little about his illness, and often made light of his demons–drugs, alcohol, sex, etc. His manic humor was extraterrestrial and at times incomprehensible, at least to those who don’t perform to get rid of their insecure sense of self. When you don’t have a solid sense of who you are it is easier to become someone else. Few humans have had the gift/curse of multiple personality imaginations like Robin Williams. Genius often comes close to madness, and this was surely a case in which the two were Jekyll and Hyde.
Since I grew up watching Robin Williams and often saw my myself in his characters, I feel a deep sense of loss now that he is gone. I don’t, however, feel surprised or mystified by his suicide. All depressed people know a little about what he faced every day. Knowing that he got up and went to work, entertaining millions as no one else can ever do, inspires me to do what I can with my art. As Tolstoy said, “I would rather be the holy fool than any other human being.” Rest in peace, Robin.