“Genie, you’re free” (goodbye to Robin Williams)

Last fall, my daughter’s 5th grade music class decided to put on a musical production of Disney’s “Aladdin”. Like every other ten-year old in the class, she wanted to audition for the role of the Genie. To prepare her for her audition, the two of us sat down in front of the television and watched the DVD of “Aladdin” to help get to know the character of the genie a little better. And while watching, I was reminded of the comic genius of the actor Robin Williams.

The genie in this film had the unique quality of being able to grant wishes to those who found his lamp. He had the ability to make people happy, and he had to do so unselfishly, knowing that he could never have what he truly wanted, which was to have no master. To have freedom from his lamp. To live life on his own terms. The genie made everyone laugh. He was larger than life, fast-talking and quick-witted, but always knowing that at the end of the day, he would have to return to his lamp. He returned depressed with the knowledge that he could help everyone but himself.

Much like the genie, Robin Williams was capable of just about anything. He could make everyone laugh. People clearly loved to be in his presence. Television hosts who had the great pleasure of interviewing him rarely were able to maintain their composures as he sat in chairs across from them, moving quickly from one comedic personality to another, able to imitate anyone, be anyone he wanted, always resulting in laughter. I’m a tough customer when it comes to things that make me laugh, that deep-from-the-belly laughter that hurts my stomach and brings tears to my eyes. But Robin Williams never failed me.

We all know of his accomplishments on screen and on stage. He was a brilliant actor and comedian, and received many awards for his efforts. But in addition to his contributions to the fine arts, he was also a generous philanthropist. A dear friend of mine who worked for MDA had the honor of meeting Mr. Williams at a fundraiser for the organization. She remembers him as being delightful and kind, truly concerned with wanting to promote awareness of the disease. Mr. Williams was involved with many charities and had the great desire to help others.

But what about helping himself? Like the Genie in “Aladdin”, was he only capable of helping others? And like the Genie, he also had a “master” that goes by the name of “depression”. Robin Williams suffered from deep depression, but did he also suffer from bipolar disorder? Was his comedic euphoria simply a well-balanced manic episode? He once told Matt Lauer in a TV interview that he had been advised to take medication for his depression, but that the medication brought him down. He said he didn’t feel like himself when he was on the meds, and he was unable to stay “up”. For myself, my manic episodes typically resulted in violence and not euphoria, and I was happy to find that medication and therapy helped me to avoid mania. But Robin William’s “ups” were what made him so funny, and funny brought success. They defined him. Was he afraid that he would lose his comedic abilities if he suppressed his mania with medication in an attempt to battle his depression?

Actor and producer Garry Marshall recalled his friendship with Robin Williams, saying, “Robin was hands-down a comedy genius and one of the most talented performers I have ever worked with in television or film. To lose him so young at the age of 63 is just a tragedy. I will forever be in awe of his timing, his talent and his pure and golden creativity. He could make everybody happy, but himself.”

“He could make everybody happy, but himself”.

Why didn’t someone step in to help the Genie? Why didn’t someone recognize his depression and help him? If he was afraid to lose his “high” because of meds, didn’t he know that there were other options? Or that there were other medications that could have had different results? He obviously was not afraid to admit that depression was an issue for him. We all know that the first step to wellness is admitting there is a problem to begin with. He didn’t try to hide it; he discussed it openly. He widely acknowledged that he had a problem. And he clearly had the financial resources to seek help, which is not an option for so many people suffering from mental illness. So often, those of us held down by mental incapacitation cannot afford our medications or therapy. And when I hear of someone taking their own life, I automatically want to blame it on a lack of resources. If someone with seemingly endless amounts of money, access to the best doctors and therapists, support from a loving family and community, and more friends than he could count could not overcome his depression, what does that mean for the rest of us? Robin Williams must have known he was loved. Loved by millions. How must that have felt to know that he brought laughter to so many people, but was unable to make himself happy? If someone that remarkable could not find happiness, where does that leave an ordinary me?

When a high-profile death occurs that can be attributed to drugs, alcohol or mental deficiency, there is always the opportunity to shed light on these issues. We sit up and take notice. These unfortunate opportunities perhaps help to reduce the stigmas associated with diseases like mental illness or addiction. We realize that we are not alone in our struggle, that even someone larger than life, someone like Robin Williams, must have at times felt alone and unable to cope with his internal demons. His death makes depression real, and hopefully it will raise awareness of mental illness. But in me, it also elicits fear. Because now I feel that if Robin Williams cannot successfully battle his depression, how will it be possible for me?

In the movie “The Dead Poets Society, Robin Williams’ character told his students, “No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world”. So here are some words and ideas for all of us to ponder: seek help. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, I promise. I have to promise, because I so desperately want to believe it myself. Please don’t let your depression ruin your opportunity for a healthy and happy life. Please think of those people you would leave behind. Is your unhappiness so great that you can disregard the feelings those you love will have after you leave? The devastation and loss they will feel without you in their lives?

Robin Williams had millions of fans. He was surrounded by love and support. But maybe it was the wrong kind of support, or not enough of it because in the end, he died alone in his room. The genie retreated to his bottle one last time.

Following Robin Williams’ death, I have felt a little lost. I want to believe I am strong enough to battle my own depression, but is it true? I want to take my own advice, follow my own “words and ideas”. But I doubt my abilities. I doubt my own strength.

In the movie “Aladdin”, the Genie turns a regular kid into a prince. He had the ability to make a common “street rat” into Prince Ali. But all the Genie wanted was to be happy. He wanted to be released from his bonds that held him down and kept him from being truly happy. And at the end of the film, Prince Ali granted the genie the ultimate wish:

“Genie, you’re free”. And Robin? So are you.

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Goodbye, Sandi

Three weeks ago, I was notified that a friend of mine had overdosed on a combination of pain killers and antidepressants.  I was told that she was on life-support at the hospital and was brain-dead and not expected to make it.

I have to admit that I was, for a moment, envious.  How many times have I wished that for myself?  Simply to end the misery that is my life?  I want desperately to believe in heaven and I think what better things might await me there.  I could see my brother and sister and father again, there would be cotton candy and Junior Mints in excess, I wouldn’t gain weight and I could listen to any music I want.  And no house cleaning!  It just seems like such an easy solution, doesn’t it?

When I go to ECT, there is a multiple choice test I have to take to get something called a “Beck Score”.  The score helps determine my mental “well-being”, which in turn helps determine how often I have to be voluntarily electrocuted.  I always sort of smile when I answer these questions:  do I feel less attractive?  do I have more or less energy than usual?  do I feel productive?  do I get along with others?  But one of the final questions on the test is in regards to suicide.  I have to choose the option that best suits my mood at that particular time:

a)  I think about committing suicide all the time.

b)  I think about suicide all the time, but would never carry it out.

c)  I rarely think about committing suicide.

d)  I would never consider suicide.

Sadly, I find myself hovering pretty close to option “b” on most days.  Yes, I think about suicide all the time.  All.  The.  Time.  But because I am a coward and also because I have a conscience, I could never actually carry it out.  What if I didn’t do it right?  What if I didn’t complete the act and the “life” I was left with was even more horrible than it is now?  And then I think about my precious children.  I look at my three kids and wonder who would do my daughter’s hair for prom, who would iron my son’s shirts and teach him stripes and plaids don’t mix, who would drive them to piano lessons and gymnastics?  Who would tell them how to respond to the class bully, or how to make the family traditional holiday cookies?  But most of all, who would love them like I do?

It’s not that I think my kids would miss me that much.  We are in that difficult part of our relationships during which, as my husband and I have been separated for a year, my children have found the “preferred parent”.  Their dad is simply cooler.  He’s more playful and agreeing.  He is the coddler, I’m the enforcer.  And there are definitely times when I feel like they could do without me.  Like when my daughter asks, “When is it Daddy’s night to be with us?”, a question I answer every night of the week.  I don’t believe that my kids would be devastated to be without me.  At least, not right now.

But I think they would miss me later.  I want to believe that they would miss me later.  I need to believe that they would miss me later.

Sandi has left behind three children, pretty close in age to mine.  Did she have them in her thoughts just before she opened that last prescription bottle?  Did she consider the pros and cons of having children grow up without a mother?  Was her esteem so low that she really believed they’d be better off without her?  Or was her pain just so deep that she couldn’t bear another moment on this earth?  Did she consider the consequences and decide that this was her only option?  Did she hurt so badly that she simply couldn’t go another day?

I used to think that suicide was a coward’s way out.   That it was for selfish people.  Who doesn’t think about what’s being left behind when a suicide is committed?  Who doesn’t wonder, “who will find my body?  will it be my 7-year old son?  do I leave a note, or keep them guessing?”  Do the people who go through with it really put that much thought into it to begin with?  Or is it a spontaneous response to a really bad day?  Is it one of those things where they don’t really want to carry it out all the way through, but the attention of an “attempt” would be a good way to test whether your loved ones really are feeling the love?  Is it a call for help?  Do people attempt suicide hoping that the act is never actually fully carried out?  Or are they really out to do themselves in?  And since suicide is considered a sin, do suicide victims get to go to heaven?  Is it really better on “the other side”?  Are there really unlimited supplies of Junior Mints?  Will we really see our previously lost loved ones again?

Or, do people who commit suicide end up in hell?   And if they do, is hell worse than their lives here on earth?  Or might life here be so awful that hell looks pretty good?

Sadly, we can’t exactly ask a suicide victim.

I want to believe that Sandi accidentally took all of that medication.  That she was hoping the pills would temporarily fix what was hurting.  That she could sleep through the day and wake up the next feeling refreshed.  I don’t want to believe that “the next day” was not in her plans.

For now, her children are being told that their mom died of respiratory failure.  But if I know the truth, then dozens out there also likely know the truth.  And eventually, her children will know, as well.

Wherever you are, Sandi, I hope you’re happier there than you were here.  I miss you.  I know your children miss you.  And I look forward to seeing you again in the future.  Just hopefully not in the near future, if I can help it.