The world lost Robin Williams yesterday. Celebrities die all
of the time and I am rarely emotionally affected by their deaths; but this one
has hit a nerve for me. This one will be one of the ones that my brain puts an asterisk
by to help me remember when it occurred and what I was doing when I found out.
I can name a ton of movies that he did that I loved; Dead Poet’s Society
nearing the top of my favorites list. I loved watching his stand up; he had so
much energy and intelligence that it was sometimes mental aerobics to watch him
on stage. In his movies he came across as genuine. He produced a believable
range of emotions that seems to be rare for comedy actors. His life inspired
me; his work inspired me. I can’t pretend to know a lot about his personal
life. As I may have mentioned before, I do try to stay away from the tabloids. I
am sure that every detail of his life that TMZ and their ilk can get their
grubby fingers around will be dragged out onto magazine covers and online
newsfeeds for weeks to come, but I will not read it; he deserves that amount of
respect in the least. What I do know is that his death, or rather what seems to
be the nature of his death, has left me confused and a little hopeless.
I apologize for being narcissistic enough to make this man’s
death about me in any way; but hey, it is my blog journal thing and I guess that’s
what I do. Robin Williams was successful; I mean crazy successful. He was
recognizable all over the world. He had all of the material possessions and
things he could have possibly needed. He achieved a level of success and fame
that most people will never know. He had the resources to treat any ailment
that he had; and yet… and yet he took his own life. I will never know the level
of success that he achieved no matter how much I try – most people will not.
So, I keep asking myself, if there was no hope for him; if he could not find a
way through the thick and enveloping grey cloud that is depression, what
fucking sliver of a hope do I have? I think, all of the time, about suicide. I don’t
know what a normal amount to think about death is, but I would be willing to
guess that I am a mile or so past normal. With all of his resources, all of his
money; his fame, his success…he could not beat one of the same diseases that I
have in my fun little cocktail of mental illness. I think that depression can
claim you. Like, no matter how hard you fight it, eventually it will claim you –
that is the way I feel right now. Robin William’s death leaves me feeling
bitter, afraid, but most of all just damned sad. “O Captain! my Captain! our
fearful trip is done.” Find peace, wherever you are, Mr. Williams.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
- Whitman
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