Celebrity Personalized
Today is a tough day. I feel disconnected and numb. It's strange, knowing that my mood was spawned by the death of a celebrity. Last night, Robin Williams was found dead in his room. Robin Williams was an icon - hilarious, vulnerable, talented, a hard worker, an (by all accounts) a great guy. He was bipolar, and (if the news has any value to it at all) had been in a pretty bad depression for several months. For all the pain that came from my close friends seeming to minimize the suffering that depression causes, I also cannot image the rush that comes with mania. I experienced it, once, when I was trying Prozac. It was one of the most amazing and terrifying moments of my life. I can't imagine the frustration that comes with flying over the world, free and able to do whatever you want, no consequences to bind you - only to come crashing to the ground, lost in an oubliette of numb and self-loathing, left to cope with the consequences of the High. Often, quite literally, considering the comorbidity between bipolar disorder and addiction. And to have fame stacked on top of it - knowing that your steps to fame were made when you were "on," when you hid that pain and anxiety and frustration and numbness behind the Comedy Mask.
But that's only part of the pain. Watching his death affect my close friends hurts, trying not to take the comments of bipolar not "just" being depression is harder - especially when they come from my girlfriend. She doesn't mean to hurt me, and I know that she's is wrapped in her own cocoon of angst over Robin William's passing...it's hard not to resonate with her previous statements, though...as if no one has pain as deep as hers. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps I'm just depressed...
The pain goes deeper, though, farther back. Robin Williams was the focal point of so many happy memories for my family. It was as if he was the only thing in the whole world that we could agree on - him and Tim Curry. We could watch Robin Williams for days, whether he was animated or dramatic. My sister and I were raised on him - Dead Poet's Society, Good Morning, Vietnam, Aladdin, Ferngully: The Last Rainforest, Mrs. Doubtfire, Hook....I wish that I could say that I could see the pain in his eyes, but it's only looking back on it, on his performances in Death to Smoochy, One-hour Photo, What Dreams May Come, and, too a lesser extent, Hook, do I see it, do I recognize where his vulnerability comes from. And, I now recognize why we were all so drawn to him, at least my family - we was wearing the same mask. He was pretending to be an All-American, like my sister was; he was wearing his pain on his sleeve, like I was; he was the Perfect Parent, as my mom was trying to display; and I think that my dad wanted to be him.
And he's gone. He killed himself. And I wonder, like I'm sure so many are, how have I managed to keep going? With this constant whispering in my mind, telling me that it would be easier just to not wake up, that it would be so easy just to swerve too quickly off a bridge, that I'm a burden on those who love me and that they would be better without me. If he couldn't make it, how can I?
Of course, I know the answer - one step at a time, one breath at a time, one blink at a time. But, I can't help but wonder - how long until it gets to me?
But that's only part of the pain. Watching his death affect my close friends hurts, trying not to take the comments of bipolar not "just" being depression is harder - especially when they come from my girlfriend. She doesn't mean to hurt me, and I know that she's is wrapped in her own cocoon of angst over Robin William's passing...it's hard not to resonate with her previous statements, though...as if no one has pain as deep as hers. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps I'm just depressed...
The pain goes deeper, though, farther back. Robin Williams was the focal point of so many happy memories for my family. It was as if he was the only thing in the whole world that we could agree on - him and Tim Curry. We could watch Robin Williams for days, whether he was animated or dramatic. My sister and I were raised on him - Dead Poet's Society, Good Morning, Vietnam, Aladdin, Ferngully: The Last Rainforest, Mrs. Doubtfire, Hook....I wish that I could say that I could see the pain in his eyes, but it's only looking back on it, on his performances in Death to Smoochy, One-hour Photo, What Dreams May Come, and, too a lesser extent, Hook, do I see it, do I recognize where his vulnerability comes from. And, I now recognize why we were all so drawn to him, at least my family - we was wearing the same mask. He was pretending to be an All-American, like my sister was; he was wearing his pain on his sleeve, like I was; he was the Perfect Parent, as my mom was trying to display; and I think that my dad wanted to be him.
And he's gone. He killed himself. And I wonder, like I'm sure so many are, how have I managed to keep going? With this constant whispering in my mind, telling me that it would be easier just to not wake up, that it would be so easy just to swerve too quickly off a bridge, that I'm a burden on those who love me and that they would be better without me. If he couldn't make it, how can I?
Of course, I know the answer - one step at a time, one breath at a time, one blink at a time. But, I can't help but wonder - how long until it gets to me?
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