Because this is about suicide and depression, if you feel like this, find help, any type of help near you. If you need to talk to me, a stranger, to rant or whatever, contact me and I will listen to you for whatever you do. No judgements.
It was strange having somebody that I sort of grew up with, being familiar with, die. I spent the first few years wondering how Robin Williams could be Genie AND the guy from Jumanji AT THE SAME TIME. I thought that the TV and videos were like plays in a theater that were put on for me. I spent many days flipping between the two of them as fast as I could, trying to see if Williams would know exactly where I left off, pick up the movie and finish it for me. I was mesmerised, until I was 7 and figured out that videos are pre-taped, etc. So far for the magic.
I cried even worse with Robin Williams than I did with my own grandpa. A(nd that is something I blame my father for. For another time.) A familiar voice won’t be making any new movies or going to award ceremonies or whatever. All that is left of him for me, as a fan, are the hilarious and the serious movies he left behind.
The whole suicide thing is not only sad, but it’s terrifying. It had me in a panic. I’m afraid that, someday, inspite of moments of happiness, success, wealth, family, friends, love, my own depression will leech into me, through all the duct tape and plugs of cork I have used to repair myself, and I will be taken in the same way. The older I get, the stronger the tug is. Seriously, right now, at 4 PM, I took 2 melatonin pills and it has me so out of myself. I 1) Redorated the entire apartment 2) I was hoping it would calm me enough to just die, that my breathing would get to a sleeping pace, I’d fall asleep, and I’d die.
I spent an entire life faking life. My parents told me, in spite of my father having anti-depressants, that I could just think it away. And I thought if I thought it away then people would love me, then people wouldn’t seem so fake and I wouldn’t feel so fake, that I’d love me.
But now, having been treated for about three years, the bouts I have and the fights I have with myself, on the inside, seem to be growing stronger. In spite of having people tell me they love me… it doesn’t seem to matter. I get lost. And I try to think about them, and what would happen if I died, but I think, “Fuck them.” Why should they tell me to think about others when I cannot even think about me and help myself?
Ironically, thinking about others and volunteering was one of the things that helped me.
Being alone in a crowded room? Awful. The worst thing ever.
And it’s terrible to think that there are other people who feel similar. It’s terrible to think that somebody so powerful as Robin Williams succumed to his depression. And I want the best and send prayers to his family and friends, for what it’s worth.
I’m not feeling really coherent. This is a sad topic and a sad post. Really.