Something happened last night.
As I came back from the bathroom, my
boyfriend told me that Robin Williams had died. And then my boyfriend probably
felt a bit awkward at how upset I got.
I tried to hold it together. I mean, it’s
very sad but come on, I didn’t KNOW the guy. Turns out, none of the people on
my facebook and twitter KNEW Robin Williams but the outpour of devastation was
everywhere. Some people were upset, some people were simply saluting his
genius, some people had moved past the shock of the death and onto the
comforting of others spouting out the reasons we should be happy. And I just
felt angry. I couldn’t get my head around my feelings. I still can’t. Hence the
writing.
This man, this talent, this person with the
ability to make you laugh and cry in the space of a second had got himself to a
point where the only option of moving forward was to end it all.
Just over a year ago - after a lifetime of
crying on my own, of feeling like the whole world was bunched up inside me, of
black dog, black cloud, utter helplessness – I finally went to a doctor to talk
about the fact that I was depressed. I had of course known I was depressed for
many years. I knew that cutting oneself and starving oneself were not normal
habits of a fully functional human. I had suffered in silence for a relatively
long time. I had, on many occasions planned how I would end it and would any
one know and then slapped my own wrists for not having the courage to go
through with it. The other thing I didn’t have the courage to do was TELL
ANYBODY. I could lie there next to a
boyfriend, sit silently next to my mother, pant and wretch at trying to form
the words to tell a friend to no avail. I couldn’t pick up the bloody phone to
tell a complete stranger on the other end of the line how I was feeling. The
best I could do was email the Samaritans to say something along the lines of
“No biggie. Just feel really suicidal. And every time I have to get onstage and
make other people laugh I feel like I’m burying more of myself.” So, to actually get myself to go to the
doctor last year was pretty monumental and the sigh of relief that washed over
me as I scuttled back to my bed clutching anti-depressants and a therapy
referral form was like a waterfall of calm and excited apprehension.
Over the past year or so I took the pills
for about 6 months (the recommended time) and came off again. Cognitive
behavioral therapy was not the one for me so I jacked that in and stuck to the
pills. I also in this time met the love of my life who, without him realizing
it, became all the support I’d ever need. I mean, I only had to look at him and
this big beaming smile would come over me. I went on to do a west end show and
thankfully in the big group scenes I’d stopped bursting into tears silently in
the back shadows. Everything felt pretty good. I was nervous that I would feel
‘numb’ on the pills. After all, I am an actress, I don’t want to lose any of
the spectrum of my talent DAHling! But all seemed well and good and eventually
I decided I was ready to come off the pills but was not adverse to the thought
that I would probably have to go back on at some point. And I did. With some
health scares and such, I very quickly rushed back onto the pills but only for
a short amount of time. I discovered a thing called mindfulness and I helped
myself for a while with no need for chemical enhancements.
Now, over the past few months I have felt
the return of an unfriendly but oh so familiar cloud. Slowly, I can feel it
pulling down on my eyelids and weighing down on my body causing me to stay in
bed for hours and then return to bed many times throughout the day. My eyes
want to close and I forever want to fall asleep, at least until something
better or more interesting distracts me, as it’s safer to be asleep than to be
left with my own thoughts. Despite all of these feelings, I have once again not
been honest with myself. I’ve been brushing it off. Excusing it. Convincing
others and my loved ones that I’m just being melodramatic, that I’m ‘really
tired from the gym’, that I’m fine it’s just this, that and the other. The
truth is, it is none of those things. And the death of Robin Williams last
night brought me right back to myself and the realization that I’m not OK.
I took myself into another room. My boyfriend
went to sleep with work in the morning. And the tears flooded over me. Big,
fat, galumphing tears took over my face. I felt SO ANGRY that this man had
taken his life. That no one had helped or stopped him. But what can people do?
What can anyone do for us? All I could see was endless unhappiness and torment
and a big sign in front of me that says “You will always feel this shit”. I sat
alone on the floor and those familiar old sentences crept back into my brain.
Those scary thoughts that asphyxiated me before. The idea that nobody really knew and nobody
could help and that it would be far easier to just not ‘be’ anymore.
My boyfriend awoke, shocked to find me so
upset about the death of an actor I’ve never met and eventually all of my
emotions came flooding out to him. “I just don’t want to be the 63 year old
comedian who kills himself and everybody says ‘oh that’s sad’, I just don’t
want that”. I sobbed into his arms and he held me close. I felt a mixture of
pure love for Robin Williams and complete and utter devastation at the world.
If someone THAT LOVED can get away with killing himself than everyone can.
Everybody who feels this way can just end it. And it will be sad. And that will
be that.
Now I’m not claiming that my thoughts made
any sense. In fact, I was mostly just shocked to realize that I had once again
got to this point and not even noticed. Me, spiritual goddess always trying to
help others. Me, always posting facebook statuses about appreciating life and
how we should all look out for the signs of depression and help people. Turns
out it was all a big fat cry for help.
I was calmed by my boyfriend and eventually
my hyperventilating rendered me exhausted and I fell asleep. And now I’m
writing to you. I’m not sure what I’ve learnt really, except that I’m not ok.
And I’m not sure how to move forward. Do I return to the drugs? Do I seek other
help? I’m not really sure and I’m not really asking for advice. I just knew I
needed to write. To let my emotions come out somehow. To admit that I’m not OK.
And that I need my friends. And that I don’t want you, or me, or anybody else
to be the person that was loved by the whole world but couldn’t love himself.
