Robin Williams, Depression, and All That Jazz

*fair warning: I get crass, rude, and potty-mouthed here...don't take it personally because it's not geared at any one particular person. I'm addressing the dumbassery that is American society. I also do not mean to bash religion or anyone's faith, I'm being critical of how religion was used against me.*

So, now that we've lost a much beloved celebrity to suicide, now we can talk about suicide, death, and depression openly and honestly, and it's not a taboo. Way to go humanity, you failed, and THIS is why.

No, no, no I'm not disrespecting Robin Williams' memory. Jesus Christ, who DIDN'T love the man? I watched Dead Poet's Society like it was a religious practice when I was in high school. Jumanji was a favorite in grade school. What 90's kid didn't ADORE Hook? BANGARANG!!!!!!!!! Flubber was adorable as hell. No one else could've done Good Morning Vietnam justice. Patch Adams reminds us that no matter how "insane" we are, beneath it, is a genius lurking. Robin Williams and Nathan Lane in The Birdcage is the CUTEST FUCKING THING EVER! I could go on forever but...it was a long day, I'm tired, and the point of this isn't to go on about his filmography. The man was pure gold, in so many ways.

One thing that resonated throughout his movies, to me anyway, was no matter how bad it got, no matter what you were going through, there was truth, and beauty, and laughter, and fun, and hope exist. There's something beautiful lurking in all of us, we just have to look for it. Sometimes it takes a little work, but for each and everyone of us, there is hope.

But despite the hope he gave us, and the laughter, and the joy, beneath it was a man struggling with so many inner demons. And after 63 years, he lost. But you know what, I'm impressed.

Right, right, I know...you're probably all "What the fuck are you saying Erika?" Well gimme 2 seconds and let me explain it. K? K.

I don't know everything about his struggle--no one but him ever did--but I know what my struggle has been. And that, I can and will talk about and hope maybe somehow this all comes full circle. Maybe this'll all make a little more sense.

Shame on each and all of us. Not just for Robin Williams' death, but for how we continue to treat mental illness, and how we treat those who suffer from us. Shame on each and everyone of us. We've dun fucked this whole thing up, more than a hooker on top, and maybe this was finally the slap in the fucking face we all needed.

I called off at my current job after only being there 2 months one day, due to an emotional break down (2 call offs in about a week and a half time span). Don't remember what caused it, stress probably, but who fucking cares. Point is, I was sitting on my living room couch, bawling and crying and freaking out with Brandon saying "Kitty you are NOT going into work today." I was a fucking wreck. But you know what...no way in hell that's a reason to call off work. Not a good one anyway. And you think I didn't know that?  You think it didn't drive me nuts? Because it did. But when you're dealing with diagnosed depression, having a break down like that is damn near the same as having the fucking flu, and puking your guts up. Except, guess what, they have vaccines for the flu. You can prevent that shit completely. Wash your hands for good measure, use Purell, and cover your mouth. That is ALL you have to do. Depression...guess what...I can't do shit.

But what about medication and therapy Erika? Well duh you dumbass, of course those are options. You think I'm a fucking idiot and didn't think about those things? That was the FIRST fucking thing I did. After sobbing on the phone with the national suicide hotline on New Year's Day after having a major emotional break down (worse that any that I've called in over...and I've skipped probably 3 - 4 shifts in the last 3 years due to these break downs). God bless that woman I talked to...and God bless people who do what she did. That phone call helped me get my head back on straight, and figure a few things out. Not everything, but enough to make the next step. Sometimes, that's all you need.

I've probably been battling some form or other of depression since childhood, but you know...when you're crying and angry at 5 years old, no one wonders if it's depression. Everyone says hey, you're a kid, you'll throw a fit and get over it. And most of the time, that's true. So whatever.

High school...it was a fucking terror. I had lost mom in 8th grade, I was grieving, I was a hormonal teenager, like we've all been at some point, and it was a fucking train wreck. Whenever I think of those 4 years, I just think of a deep, dark hole that swallowed me up. The amount of self hatred, self loathing, self destruction, and sadness I felt during those years was awful. And Freshman year at a private school...let me just say I will NEVER stick my kids in a parochial school system. NEVER NEVER NEVER. People wanna bitch about how bad public schools are? Please. I'd do public school any day. Those kids, in the name of Christ, were TERRIBLE little bitches, ho-bags, and assholes. High school started on a very bad foot, and it only got worse over those 4 years. I know most people hated high school, I won't deny that, but I know now, it wasn't just teen angst, there was something REALLY wrong.

And everyone only ever dismissed it. Be happy Erika, your faith should make you happy. Believers in Jesus are happy. Be happy because your mom suffered cancer and was happy. Be happy because your life is only just beginning. Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.

You know what? Fuck you.

If it wasn't being beaten over the head with reasons to be happy, it was someone telling me I only kept going in my depression (someone = my dad) to fish for compliments. Or someone was telling me I created problems and I needed to "suck it up and deal with it on my own" because I was "almost an adult." (someone here = my fatass bitch stepmother) Oh and when it came to grieving for my mom, I had no right. I lived with her longer than my brother, I didn't have a right to grieve. I had nothing to be sad about. Oh and he...he lost the love of his life. Poor guy could wallow in his pity all he wanted.

As long as I can remember, any feelings of sadness, anger, hurt...I was told wasn't legit for some asinine reason. Faith was ramrodded down my throat. My face was rubbed in my mother's memory. But never once did anyone offer any help. And when it got REALLY bad (i remember having a freak out when I was 19 - 20 and my brother was on the receiving end, and I looked at him and screamed that I felt like I had nothing, and another one I had around my dad on my way to work and looked at him and quoted AFI, saying "My life is a dark room."), there was never, ever, anyone there for me. No one was ever there to tell me it's ok, to console me, and tell me the way I was feeling wasn't wrong, it wasn't a sin, it was something some people go through, and struggle against.

Depression was a dirty word. Depression was a state of mind, and--here comes the religion--true believers didn't deal with it because Christ conquers all. Dafuq kind of solution is that? That doesn't solve a goddamn thing. All that train of thinking did was pummel me further down, because all I ended up thinking was I was a lousy Christian and a lousy person for not being happy all the time. Gee fucking thanks. That didn't solve anything.

College, I worked so fucking much I didn't have time for it. Not once I got going full time and I was nearing 22 (a bit more grown up, but still a kid). It was there, but, I was preoccupied. And I met Brandon. And I did some cool shit along the way. Lots of stress, but lots of fun too. Then I got kicked out of the house. And Brandon and I broke up. And tons of other stupid shit. Then Brandon and I got back together. Then France. (the one time in my life I was *actually* happy) Then I came home and got married...

And that was when everything came crashing in and I realized I had a huge fucking problem. I needed to get into therapy, maybe even try medications. I needed to do something, or I was going to self destruct. I couldn't do this. I couldn't handle it anymore.

That's what depression is. It will fucking eat you alive if you let it. Depression isn't just having a bad day. It's not getting up on the wrong side of bed. Depression is...it's a deep dark whirlpool that tries to suck you down. And the shitty part is? There. Is. Nothing. You. Can. Do. No matter how good of a day you've had, no matter how wonderful your life is, everything is dark, and gloomy, and you just cannot for the life of you muster up the give a damn or the smile for even a good day. As I sit here trying to put words on it, I realize it's damn near impossible for me to convey just how awful this has been. This has been a life long fight, trying to will myself to continue on; trying to convince myself that life isn't so bad, that it'll all be ok. When bad things do happen, they hit me a thousand times harder than they hit an average person (at least someone not combating depression of any sort). That's why I fly off the handle like I do. I feel like every bad thing, is one more reminder of how horrible, and awful I am, and how little I deserve to be here. It's not just shit happens. Not for me anyway.

Every day is a fight. Some days I have to fight to get out of bed (and I mean more than I keep slapping the alarm because HEY I don't work til 4!). Some days I have to fight to smile. Some days I have to fight to remind myself there IS a reason to keep on trying. No matter how fucking small, there is a reason. And, keeping that reason...is a fucking bitch to do.

I read an article the other day (most used phrase in my vocab now I swear lol) about suicide and Robin Williams. I'll link properly at the end just to be credible, but this part struck me:

"Suicide is a decision made out of desperation, hopelessness, isolation and loneliness. The black hole that is clinical depression is all-consuming. Feeling like a burden to loved ones, feeling like there is no way out, feeling trapped and feeling isolated are all common among people who suffer from depression.

People who say that suicide is selfish always reference the survivors. It's selfish to leave children, spouses and other family members behind, so they say. They're not thinking about the survivors, or so they would have us believe. What they don't know is that those very loved ones are the reason many people hang on for just one more day. They do think about the survivors, probably up until the very last moment in many cases. But the soul-crushing depression that envelops them leaves them feeling like there is no alternative. Like the only way to get out is to opt out. And that is a devastating thought to endure."

This. Fucking this. I have had days where literally, my ONE reason to hang on is my cat, Clover, because I know if there is one being who would not know what to do if I was gone, it's her. She's my little miracle cat. I've never had an animal latch on to me like she does, and I'll be damned if i lose her any time soon.

But don't tell me it's just a bad day. It's not. It's a day in and day out struggle to survive, most days. Especially now...all I feel like on an average day is a burden. A dead weight. That one fucked up element to the existence of any and everyone close to me. Were it not for me, things would be so much better. But no...I'm here, and I've just gone and fucked it all up for you.

Do you understand how soul crushing that feeling is? To feel like single-handedly, you drag the entire environment around you down? Do you know what it is to feel that every day and feel like there is no answer to the question, short of cutting off your own existence? Have you ever even thought about the fact people feel this way?

I was diagnosed with Dysthymia. AKA low riding, long term depression. No manic mood swings, just an ever persistent feeling of worthlessness, hopelessness, and pessimism. No matter what you do, it will never go away. Medication maybe balances it out, but nothing can stop it. And the kicker is, with the disorder I was diagnosed with, you have to have a consistent pattern lasting MINIMUM of 2 years before that diagnosis can be given. TWO YEARS. Before anything can be done. Most people, from my understanding, suffer longer than that before getting help. And that, is what I call agony.

I will be honest, I don't know how long I will hang on. I am, for now, sometimes it feels like by a thread. I got my Granny's stubbornness, and sometimes I think that's what keeps me off the edge, more than therapy or drugs could. But how long will that last? How long can I make it? Will I make it to whatever date was decided for me the day I was born, or will I decide to end it before then? No matter what I do, I have to live with this the rest of my life which what could be 50 more years? 80 years of this. Who wants to go through that? Who wants to put themselves through that?

And that is why I am impressed that Robin Williams made it 63 years. He survived his demons for that long. Long enough to make us laugh, cry, think, and feel, and to be a husband, and a daddy, and win awards for all of it. They say those of us who hurt the most, also laugh and smile the most. Even today at work, I was told "at least you're happy and still laugh." And I do...I giggle over everything. Always have. But if you knew the pain I carry with me, daily, behind that laughter and smile...I think you might have a glimpse into the world of Robin Williams. He smiled and laughed more beautifully than any of us ever could.

Article: "There's Nothing Selfish About Suicide" http://www.huffingtonpost.com/katie-hurley/theres-nothing-selfish-about-suicide_b_5672519.html