Depression, Suicide, Robin Williams, Etc.

Two weeks ago the world lost a fine comedian.

Robin Williams was a recovered or recovering alcoholic (details shaky there), a brilliant comedian and actor, a man so talented at improvising, he blew a lot of people away. Mara Wilson talks on her blog (Mara Wilson Writes Stuff) about how Robin Williams was always trying to make her laugh while they were on set. He may have been diagnosed with Parkinson's. He probably suffered from depression or some mental illness. He was a human; though he was a rich and famous human which makes all the difference in this world because his fame and fortune led to everyone knowing about his suicide.

Which is funny. The end of the Summer of 2014, the two hot topics with celebrities are the ALS challenge and Robin Williams' suicide.

Meanwhile, a little over a year ago, my uncle committed suicide and it was one of the loneliest feelings in the world.

Don't get me wrong. My whole family seemed to band together... briefly in our grief and confusion, but we all lead very, very different lives... mostly in other states, and then even in other countries.

We also all deal with grief in different ways.

Some people internalized.

Others externalized.

Even others did a weird mix of the two which kind of pissed me off at times.

My uncle didn't have an easy life. He suffered from severe mental illness, and I understand it made living with him... difficult.

I can remember my view of some of the difficulties, but they're sort of... fuzzy now.

Because there is nothing in this world harder than adapting to a world, a life, where there's a person missing from it.

The worst part is, death isn't the way to lose a person. We lose people in our lives all the time. You have a fight. You lose touch. People come and go from my life all the time. I invite them into my home, try to make them family because...

I always was taught that family can never leave not really. And they sure as hell shouldn't choose to leave.

That's what I always privately believed. No true family would ever choose to leave me. If they did, they weren't really family.

And then my uncle made that very choice which was part of my basic beliefs and thoughts. A pillar of my brain.

Part of my self-worth was built upon this idea that I was part of the wonderful Campbell family and the strange, unimaginable Pietzrak family. I had one mother, a step-father, a step-sister, two grandparents until there was just my grandmother, four aunts, four uncles, eleven cousins, seven great-aunts, more second cousins than I could manage, and a whole future where my cousins would get married and have kids.

And it wouldn't matter if some left, because, while they lived, we could still reconnect because we'd always be family. In fact, some of my family was excluded on purpose from the list above because they'd left and thus weren't counted until they came back... which they would, because they always would.

They were my family. They were the reasons I, myself, didn't kill myself when things got really bad, and dark, and depressing and it seemed there was no light.

My light was my mom, and my step-dad, Mike, and my step-sister, and Gma, and my aunts and uncles. And all my cousins, especially the ones I've mentioned on this blog.

They were my life.

Then my uncle took his life.

There's no way to heal the wound. No way for him to rejoin us. He chose to leave, and I still don't know how to handle it.

Part of me doesn't even know what that means.

The little girl inside me keeps trying to blame herself. The same little girl who wondered why her father left her when she was an infant is desperately trying to make a connection between the two events.  One father left. Never contacted me. Never tried until I contacted him when I was twenty-two years old and he was at the very least four years too late in a lot of ways. The other father swallowed a bullet. What did I do? How could I have stopped it? Was it something I did? Was it something I didn't do?

Some other part of me wants to blame somebody else. Anybody else. We don't let her outside much. It'll just lead to more pain and problems.

Most of me just keeps trying to put it aside and move on. It's like my mild depression. Maybe if I ignore it and try to live life, it'll go away and I'll somehow forget.

I haven't forgotten.

I can't forget.

Hell, I wasn't even going to write a post like this on a blog the whole world could see because it's supposed to be personal. It's supposed to be private.

This blog is supposed to be for fun. For Doctor Who and the books I write and rants about pointless things like literature...

But...

I can't just sit by anymore while this is going on in my head. Constantly.

Because in the midst of all that turmoil, all of that pain and betrayal I feel toward my uncle, I feel something worse.

It could've been me.

I've contemplated death so much over the years. Either because death as an idea fascinates me, or because it seems like a great way to get out of a life where I'm not happy.  There are months that go by where my happy moments are brief like matches. They ignite quickly and then they're gone and I'm wondering why the fire of joy that used to be in me didn't ignite.

There are times when everything seems to be going wrong and all I can think is, "I have to get out."

I could've done what my uncle did, but I didn't.

I'm happy I didn't because seeing the pain and suffering in my mother, grandmother, aunts, cousins... FAMILY.

... It's too much to bear.

Only, if I were dead, I wouldn't bear it unless there's some kind of afterlife... which I'm not convinced of most of the time.

Now all sorts of people grieve for a famous comedian who died while his death reminds me of a loss I suffered less recently. However, while everyone else will eventually move on from the death of Robin Williams. They'll talk about "how sad" it was. They'll mourn that he won't be making any more movies. They'll wish he'd made more.

They'll do all of that, but they'll still move on.

Meanwhile, in Ohio, Kentucky, Alabama, North Carolina, and Nebraska/North Dakota, a family will continue to grieve their loss. Alone at times, but always together because we share one common bond. We're family. 

I'm not always sure what that means anymore if they can and would really choose to leave in such a final and permanent way, but... There it is.  We're family, and we've gotten through the worst: the first year.

Now we just have to get through the remaining years the rest of us have on Earth.

This was probably an extremely selfish post, and I'll apologize to those who want apologies.

There is one thing though...

My uncle was not weak. He was not a coward. He didn't take the easy way out. My uncle fought to live for the better part of his life which was nearly fifty years in length while suffering from debilitating mental disorders. Yes, I am sad and wounded that he couldn't fight any longer and that he chose to leave this life and his family for what he hoped would be a better place. However, that does not give ANYBODY the right to insult him or make him seem small or insignificant or call him a coward.

My uncle was one of the smartest people I knew. He read more books than I could ever dream and he thought about what he read. My uncle taught me more about living and learning than most of my school days combined. He introduced me to topics and ways of thinking that I never considered. He sent me postcards of all the places he went while I was growing up because he loved me and he did the same thing for his own children for a time.

My uncle could put together beautiful poetry that would speak to the hearts and minds of anyone who read it.

My uncle knew more about living and suffering and carrying on than most of the people I meet day-to-day which is pretty crazy since I used to work at nursing homes where the people I met day-to-day were in teir 70s/80s/90s. 

My uncle may not have been the wisest. He may not have always done the correct thing, but he was a good man. 

I wish that man were still here. I really do, but part of me sympathizes with him because sometimes, after going through the motions for weeks on end, I'd think to myself, "Is this all there is? Will it ever get better?" Most of the time the answer was, "Yes it has to get better!" However, I know someday, the answer may be an unequivical, "No."

If that ever happens. If you ever realize that your days will never get better, even for a moment. How many of you think you could soldier on until the day you die? How many of you think you can live just one more day so you can be reminded of the good in the world? One more hour? On more minute? When all you can think of is the endless stream of days that will progressively get worse and worse until the day you die?

Because I don't think I could do it... and I admire every person who can and does.

Depression and suicide. Life and death... well, I'll just wrap this up with a Doctor Who quote. The one I always turn to regarding these things. The only one which makes all of this... make sense... The only one that makes it hurt less.

I found the meme that contains it here.