...if i could turn back the clock...

It was like any other night here at our house when I opened the computer and pulled up the news headlines.  But it was not an ordinary news night...Robin Williams’ face was the top story, dead at age 63 of an apparent suicide.  I was so sad--i loved his work.  He was an awesome actor and wonderful comic.  He had such a presence, such a gift.  But under his gift of laughter was also a well of sadness that had been his undoing. 

Over the next few days, I read a lot of articles about Robin Williams, about depression, about suicide.  I learned a little bit about a lot of things, but maybe I learned the most about myself.  After having experienced depression episodically throughout my adult life, sometimes debilitating in its severity, I no longer see life, or the people in it, in the same way.  Some of the opinions that were expressed about Mr. Williams were kind; others were not.  Some were well-meaning but unhelpful.  I read and re-read, mulling things over.  Some of the things I read were helpful; some were hurtful.  Some brought back memories I would rather forget. 

When I had finished all the information and opinions that my brain could hold, I began to write something that I wish someone could have said to him.  Of course, it cannot bring him back.  Maybe my motive was selfish; I found, as I wrote, that it was healing for me to write this stuff out.  Maybe it won’t really help anyone who is in the same dark place either.  But if it will help someone understand how the dark places look, from someone who has been there, then I am glad I shared it.


Dear Mr. Williams,

If i could turn back the clock, turn it back to a few minutes before you did that fateful and fatal deed from which there is no coming back...if i could talk to you...

I know that if you are bent on destroying yourself, nothing I could say or do can stop you.  If I took one method from you, you would find another.  It is your decision, your choice.  But may I sit with you, for a while, before you make your decision?  I’m sorry the details of this whole sorry affair are so public...I feel like i am trespassing on private territory which should be personal.  But would you hand me the rope?  I know, it is yours...I am not stealing it.  I will just hold it for now.

I am so, so very sorry for your pain.  Probably, nothing I can say or do can stop the pain you face, or break through the shame and feelings of utter worthlessness.  I wish I could say something magically encouraging that would lift you out of this pit.  But it doesn’t work like that.  I would tell you that you are loved, by your family, your friends, your fans.  I would tell you how much joy you brought to my home and my family with your delightful movie performances, how one of your stand-up comedy performances made me laugh so hard I could not breathe. 

I wish that telling you how we have loved and admired you, both as a person and through your wonderful art--contradictory though it sounds to say “we love you for who you are  because of your acting ability,” I believe it is true because you gave us such a glimpse of the real man inside, through your acting--I wish telling you that you are loved and appreciated would chase the demons far away and bring you some feeling of self-worth again. 

But I know it can’t.  I have been there--not exactly where you are, as you sit here on such friendly terms with this rope, but I have known depths of pain.  i have known the feeling of being trapped by love, torn between the knowledge that the world would be better without me in it, but knowing that I could not leave it willingly because of those who were still in it.  i have known sadly, terribly, desperately that my family loves me.  I have known that my friends loved me (at least, the ones i had not pushed away as I sank lower and lower).  I have known that there was still something left in me that could not leave them, known how it would devastate them if i did...but it still did not change this feeling of worthlessness and utter self-loathing.  I would try to put on the best face I could, but then hide when I could no longer hold it together. 

I know what it is to feel, as Abraham Lincoln said, that one must die, or be better.  The feeling that there is no going on like this.  But deep down, I did not truly want to die yet.  I have been in the depths, but could not quite get on friendly terms with the rope or any other instrument of death.  The pain was terrifyingly strong; but for me, survival was still stronger. 

It made me angry, that, when I finally asked for help, the doctor treated me as if I were playing a mind game.  As if I were a risk to myself.  If I wanted to die, I would not have asked for help.  I wanted to live.  I wanted to find out how to get better, not to be treated with distrust and warned to rid my home of anything potentially lethal.  If I had wanted to destroy myself, I would have done it.  If one method had been taken from me, I would have found another.  But I was not playing a game, and it was a slap in the face to have every word that I spoke carefully weighed, distrust thinly veiled.  How I hated the shame and humiliation of that distrust.

I still wanted to fight, still wanted to live.  I felt like the world would be a better place without me in it, but I could not handle the thought of what devastation my children would endure.  I knew that my husband would be crushed if I were gone.  I could not bear the thought of willfully leaving him to face life alone.  We have been a team for so long.  So, I still kept my will to fight, for their sakes if not my own.   

My close friend endures terrible physical pain from a genetic illness; pain for which there is often little relief.  We have an understanding for each other, not because our pain is the same, but because we both know pain and live with it on intimate terms.  But one dark day, the deep pain in her body getting the best of her, she also had a taste of the pit of depression and the terror that lies therein.  She does not usually cry, but she was almost in tears when she said, “I can’t imagine how it feels to face this over and over again, Rose.”

I know how bad her physical pain can be, how much metal she has in her body from her bones being put back into place and supported with pins, rods, screws.  I can’t imagine facing her pain over and over...for her to say that mine is worse than she had imagined blew me away.  It was not a question of either of us trying to one-up the other--it was just her honest take on it having experienced both sides of it.   I had listened to the common jokes about mental illness and the derision that is sometimes carelessly thrown about by those who do not know whereof they speak.  It fed my own self-loathing and added to my conviction that I was worth less than nothing.  I had always felt weak, for battling these demons.  I had never before been the recipient of admiration for being strong enough to live with them. 

Oh, how I wish i could tell you that there is still beauty in life.  I wish you could believe it.  One of the most painful parts of depression is the total inability to see with any clarity, how things will ever be better.  They do get better.  I think that somewhere, deep down, you may know that, having experienced it before.  But when you are deep in the abyss, you can’t see it.  There are still clear, cool summer mornings, fresh and laden with dew; there are still hugs from children, and love from and for and with spouses.  There is still the haunting beauty, that, something, somewhere, is greater, bigger, and grander than us; and that we have a tiny part of it in our lives, our loves, our laughter, and our tears.

I wish I could tell you this.  I wish I could make you believe me.  But I can’t.  Ultimately, it is your choice, your decision.

It is so hard to keep fighting.  It is a painful, uphill battle.  It is frightening to live with the knowledge that, even after you have climbed out of the abyss, it is still an open pit, waiting around some corner that you have not yet turned...sometimes that knowledge is almost as frightening as the pit itself.

Anyone who looks down on you for fighting the battle, who looks down on you for sitting here on friendly terms with this rope, has never fought the battle themselves.  Does not understand, even if they think they do.  If they understood, they would not blame you or shame you.  They would sit with you and tell you how sorry they are for your pain--desperately wishing to make it better, but knowing that they cannot. 

Well, I can’t hold your rope anymore.  It is not mine.  But please, please don’t use it for that purpose you are thinking of.  Please stay with us.  We love you and will miss you so, when you go.  It is appointed to all men to die, but please don’t do it by your own hand.  There will never be another you.  Whether you are a great actor, a comic genius, or simply a man who lives a quiet life among family and friends who love him dearly and would miss him sadly. 

If you are bent on doing it, I can’t stop you.  I know that to live with this is a long, hard, painful fight.  One that you have fought for many years, so bravely.  I don’t blame you for being tired, aching, and battle-weary.  I want you to stay, but no matter how you decide, I understand.  I understand, but still...please stay.  Please stay.  This pain, too, shall pass away; and the world is still beautiful. 

...pure love...

It was one of those sweet, fresh late summer mornings.  Fragrant with mowed hay fields and dew.  Sunshine and cows across the road in the meadow.  I sat on the bench on the porch and listened to the rumble of hubby’s motorcycle from the shed as he got ready to leave for work.  Rested my chin on my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs against the morning chill.

It was a good morning...with a good night of sleep behind me and a minimum of wake-up jitters.  Kids were still in bed finishing up their good night of sleep--hopefully for a little while yet, anyway.  Coffee was waiting and I had fallen prey to a fit of domesticity and baked a blueberry coffeecake the night before in preparation for breakfast this morning. 

Love welled up in my heart, for my hubby, my kids, and this beautiful day.  Nothing out of the ordinary--except the blueberry coffeecake--but such a sweetness to life this morning.  Hubby and I laughing at our own jokes...only funny to us, but sweet and familiar...as he got ready for work.  Tiptoeing around the boys’ beds so as not to disturb the sleeping lumps under the covers as I turned off the fan in their window which was making the room downright cold.  In the next room, my little girl was another sleeping lump under the covers; finally home from camp and enjoying a good night of sleep in her own bed.

Sometimes, there are moments when life seems to be just pure love.  Maybe mingled with a bit of blissful contentment. 

One last check to be sure he had everything; one more hug and goodbye kiss. 

I hugged my knees and watched hubby pull to the end of the driveway.  I put my hand up in a little wave and he tapped the horn as he pulled out onto the road.  I sat on the porch and listened to the rumble of the motorcycle until it faded into the distance.