Pagliacci, Exit Stage Right

I fear that this ramble will turn into a bit of a rant at some point, but that tends to happen when what I'm writing about is so rooted in my being and morals that I can't help but get passionate about what it is I am writing.

I recognize that some people might not agree with what I am going to say.  Some people might even stop reading after the next paragraph or two.  Some people might change the way they think of me.  And I am ok with all of that.

I can't not sit by and let Robin Williams' death go unreflected upon.

For those that didn't know, Robin Williams was my personal hero.  He was why I became an actor.  He was my favorite actor.  He was who I wanted to embody every time I took the stage.  I remember watching Robin Williams movies when I was younger and completely loving the feeling that he left me with as the credits rolled.  It wasn't until later that I discovered that that feeling I was left with was the feeling that I wanted to leave others with.  So I consciously made the decision to be an actor for the rest of my life.  I wanted to be his warmth, his funny, his honesty, his truth, his smile (I am lucky enough to already have the blue eyes).  Would I have wanted to become an actor had I not had such a connection with Robin that I do today?  Maybe.  Who knows.  But I am one and it is because of him, so why speculate?  

When I got news about his death at 7:02 pm, Monday August 11th, 2014, I, along with many people around the world, felt my heart jump into my throat and beat a hysteric rhythm that would make any cardiologist see dollar signs.  My hands started shaking something fierce and I couldn't catch my breath.  It was like I was on a month long hunger strike and just ran a marathon.  I had no strength in me anywhere.  I even checked on four websites to confirm it.  But there it was.  Robin Williams, aged 63, found dead.  Suicide suspected.

And here we go.

Suicide is not a choice.

Suicide is not what killed Robin Williams.

That is my belief and I will argue that until the day that I die.  I honestly believe that suicide can be ingrained in your body just much as sexual orientation or whether you are a righty or a lefty.  You are not born with suicide in your nature, but rather it springs up like a nosy weed among your prized garden of life.  But this weed can't be pulled.  Once it's there, it is there.  Whether tendencies, thoughts, attempts, or the actual act itself.  I am disgusted that people have the audacity to say that anyone is selfish that chooses to take their own life.  That they are don't care about the people around them and what happens to them once they are gone.  That they had a choice to live or die, but they decided to continue the cut or cock the gun.  That they chose the 'coward's way out' and decided to end it all.  Running away from their problems.

These people that honestly believe that, and think that suicide is a choice, I envy them because they have obviously (and I hate using that word) fought the battle with suicide, or maybe even just severe depression.  I can't say that what I had was severe, but I battled with depression all of high school, through college, and even have lapses of it now.  When you fall into that 'funk' or 'blue state', it truly is numbing.  Nothing that you have in the world means anything to you; fame, fortune, friends, love, material goods.  Nothing.

So be fortunate. 

When you walk up to an elevator, what makes sense is to press the button to call it.  When you you sit down in your car, it makes sense to put the key in and start it.  When you are succumbed by depression, by the darkest, lonliest, most isolated feeling that mankind can ever feel, there are really few things that makes sense. 

Now, I am not condoning suicide.  Let me state that again.

I am not condoning suicide.

And those that know me, I am not someone to talk and 'preach' about what I don't have experience in.  I don't talk about politics or health care or German literature because am ignorant to those topics.  I find it very unattractive when people argue with the one-and-a-half points of knowledge they have on a topic and claim to be the experts.  But I am ranting about depression and suicide, so do the math.

Suicide is a real thing.  It shouldn't be this taboo subject that no one talks about because it is supposedly 'frowned upon' or looked at as something 'ordinary people' wouldn't do.  Bullshit.  The truth is, people dealing with it often times don't know that they are, actually, dealing with it, and won't talk about it.  Other times, they won't talk about it because they are ashamed and embarrassed and don't want to make others think different about them, so they leave on the face that everyone is familiar with.  But trust me when I say this, we really do want to talk about it.  We just don't know how.

But there's another battle I'm having.  It's with myself.  It's the battle of  do I even have the right to mourn and grieve?  This is a man I never met and I am a man that he didn't even knew existed. This is a man who had friends, family, colleagues, and people closer to him that he might have ever known. And I'm just a man in New York struggling to be half the performer that Robin ever was. So do I have the right to mourn him as if he were a family member? Because this certainly feels like the loss of one.

In ways I feel foolish and selfish for being so torn up about a man I never met before. It's like a sick case of "one ups". He never shook my hand. He never took time out of his day to talk to me. He never shared a story or anecdote with me. And I never did any of that for him. So can I mourn?

Monday wasn't so much about sadness as it was about shock. I shed one, maybe two tears, on Monday. Tuesday was different. Tuesday I couldn't concentrate. Tuesday I couldn't focus. Tuesday, all I cared about was when I got to go back to bed and pull the sheets up around my chin. At work, I had to excuse myself from the floor twice to lock myself in the bathroom and sob for 20 minutes. I had to make sure to wipe up the tears and snot that pooled on the ground by the toilet before I left and went back on the floor.  

So whether I have the right to mourn and grieve as a family member, I'm doing it. Because I looked up to Robin Williams as much as I look up to my own father. I lost someone that gave me guidance and direction without him even knowing it.

This was a man whose simple smile could lift anyone's spirit.  When he smiled at his kids in Mrs. Doubtfire you knew he loved them.  When he grinned at his students in Dead Poet's Society you knew he was proud of them.  When he laughed with his patients in Patch Adams you know he would give them the world.  It just proves that, no matter what face we wear in public, no one ever knows what is happening behind closed doors...unless we decide to open one of them.

So now I send out a plea. Don't feel like you have to go through life alone. No one should have to go through life alone. That's why you were graced with family members, friends, colleagues, teachers, coworkers, and mentors. They were put into your life more than to just be there. Here put there to be there for you. I made the decision to reach out and talk and find out what was going on inside my head. And, to this day, next to the first time I made a decision to watch a Robin Williams film, that was the best decision ever made. 

Learn from your heroes. Learn how they entered. Learn what they did while they were here. And take lessons from how they left.

I will never stop loving Robin Williams, as a person would professional. And I certainly, with all my heart and morals, will never ever judge him for what he chose to do.

Be your own catalyst of change.

Be well, take care of each other, and ramble on,

Stish