In the day since his death, Robin Williams has been mourned
and eulogized all over the internet, and probably in conversations all over the
country. I can’t add anything, really, except that his death makes me think
about clinical depression. This illness
has many sources, some of them chemical and genetic, some of them
environmental. It’s an illness just as
much as diabetes is an illness. However, most of us don’t view it the same way
we view diabetes. Don’t say that’s because
diabetes isn’t dangerous and potentially lethal, because it certainly is.
Depression runs in my family, on both sides. It has led to
three suicides: an uncle on my mother’s side,
and two cousins on my father’s side.
All three of those relatives were men, and all three shot
themselves. Perhaps they would still be
alive if they hadn’t had guns. Perhaps
not. It is a great mystery. I’d venture
to say that many more relatives have suffered from at least occasional
depression, including my father and mother.
Including myself.
Depression seems to be an occupational hazard for comedians,
and also for novelists and poets. It’s a great mystery.
We really do need to pay attention to the signs of clinical
depression in friends and family members.
- Fatigue or loss of energy almost every day
- Feelings of worthlessness or guilt almost every day
- Impaired concentration, indecisiveness
- Insomnia or hypersomnia (excessive sleeping) almost every day
- Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in almost all activities nearly every day (called anhedonia, this symptom can be indicated by reports from significant others)
- Restlessness or feeling slowed down
- Recurring thoughts of death or suicide
- Significant weight loss or gain (a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month)
I just read this insightful essay by
Dick Cavett on the subject, and I’m pasting it here:
Dick
Cavett: Robin Williams Won’t Be the Last Suicidal Star
Robin Williams will not be the last
cherished performer to be snatched from our midst by depression and suicide.
It’s a melancholy fact that what a
musician friend calls “the real blues,” and Churchill called “the Black Dog,”
seem to have a much too close affinity to a performer’s life. Depression seems
to stalk the lively arts like Jack the Ripper, accompanied by depression’s
hand-maiden, suicide.
No one I know claims to know why.
Is there something in the brain
chemistry of the actor/performer that produces this woeful result?
I could fill this page and another
with the names of famous and less so actors, comics, and musicians who live
miserably — and die — in association with that demon of a hound.
And booze is the favored self-treatment. Not surprising, because you will
feel a little better, for a bit — but it’s a costly temporary reprieve, since
alcohol is a depressant of the central nervous system.I guarantee you that thousands, hearing of Robin’s death, asked how he could do it when he had everything: fame, wealth, adulation, family love. And another supposed insulator against the worst of the blues, plenty of work. No combination of those adds up to insurance. And the hectic, nerve-wracking ups and downs of fortune in show business are, of course, a major factor for emotional disequilibrium.
You yourself may have thought, “How could he do this to his wife and kids?” Easy. Because what’s been called the worst agony devised for man doesn’t allow you to feel any emotion for kids, spouses, lovers, parents … even your beloved dog. And least of all for yourself.
I know Robin knew this. His death recalled a moment with him years ago in a small club. He came off stage after bringing a cheering audience to its feet. “Isn’t it funny how I can bring great happiness to all these people,” he said. “But not to myself.”
The non-actor has a major advantage because it’s harder to hide the symptoms. The actor knows how to act. To play having fun. Too often it’s “He was the life of the party that night. And then he went home and…”
Robin and I agreed once that it’s galling to hear — when you’re “in it” — the question: “What have you got to be depressed about?” The great British actor and comedian, Stephen Fry, a fellow-sufferer, replies “And what have you got to have asthma about?”
Robin, like his idol Jonathan Winters, must have had one of the world’s hardest talents with which to live and retain personal balance. Sitting next to him on my old PBS show was like sitting in the Macy’s barge next to the fireworks going off. He was at full, manic, comic frenzy for an hour without let-up. (We even improvised a short Shakespeare play together, with and without rhymed couplets.) I caught his manic energy. It was exhilarating. And exhausting.
When it ended, I was wet and spent. It took him a while to come (partially) down, and I thought, “Can this be good for anyone? Can you be able to do all these rapid-fire personality changes and emerge knowing who you yourself are?
But can any of us really see ourselves? I was unable to watch a show I did with Laurence Olivier while I was virtually blinded with depression. I told Marlon Brando I could never watch it, knowing I’d look dead, slow, and stupid. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Watch it.” I made myself watch. I looked fine. My eyes were bright and the silences I recalled were gone.
I called Brando and I asked him what explained that. “Automatic pilot. We all get by on it when the clouds roll in. Too bad they roll back in when the performance ends and you get back under the bed.”
This will not brighten the picture: I said to a brilliant psychopharmacologist recently that there must be a lot of progress and new medications since I suffered depression back in the ’70s. The answer: “No, we’re really not making much progress I’m afraid.”
Some day, will some chemical link be found between great, great performing talent and susceptibility to that awful conqueror of the talented performer?
Are the gods jealous? Do they cruelly envy the greatly gifted and, in the classic Greek manner, smite them low?
The somewhat grim answer: We’d better enjoy them while we can.
Dick Cavett on Time.com Aug.12
