Sometimes, it wins.

This is hard to write.

When I first saw that Robin Williams had passed away, I assumed it was due to a heart attack or something similar. He was relatively young, but such things are not unheard of, especially when the person in question has a history of substance abuse.

Then I read that it was an apparent suicide, and that he had been grappling with a particularly bad depressive episode recently, and I felt like I had been sucker punched.

Here's the thing. Yes, Robin Williams was a comedic genius, an incredibly talented actor, and by most accounts a very generous and compassionate soul. He was prolific as I was growing up in the 90's, and he made me laugh more times than I can count. For those reasons, I mourn him as I would mourn any artist who has affected my worldview and given me joy.

But honestly, it goes a lot deeper than that in this case. His death has frightened and humbled me, in a way that I don't often allow myself to feel.





A few days ago, I was visiting my parents and admiring a landscape hanging in their living room. My mother told me it was done by my great-great-grandmother, who had trained with a famous painter and showed real promise. She also lost her husband to influenza only a few weeks after their marriage, and descended into a depression from which she never really recovered. She lived a long and very sad life.

Mom and I talked about what an unfathomable waste it was - about the toll mental illness has taken on humanity, and how only recently we have begun to develop the understanding and the tools necessary to combat it effectively. We still have such a long way to go, and creating better treatments is only part of it. The stigma associated with mental illness, even in "developed" nations like ours, is still real and still harmful.



Depression has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It is my inheritance, genetically determined, as much a part of me as my height or eye color. Few women on either side of my family have escaped its grasp completely, and those who have been lucky enough not to experience it directly have still had to deal with its effects on their loved ones.

It is an insidious disease. It actively tricks you. It uses your own thoughts against you. It makes you an accomplice in your own destruction.

Depression magnifies your mistakes as it tears down and belittles your accomplishments; it drains the energy and vitality from your life, and leaves you with anxiety and anguish. It convinces you that your weakness caused its presence, when the truth is quite the opposite - its presence has weakened you. But to my mind, the worst thing it does is this: it takes away your hope. It convinces you that it's never going away - that you will always, always feel like this, and it's not going to get any better.

I don't suffer as severely as many people do, but I definitely have my bad days.

Or weeks.

Or even, well, months.

And I truly doubt it is something that will ever be "cured" - managed, yes, but never completely gone. Even at my happiest, I can feel it lurking in the background, waiting for an opening. The best I can do is to be present in my moment of joy (or contentment, or whatever), and say to my depression, "Not today, pal. Today you sit down and shut up."



Over the past year, I've had some reminders from people in my life of what can happen when depression is not managed effectively. I don't want to get into detail, because they are not my stories to tell; suffice it to say that I am thankful there was no lasting physical damage from these incidents, and the people involved seem to be doing better now.

In these cases, when I found out what was happening, I didn't have much of an emotional reaction. If I could do something, I did it. If the person was already getting help by the time I heard about it, I offered up my agnostic-Unitarian Universalist-Buddhist-Christian hodgepodge of prayers and meditation. I accepted, with relative serenity, the things I could not change, and found the strength to change the things I could. I was okay.

So why, when I heard about the suicide of Robin Williams - someone I didn't know - did I end up in fetal position on my bathroom floor, sobbing hysterically?

His death brings an unpleasant reality -one that I try very hard not to dwell on - right to the forefront. It reminds me that sometimes, even with access to the best care available, even with reason after reason after reason to keep trying - sometimes, depression wins.



The National Suicide Prevention Hotline can be reached at 1-800-273-8255.

If you struggle with depression, please don't try to take it on by yourself. Try - and I know this is so hard - but try to remember that depression lies.

Be kind to yourself.