The evil beast has snatched another victim. Or the “Black Dog” as Winston Churchill called it. No matter the descriptive epithet, depression is an absolutely brutal, unforgiving, unrelenting vicious illness. Those of us who suffer from it can try to convey its debilitating effects to non-sufferers and hope that they simply take our word for it. Clinical depression is nothing short of a fiend. A malicious demon that battles for your very soul. It keeps you constantly on the defensive, menacing you, taunting you. Yesterday, beloved actor Robin Williams tragically reached the point – the point of no return – where he just could not make it through one more day. In his California home, he took his own life. He was 63 years old. God rest his soul.
A shy, bullied only child, raised in the midwest, often left alone to his own devices, Williams seized his coping mechanisms, carried them into adulthood, and spun them into pure magic. A husband, father of three, Julliard alum, Oscar winner, stand-up comic, devoted friend, tireless supporter of the USO and St. Jude Children’s Hospital, actor of such astonishingly vast range he could communicate, and communicate with complete authenticity, both hilarity and heartbreak, joy and pathos, absurdity and earnestness. The performer who can transition between comedy and drama is a rare breed. Jack Lemmon comes to mind, as does Tom Hanks. But Robin Williams as an individual revealed a warmth and self-deprecating candor that is uncommon among show business types. He made no secret of his drug and alcohol addictions, his insecurities, and of course, his decades long struggle with depression. He sought, above all else, to entertain us. And boy did he.
Robin Williams, our genie and jester. Our alien, our mime, our english teacher, our Boston shrink, our stream-of-consciousness talk show guest … ours. Rest in peace. And thank you.