As human beings we do all kinds of things to avoid suffering. Drink, drugs, hobbies, television, 'retail therapy', computer games, gambling. The list is endless. It is our job to survive and avoid suffering: to huddle around our loved ones, to live and thrive and not let the shit of life get us down. This need is something we must all answer to.
For Robin Williams, it seems avoiding suffering was a very hard task. By abusing alcohol and cocaine, some might think he brought mental ill health upon himself. But those who are well don't abuse their bodies with toxic substances – because to a healthy human being this wouldn't make any sense. It is an attempt to escape pain.
I didn't know Robin Williams – although I wish I had been one of those very fortunate people. But it seems obvious that this comic genius did all he could to flee what is commonly known as the Black Dog – depression. I believe he tried to outrun his suffering. It breaks my heart that yesterday, it chased him down and backed him into a corner where there seemed only one way out.
I believe he wanted to live. I think about his films that have planted seeds in my mind which blossomed into little hope–filled memories. In particular the semi-biographical film Patch Adams (pictured). The last time I thought about that film was a mere week ago – reflecting on the female lead character Carin (Monica Potter) who yearned to be free from the men who preyed on her as a thing to be used. I remember how Patch (played by Williams) deeply loved and cherished her for the whole person she was. How patient he was with her sadness. How – despite an utterly devastating turn of events – she became his ultimate reason to not be defeated by the darkness in the world.
And I regularly think about the scene where Patch explains that helping others helps him forget about his own problems. For someone who is both brilliant and has the potential for deep sadness, finding purpose in helping others can be a liberation. It might be risky to try to carry on purely for the sake of other people without dealing with one's own demons – but what is even more dangerous is for society to make the assumption that the latter option is always within reach.
I cast my mind to the emotionally intense scenes in Good Will Hunting where Matt Damon's character – Will, a highly intelligent man who seems to know about and understand everything except himself – receives therapy from Dr Maguire, played by Williams. The experienced shrink uses daggers of insight and truth with precision, to pierce the layers of Will's denial and repression. In this scene, Williams repeats arguably the most famous lines from the film: 'It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.' Will's wounds, having been acknowledged and aired, have a chance to heal. But Damon's character is young, and so the therapeutic intervention perhaps early enough to save him. As portrayed in the film, the potential for this kind of healing shouldn't be seen as a certainty but more as beautiful in its total miraculousness.
In the late 1990s I stood in front of hundreds of proud parents along with my primary school peers giving a colourful, props–filled rendition of 'Friend like me' – the rousing number Genie, voiced by Williams, sings to Alladin in the Disney film of the same name. Our creative and enthusiastic teacher, who literally orchestrated this performance, let our ideas run wild, to this day securing the esteemed place in my heart of 'favourite teacher'. Tragedy struck, however, and in later years I learned of this person's enormous struggles with alcoholism and a deep well of mental anguish. We knew a teacher who was passionate, fun and creative. We did not know about the other side, the suffering.
To be highly smart and creative, running on high emotions and highly sensitivity to life around you, may seem like the luck of the draw. But the tragedy is that such a state can all too easily lend itself to self–destruction. Author of the internationally–acclaimed memoir Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert, describes it this way: '... having a creative mind is something like a owning Border Terrier; It needs a job. And if you don't give it a job, it will invent a job (which will involve tearing something up.) Which is why I have learned over the years that if I am not actively creating something, chances are I am about to start actively destroying something.'
Williams created, gave and suffered, all in huge amounts. And his suffering was extremely hard to outrun, though he bravely struggled against it. It is hard to not despair at the news, knowing he will be sadly missed by millions of people. Yet there are no neat answers – except to recognise that a beautifully prolific mind can sometimes be a danger to itself.
I take solace in what I believe to be the truth – that Williams did not want to die so much as he had a deep desire to live and to win out over his suffering. Yesterday, he did not win. But we should not forget the many, many times he did. The many times he found joy and shared it; the ways he has made the world laugh. His films and comedy have enriched those of us lucky enough to have experienced it. If only we could have given back to him the same joy he so abundantly provided; and if only that Black Dog would have let him have it.
Rest in peace Robin Williams. Thank you for all the times you outran that dog – and for all the joy you left for us.
Megan Graham won the 2013 Margaret Dooley Award for Young Writers.