I don't usually feel deeply affected by the news of the passing of celebrities or other public figures. When the news pops up on Facebook - which is where I usually first come across it - I might feel, if I enjoyed their work, regretful that they will produce no more. Often, especially if I didn't have any great interest in them in life, any emotion I will have will be for their families; when Peaches Geldof died, it was Bob Geldof's simple, wrenching statement that "We are beyond pain" that gave me pause. But I often feel awkward at the idea of public grief for a complete stranger. I think this dates back to when my beloved Nana died in very close proximity to the Queen Mother. Young as I was, I vividly recall feeling almost angry at the tears shed on television for the Queen Mum by people who had never known her, barely days apart from my shedding my own tears at the funeral of a grandmother I knew and loved.
But this morning, I woke up to the news of the death of Robin Williams, and, for the first time at the death of a celebrity I never knew, I feel genuinely floored. I must have watched Mrs Doubtfire a dozen times over my childhood. One Christmas, I think, my family watched and recorded Hook, but then someone went and recorded over the first hour or so of the film. But the second half of that film I also watched over and over again. I remember both films arousing deep feelings in me. They were both, of course, exceedingly funny, but they both invoke great pathos - for example in the shuddering, humiliating moment in which 'Mrs Doubtfire' is unmasked, and in the sheer idea of Peter Pan as an adult grown. I noticed a comment on Facebook this morning which said that Williams' films would always be tinged with sadness from now on. But, I think they always were. But comedy tinged with sadness is true to life, and therefore a very special thing. And I feel real sadness that a man who touched on that truth is gone.
And then there is the manner of his passing. According to news reports nothing is confirmed, but it seems likely that his death was suicide. I have felt... oddly pleased, though that is not the right word, to see many people saying that he "died of depression". To me that seems a far more accurate, and empathetic, description of a life ended in the throes of depression. It was not so long ago that Christians who committed suicide were denied burial in holy ground for the blasphemy of taking a God-give life. But to speak of someone dying of depression is to express an understanding that they suffered from, and succumbed to, a terrible illness, even if it was not one of the flesh. There should be no more blame, and no less sympathy, attached to that person than there should be to someone who died of a physical illness.
But, there is blame somewhere. I feel so confused and angry that a man with wealth and fame and a loving family still died of depression, still could not be saved from his illness. I think of Robin Williams and I think of the people I know who suffer from the same illness, and I want to know where they would get help if they truly needed it. I feel angry that society is still only slowly moving towards an appreciation of mental illness as a genuine, often treatable affliction, and not something to be ashamed of, to not ask help for if you suffer from it. And I feel angry with depression, for the strength it has and the destruction it wields. Perhaps all the public understanding of mental illness in the world could not save some sufferers from dying of it.
So, for the first time ever, I have cried to hear of the death of a celebrity who I never knew, apart from through his comedy. The thought that a person who, indirectly, made my childhood self laugh and stop and think is gone is bad enough. But the thought that such a person died of an illness that left him with so little joy, and so little compassion for himself that there was only one thing he could do to escape it... that is what makes me cry.
But this morning, I woke up to the news of the death of Robin Williams, and, for the first time at the death of a celebrity I never knew, I feel genuinely floored. I must have watched Mrs Doubtfire a dozen times over my childhood. One Christmas, I think, my family watched and recorded Hook, but then someone went and recorded over the first hour or so of the film. But the second half of that film I also watched over and over again. I remember both films arousing deep feelings in me. They were both, of course, exceedingly funny, but they both invoke great pathos - for example in the shuddering, humiliating moment in which 'Mrs Doubtfire' is unmasked, and in the sheer idea of Peter Pan as an adult grown. I noticed a comment on Facebook this morning which said that Williams' films would always be tinged with sadness from now on. But, I think they always were. But comedy tinged with sadness is true to life, and therefore a very special thing. And I feel real sadness that a man who touched on that truth is gone.
And then there is the manner of his passing. According to news reports nothing is confirmed, but it seems likely that his death was suicide. I have felt... oddly pleased, though that is not the right word, to see many people saying that he "died of depression". To me that seems a far more accurate, and empathetic, description of a life ended in the throes of depression. It was not so long ago that Christians who committed suicide were denied burial in holy ground for the blasphemy of taking a God-give life. But to speak of someone dying of depression is to express an understanding that they suffered from, and succumbed to, a terrible illness, even if it was not one of the flesh. There should be no more blame, and no less sympathy, attached to that person than there should be to someone who died of a physical illness.
But, there is blame somewhere. I feel so confused and angry that a man with wealth and fame and a loving family still died of depression, still could not be saved from his illness. I think of Robin Williams and I think of the people I know who suffer from the same illness, and I want to know where they would get help if they truly needed it. I feel angry that society is still only slowly moving towards an appreciation of mental illness as a genuine, often treatable affliction, and not something to be ashamed of, to not ask help for if you suffer from it. And I feel angry with depression, for the strength it has and the destruction it wields. Perhaps all the public understanding of mental illness in the world could not save some sufferers from dying of it.
So, for the first time ever, I have cried to hear of the death of a celebrity who I never knew, apart from through his comedy. The thought that a person who, indirectly, made my childhood self laugh and stop and think is gone is bad enough. But the thought that such a person died of an illness that left him with so little joy, and so little compassion for himself that there was only one thing he could do to escape it... that is what makes me cry.
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A Postscript.
As I hope this essay expresses, everyone needs help sometimes, and there is no shame at all in that. Call a friend, call a family member, call the Samaritans (08457 909090). Do not suffer in silence.
As I hope this essay expresses, everyone needs help sometimes, and there is no shame at all in that. Call a friend, call a family member, call the Samaritans (08457 909090). Do not suffer in silence.
