The other picture where everyone’s commenting on how ugly the guy is is me, and even though in his defense of me he admits that I’m not cute, he’s still right. Almost all of the comments on mine are negative, almost all of the comments on the cute guy are positive. Same hair, different color, cuter guy.
I don’t feel that I need to explain why Robin Williams’ death is affecting me so much. If anything, the last 24 hours has shown the kind of massive outpouring of emotion that shows I am not alone in this. I do, however, feel compelled to share. I apologize, it does get a bit dark, but, I feel like I need to clear the hard clog in my throat and lift some of the weight from my lungs.
As you can infer, The Birdcage is a movie which has meant a lot to me. It’s one of the few films I can’t remember discovering. It’s just… been. It’s always been in my life. It’s always been my favorite film, the one film I will ALWAYS watch (even if I just finished watching it). And it’s a film that has meant a lot to me personally, just as Robin Williams did.
To put it as politely (and, yet, bluntly) as possible–and with no surprise to those who know me–I’ve struggled with demons for a long time. This wasn’t the last time I had thoughts, but the last time the darkness… overwhelmed me, I ended up in the hospital a couple of years ago. After clearing me from the ER, they moved me into my own room where I was left with no phone or anything else. But, I had a television. I turned it on and Robin Williams immediately appeared saying, “The important thing to remember is not to go to pieces when that happens.”
I’m a terrible writer because I can’t fully and intricately express to you the feeling of sitting in a hospital bed, after having just battled the darkest demons of the murkiest part of your life, and being bathed in the light of your favorite movie–a movie of hope–and one of your favorite actors and comedians saying the thing you need to hear at that exact moment. That was the specific second that I knew I had to fight harder to never end back up in a hospital bed.
For yesterday to be the end of this story makes me feel like I stole something. Like I bled him dry of the light he carried so that I could survive, and I know that’s bullshit, but that’s where I am. I feel guilt, but I know that’s not what I’m supposed to take away from this. I know that this is just another moment where I need to learn that it gets hard. It gets really hard. Often impossible. But, I can’t go to pieces when this happens. There’s really no way to end this. It’s gotten self-indulgent and self-pitying enough. All I can say is I truly, honestly, whole-heartedly miss a man I’ve never met and who will never know how much he meant to me, or to all of us who are struggling to deal with loss.