The Robin Williams is Dead Because of Depression Post

The Robin Williams is Dead Because of Depression Post

So the great Robin Williams committed suicide by hanging himself after a lifelong battle with depression. His death has sparked many voices to speak up on the condition.

Days prior, Inc.com ran an article discussing lifting the stigma of depression and entrepreneurs. They seem to be familiar with the subject matter. A fellow Dad Blogger found a new well of strength to write his moving experience with depression.

Personally, I don’t really know shit about it.

It seems to be potentially fatal.

I know my brother committed suicide by the same method as Robin Williams for the same affliction.

Leaving behind two young kids, I’ll never quite know how deeply his demons had taken root.

Robin Williams had kids. He was accomplished and revered and very much a success in every traditional sense. Drake and Trey Songz would be lucky to have a quarter of the same success they so crave.

I’ve questioned my own levels of depression over the years. I think I often confuse it with cumulative involuntary obligations. I’m not sure which one gets me down worse. I have no clue – that’s the depressing part.

Depression feels unfamiliar to the identity I associate with myself. It feels like the withering side of me which knows it cannot be fed. It’s like watching another part of ones own self starve and pass away – helpless to really do anything effective about it. It’s living in the helplessness. Day in and day out. Week in and week out. Years. It’s dark and looks endless.

Can you attempt to visualize what an internal abyss even looks like? What that visual must FEEL like?

I don’t know that cumulative pain. I do know time is the ultimate multiplier of everything, so I can only imagine what mental space people like my brother and Robin Williams must have lived their lives in.

I feel tinges of that space.

Space that is ultimately peaceful. No thoughts. A break from my own damn self, because even in sleep, I still find myself as the protagonist. I can be a selfish fuck.

Then usually after a smoke, I turn on some Kanye or Childish Gambino or Kendrick Lamar, and get back to the work of achieving the greatest version of myself I possibly can during this precious time on Earth. People like Robin Williams teach us there are no limits – and every piece of greatness comes with its equal share of demons.

Maybe we should be talking about it a little more.

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