Hearing yesterday that Robin Williams had died from suspected suicide wasn't a massive hit to my life at first. I thought it was terrible, while visions of Jumanji ran through my head, and then continued stacking the dishwasher. It was once I'd logged on to social media and saw everyone talk about all of the amazing things that he had accomplished and how he had changed people's lives that it really hit me; this was a man who had made fantastic movies that made people laugh and cry and feel something real throughout his life, why did he choose to end it?
I suppose that's the point, though - people with depression don't choose, it just happens. They can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, they can't see a point to their lives. I recently read a book by Viktor Frankl, (Man's Search For Meaning) and it was all about how people find a way to survive if they have something to live for. It was what helped himself get through the holocaust.
And now that I think about it, it's true for me too. I attempted suicide earlier this year - one of the blackest times of my life. I didn't feel like there was anything to live for, that nothing was going right and nothing was ever going to be right. I couldn't see the love and support that I was getting from the people around me. It took an attempted overdose to realise that I have so much left to accomplish, so much more love to give. Now when I'm feeling down, I tell someone about it. I don't want to take the easy way out.
This blog post is a bit all over the place. And a bit scary to post. I've been feeling a bit down and my head's been spinning, I needed a place to vent. It's always better to talk than to keep it all bottled up inside.
R.I.P. Robin Williams.