Robin Williams was a very funny man—he couldn’t help it. His humour was irrepressible; he saw the funny side of almost everything. And maybe, if he hadn’t made comedy his life, he would have survived. But he was also a very smart man so he mined the human condition for his act. And it’s seriously depressing down there.
People who make their living at being creative mine those depths every day. That’s where the material is. And so often, the sadness of that material overwhelms us; we can’t do anything to fix it—our tools only allow us to reflect it, play it back to people hoping that they’ll see what we see, see the ugliness, greed and insanity—and that maybe someone out there, is listening to us, has the power to change some of the incredible inequity in the world.
But usually no one does. And sometimes we are just too tired to go on. Our work seems completely pointless—so either we quit working, which is a death anyway, or kill ourselves. Because depression is never just about one thing—it’s contagious. And it infects every part of our lives. It’s the reality, the hazard of the job we’ve taken on in the world. And sometimes, as in Williams’ case, even getting to the top of the profession, having people applaud and laugh and “love us” doesn’t help. Because even then it usually feels like all we are is a court jester. An escape valve so people can nod and laugh and get on with their lives. Nothing changes. Or it gets worse.
Is this kind of life-long depression a mental illness? I don’t know. But it’s both a pre-requisite for the work and mounting, cumulative and a very heavy side-effect. If we allowed the psychologists to “cure” the depression, mental illness or not, we’d be a world without any significant art, comedic or otherwise.
I didn’t know Robin Williams—I wish I had—but to me, his suicide isn’t surprising. Comedy is a serious and ultimately depressing business. What’s surprising is that anyone survives it.
Thank you Robin Williams. RIP
Wendy Brown is a freelance editorial cartoonist.
