O Captains, my Captains....

Twice now in less than a month my life has been touched by the tragedy of suicide. In the one instance a beloved law school professor, in the other an iconic entertainer. In both instances the world was deprived of an individual full of passion, vibrancy, and an altruistic need to help others. I am saddened, and angry, that these individuals were taken from me, and I am so tragically saddened that the evilness that is the disease of depression took such a hold on these wonderful, beloved people. 

 

Make no mistake, depression is a disease, one from which many cannot escape. It takes hold like a cancer and permeates every fibre of your being, whispering untruths, altering reality, and infusing one with such distraught and despair that far too often becomes inescapable. Sometimes there is no amount of medication or therapy that can overcome the irrational notion that death is the only escape. There isn't sunlight bright enough to burn away the shadowy spectres lurking in the fog in which the depressed have been enveloped.  It is devastating, debilitating, and destructive. And no matter the worth one has, no matter how treasured they are nor how often the rest of us try to reassure of said worth, there are no words or actions capable of breaking the chains of sadness that bind a person. 

 

Sadly, we are, again, far too often, unable to see the demons raiding in the dark recesses of another's mind. We have no idea of the pain they feel, the internal struggles they face. Why? Because the depressed are very good at hiding their pain, their fear, the internalization of their personal horror. They channel their energy outward, helping others, teaching others, loving and caring for others. It's not that they are ignoring their own issues, it is that they are incapable of facing them. Each time they teach a lesson, make another laugh or smile, or are able to lift someone else up from their own stumbles, they've done nothing but mask their own hurt so that you don't have to see it. They are misguidedly trying to protect you because they feel that sharing their problems with you will burden you more greatly than you've already been burdened. They would rather face their pain alone than share it with you because they feel that to share their pain would be to spread their hurt, unable to understand that sharing is, in fact, healing. 

 

What qualifies me to say all of this? Do you really have to ask?

 

I suffer from depression. 

 

Think about it. It makes sense, doesn't it? Do I not fit the stereotype? Those that know me well and read the usually sarcastic, cynical and (hopefully) witty words I write here escape from their lives, even if for a few moments, to lose themselves and again, hopefully, smile. And I love it. I live for it. I thrive on it. Because writing these words takes me away from my own struggles and allows me to lose myself. I fit every psychological profile of a depressed individual. 

 

I am so eternally grateful though, that I have somehow found the strength to deal with my depression, and feel guilty that so many others have not. I have tried therapy, and medication, neither of which have any further effect... That is not to say that I didn't reap a significant benefit from both. That I no longer utilize either does not mean. I'm ignoring the issue. It means that the utility I found in each has passed, and each has taught me new avenues with which to address my depression. Like writing these words, sharing the rawness of me with those I love, and love me, and perfect strangers alike. This is my therapy. This is what helps me stay afloat, to keep breathing each day, to go one when there's are those moments, and trust me there have been many, when I felt as if there was no point in continuing. 

 

News of Robin Williams' death was painfully ironic, as I was particularly low yesterday. I was reminded, however, of how very fortunate I am to have been able to have learned from my mistakes and failures (albeit a little too late in some instances) and have found within myself the strength to acknowledge, address and cope with my demons. I am also fortunate to have so many wonderful people in my life that are able to recognize those times when I fall, and lift me up. I wish everyone was so lucky.

 

My hope with this writing is that you will read this and have a little better understanding of the disease. It's not a choice, it's an affliction. If you feel depressed, or alone, and are able to recognize your own pain, please please PLEASE reach out. You're not going to burden us with your pain, I promise. Please do not internalize that which, when released through words or tears or screams, will dissipate in time. Don’t feel for a second that you are worthless, or that your problems are not worthy of sharing. They are. You are not, and they are. Together we can overcome the pain we collectively share.

 

Acknowledging that some may not be able to recognize their own depression, I urge the rest of you to be aware. Look for the signs. Reach out even if you think you'll be rejected. Sometimes that simple gesture may be all it takes to shake someone from the tyranny of oppressive depression. And perhaps they will reach back, break down, and release what they've held so tightly inside.

 

We are all in this together. I will never know what pain caused my favorite professor to believe she'd no other alternative but to leave us. We will never know why such a philanthropic, selfless human being like Robin Williams felt compelled to remove himself from this world. We are left knowing only that they suffered and were unable to overcome that which burdened them. And my heart aches.

 

But let us mourn no longer, and lift ourselves and those around us if we can. We must, we must at least try.

 

I leave you with the immortal words of Walt Whitman, used in eulogy to mourn the death of our President Abraham Lincoln… Though the words were written almost one hundred and fifty years ago, their poignancy rang for a great many of my generation when spoken by Robin Williams in the Film Dead Poet's Society. O Captain, my Captain, indeed.

 

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

 

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

 

 

© 2014. J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.