'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

unseemly me

What it has been calling up in me, the news about ([a.k.a.] the end of) Robin Williams, is a combination of a sort of sadness that is run through with recognition of how overpowering gloom can be and a lot of unseemly rage and objection to what looks like a sea of tossed-off know-it-all "Why didn't he try to get help?"/"If only the suicidal would (just) reach out to friends" biz---and then throw in a smattering of aggravation at the redirection and selfishness-accusatory decrying of the harm/pain his act caused others.  Holy moly, he tried to get help.  I don't know, sure, but I also do know, and so do you.  He tried so hard and so much and in so many ways, and it worked some, and then it didn't work.  And the thing about reaching out to friends?  Sometimes there aren't friends you feel you can reach out to.  Or maybe there are some you maybe could, and you still can't.  Or maybe you do and you're met with the kind of disgust that makes the dark even darker---the equivalent of "Keep that to yourself," or a directive to consider other people's perspectives, as if even in this most fundamental decision whether to end your own life (or anyhow in the miasmic doom that prompts that kind of consideration) you're not supposed to put yourself first.

Yes, we may spot, when not in it, what's "off" in the thinking of the depressed.  Those in that state may or may not recognize what's off in their thinking.  And, shock of shocks, a lot of their thinking is not off.  A lot of what they think and feel is an accurate understanding of the situation they're in, which is---by definition, Jesus, people---virtually unbearable or outright unbearable.  Waiting it out almost surely is less unbearable with company, connection, and the sense of being loved that they can provide, along with distraction (if possible) and unconsciousness (if possible) or (I suppose, while it works) intoxication of some sort, but people can only do what we can do.  Apparently yesterday Robin Williams couldn't wait, stay, hang on, find comfort.  That's sad because of our losing him, and that's sad because we lose people this way, and that's sad because some of us ourselves will be lost to it, or lost in the struggle with it, maybe off and on here and there or for long horrible stretches or even just once briefly, which is bad enough to be very very sad. Most of all, it's sad for him.

As Kathy Bates tweeted (yes, I stayed up late, clicking around, reading, taking it in), "The Black Dog* won the war."  We all/each feel what we all/each feel about that, and part of what I feel is I feel like lashing out at people's seeming to oversimplify and/or lay out pretty, facile bullshit if-only ig'nant backward explanations and, worse, blame.

How overpowering can gloom be?  So overpowering it can kill ya.  That's how overpowering.

I aim (o how I aim) not to see/feel that power as inevitably defeating.  Yet it will be, for some.  Damn it, it will be, for some.

*Also I have a black dog, and I'm okay with the figurative use of a black dog as the enemy here, despite the fact that a black dog can also be the exact opposite of that.

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