I know this is old news by now and probably isn't even a blip on Facebook anymore, but you may have heard that Robin Williams died.
You may not like this post much if you are a die hard fan and wept at the news. Or you may not like me much after you read it. And I'm OK with either of those scenarios.
When I first heard the news, there was sadness. Until I heard that it was suicide. Hate me if you will, but I'm gonna say this shit right now. I'm anti-suicide. It's the fucking coward's way out. And it is the single most selfish act one person can do. Sure, it's definitely one solution to any problem you're facing, but dude...really? I feel like when anytime someone commits suicide, the Universe at large does a facepalm and says "you just don't fucking get it, do you?"
The point is to live through the pain and the shit in your life. THAT'S the stuff that forges who you are. And I don't even mean from a meta-physical-god-is-my-co-pilot kind of level either. I mean from a pure nature type level. The struggle is vital.
If you've ever seen a caterpillar emerge from the coccoon, you know what I mean. There is tremendous struggle for it to break free. There is a story floating around of a naturalist who saw this struggle and wanted to help, so they very carefully and precisely used a scalpel to enlarge the opening for the butterfly to emerge without the apparently painful struggle it normally would have. Here's the bitch of it. The butterfly, once out...couldn't open its wings. They weren't strong enough. It couldn't fly. And it died. What that well meaning person didn't understand was that the struggle....the pain...was absolutely vital for the growth and survival of the butterfly. It was the piece that strengthened its wings so that it could fly and be the beautiful creature we know and love.
Suicide is like cutting the coccoon for the butterfly. It bypasses the struggle, avoids the pain necessary to grow and become beautiful and fly, and it ultimately winds up in death.
And it's bullshit.
I know for a fact that creative people are tortured souls. There is something of truth in the fact that many artists use their medium as a way to exercise their demons and the by product is, they live another day to be tortured souls and the rest of the world marvels in the butterfly that sprang forth from their pain.
I don't want to hear about Robin Williams' marital problems...or addictions...they're all fucking cop outs if you ask me. There are plenty of non-famous people going through the same shit that don't off themselves. He doesn't get a pass because he was famous or whatever. At least not in my book.
Yes. I am bitter about it.
Part of it is because I know that his family will have to deal with a pain they have never known. They will have to live the rest of their lives trying to answer the question Why didn't we see this? Why didn't we do more? What could we have done?
That's the real fucking tragedy of suicide--you leave your loved ones to live the rest of their lives in doubt. Because of your fucking cowardice. You leave people you care about wondering how if they had only loved you more, they could have saved you.
His family has my upmost sympathies.
He does not.
And...if I'm being completely honest here, the other reason that I'm pissed is because that fucker ruined something on my bucket list. There is a part of me that thinks (knows?) when I hit my stride as a published author, that I will be in contact and in some of the same circles as the people who touched my life growing up. The people who made me laugh, cry, think, and ultimately dream of being something bigger than I thought I could be. And it's not a vision of having dinner or being best buds with these people, it's more like...when I get to that place in my life, I will have the ability to meet them, shake their hands, and thank them for the piece of their lives that they gave to inspire and entertain people like me to reach that point in my life where I could do the same for someone else.
Robin Williams was on that list.
Until he crossed himself off of it. And took that future moment away from me.
But ultimately I'm disappointed.
Clearly he was not someone meant to be on my list. Because if he were, the book would have been written before now.
And if he was meant to be on the list, then I'm way the fuck behind.
Time to get writing.
I think wherever he is, his essence would be ok with my final sentiment...
Na nu na nu, you selfish prick.