Chronic Illness, Hidden Battles, and the Death of a Celebrity

The outpouring of grief at the recent loss of a beloved actor and comedian as well as the show of admiration for him as a person and for his achievements have been heartwarming to be sure. Over the past few days we have read and heard loving tributes to Robin Williams and additional entreaties to better understand and treat mental illness and addiction. It would be nice to think that these conversations were moving us forward and out of the dark ages of mental health treatment and discourse. There is, however, little evidence to suggest that this is the case. After all, we have been down this road before--most recently--with the untimely death of actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

Though the grief and condolences may be sincere, they are not always accompanied by a change in behavior and attitudes. For all of the sympathy we may show for the dead, it does not always translate to compassion for the living. Let's be honest here; the very same comedians and talk show hosts who claim to be torn up about these tragic losses in the entertainment industry rarely miss a chance to go after easy targets such as Lindsey Lohan or even Rob Ford. We participate with our mix of laughter and derision. The message: the struggles of those living with addiction or mental illness are fair game as long as we can frame these people as unlikeable or unsavory characters.

Also at issue is the tendency to see and value others not as human beings but as merely role players. I was struck by something Wayne Brady said Tuesday night in an interview on Al Jazeera America. He mentioned, and I'm paraphrasing here, that performers feel a kind of pressure to always be "on," that they are not afforded the opportunity to be vulnerable or sad, because it is not what people want to see from them. I do not doubt that this is generally true, but I am certain that it is not universally true.

Consider the following of the acclaimed podcast the Mental Illness Happy Hour, which is hosted and produced by comedian Paul Gilmartin. It started in 2011 as an hour-long, weekly show featuring interviews with his show biz friends about their internal struggles. The shows now tend to run over two hours long and involve the reading of listener surveys to show us that "we are not alone" in our mental battles. MIHH is unlike any other podcast out there, and it allows a space for guests to be honest and open. Its niche but avid following serves as proof that many of us appreciate performers more after seeing their more human sides.

Insecurity is a common theme even among the more famous and accomplished of the show's guests. There is that illusion of success that we idealize--that finish line like a horizon that recedes as fast as we move toward it. With all the pressures of our society and culture, the high value they place on ambition and drive, it can feel as though we never have enough, do enough or are enough. It does not matter who we are or where we are in life. Sometimes we think if we just got that promotion, got published in that magazine, or got that house in the suburbs, we would be OK. Chances are though, you have already got a lot going for you. So if you cannot appreciate and be happy with what you have, what you do, and who you are now, what makes you think that next arbitrary milestone will change anything?

It can be even more tiresome and defeating when we have to fake ambition or find that its existence is so often blanketed by apathy. Even the things we want to do can become cumbersome. I have sat indoors on perfect summer days, knowing that I should be taking advantage of the fair weather but also certain that I will not be able to enjoy it in the way that most others will. I have spent hours standing in front of my stage piano and keyboard trying to re-create the exhilaration and joy I once felt for playing and composing music only to quickly become bored and feel disconnected from the experience. This lack of feeling connected can be particularly painful.

The truth about emotional pain is that, like physical pain, it comes in many forms. There is the constant dull throbbing that seems to permeate through your soul and can last for weeks at a time. On the other end of the spectrum, there are the acute pangs of dread and despair that can be excruciating. Is it any wonder then that we might turn to alcohol or other recreational drugs to distract ourselves, if only temporarily, from this hell? Luckily, I have gained some insight and wisdom over years of working on myself emotionally. I have learned that this momentary relief can lead to a harsh rebound effect and a self-sustaining death spiral. So I am more mindful now, more in touch with my feelings, and I try to feel compassion for myself whenever possible.

Yet, the scary thought remains. Williams presumably knew all of this. He talked about alcoholism and rehab in thoughtful ways. The cruel thing about conditions such as his is that you can think you are in the clear and suddenly hit a brick wall. All of that gained wisdom can be forgotten in a whirlwind of depression, and that is perhaps the most frightening and tragic aspect of his death. It begs the question: Are any of us ever really "in the clear?"

We now know that it was not a relapse into substance abuse that spurred his final actions but likely the beginning stages of Parkinson's disease. Chronic conditions, especially neurological ones, can be triggers or intensifiers of depression, and they can pop up at just about any time in our lives.

It is my hope that things will change. One day we may look back at our trial-and-error approach for treating mental illness and neurological disorders in the way we now think about using leeches and exorcism to cure disease. We may finally get to the causes instead of just treating the symptoms. Until then, however, we must remember that we never know the full extent of what those around us are dealing with internally. Perhaps they are experiencing debilitating physical pain or their souls may feel like cold, wet dog poop. So it is important to be constructive with our criticism and generous with our praise--to let the people in our lives know that we value them for the whole of who they are and that our lives are better for their mere presence in them even though that may not ultimately be enough.