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.

The Committee Goes Out For a Cup of Coffee

The Sunday morning sun was still low in the sky.  It shined through the bedroom window, illuminating dust particles passing through its rays and formed skewed rectangles across the floor and bed.

Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in?  It's warm here.  Safe.  Comforting.
You're missing everything.  It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.

Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers.  The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.

Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this.  Put things off.  Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?

He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.

You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet!  You're not helping.

Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly.  He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward.  It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.

He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles.  He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.

How can you live like this?  It's disgusting.
It's fine.  I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later.  It's not like you're having any visitors.

The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap.  He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet.  The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom.  He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.

Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like.  It might be chilly today.

He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table.  After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark.  It was out of juice.

"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"

Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist.  He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.

Wasn't there something you were going to do? 

Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.

There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets.  It was empty.  He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.

You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out.  There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.

He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.  After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.

The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.

The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat.  He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath.  Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.

Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?

"Shit."

He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back.  On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs.  There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness.  He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time.  His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.

You came back here to do something.  What was it?
It's almost Christmas.  There's so much to do.  
Have you mailed your cards yet?  Bought gifts?

He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song.  It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time.  One song turned into three...

Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.  
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!

He found it underneath the bed.  But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand.  After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.

OK. time to go!

He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection.  The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.

If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous.  Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute?  What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.

The signal stopped flashing.  It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.

After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.

Christmas music was playing inside.  Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.

Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah.  Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected.  Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee.  Coffee that tastes like coffee.

"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.

'Tis the season.

The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.

Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."

Brewed with rosewater, of course.  And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah.  Definitely don't be THAT guy. 
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.

"Sir?  Can I take your order?"  A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere.  "Sir?"

The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile.  Or maybe it wasn't forced.  She may have even been flirting.  He didn't notice.

"Oh, yes.  Hi.  Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."

Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.

You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.

"Will that be all?"

He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit.  Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.

"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered.  "Thank you."

It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast?  You haven't eaten yet.

Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.

"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly.  "Your coffee?"

It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.

"Oh yeah."  He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar.  Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.

Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch.  Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.

It was 4 P.M.