Nuts: A Reflection on Robin Williams, and the State of Mental Health in America

The symbolism was not lost on me, gauche though it may be. I was preparing a batch of nuts – spiced pecans, that is – when my father-in-law texted to see if I’d heard about Robin Williams’ suicide. I was stunned (and not just because I spend approximately a third of my day on TMZ, and hadn’t heard). But I don’t know why. The media has at least one direct or indirect “celebrity” suicide to glamourize every month.

I know why I am incredibly sad. Robin leaves behind a wife, friends, and children, and philanthropic causes that he was generous to support. Selfishly, I am sad, because he has starred in at least a dozen roles that deeply affected me, and the world over. Now, if history repeats itself, Robin will be remembered for acting second, death by suicide first.

I am incredibly sad because I anticipate the hushed, gossiping tones that people will use when speaking of this person’s choice to end his life – and the next person’s, and the one after him. I am sad because I anticipate the “understanding” responses that people will use – the ones with an implied defense that suicide only “happens” to celebrities, rich people, people with “issues” like addiction, and anyone but them and theirs. It’s hard to blame the public forum for its response. It’s much easier to handle the mental health crisis in America by distancing ourselves from it, except when fascination is piqued by nonstop, acute news coverage of these high-profile individuals.

I am incredibly sad because, despite this being the fifth glamour-suicide in recent times that I can tick off without thinking – I have low expectations for his passing to yield any productive discourse about the state of mental health in America. And it’s not ok.

I have steadfast beliefs regarding suicide. I feel entitled to them. My father, with whom I was extremely close, died by suicide. It will be six years on August 23. And no one in my life knows.

At the time, I felt like keeping my dad’s cause of death quiet was something I could do for him. He deserved substantially more than the hushed gossip, the “can you believe?” comments. And I felt I deserved to not have to field inquiries about the details, the kind that deluded simpletons categorize as well-intentioned, that I find to be no one’s business, not even my own.

So, I kept it to myself for twelve days short of six years. I still believe my dad (along with Robin, L’Wren Scott, and the many others before and after them) deserves a legacy significantly better than being known for death by suicide, one moment in a lifetime of moments. I also still believe that I deserve to not be asked probing questions about one of the most intimate circumstances of my life; or, worse, be proselytized to by those who feel his decision was selfish and/or damned him to the hounds of hellfire.

But I want the hushed-tone gossiping people, the false understanding people, and the rest to know: my dad was not a celebrity. He did not have an addiction. We are not rich. He was a regular man – almost astoundingly so, now that I am seeing it on paper. He married my mom, his high school sweetheart. He had an impressive network of friends. He had an interest, one I have gratefully inherited, in planning theme parties and trying new restaurants and bars. And though he worked to navigate his mental illness for at least thirteen years before he died by suicide, I still never imagined it would happen to us.

When I said I had steadfast beliefs about suicide, I mostly meant that I had strongly-held beliefs about its prevention. The AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention) “Out of the Darkness” walks, and campaigns of that ilk, are great. But in my estimation, it’s not sufficient to know the warning signs of suicidal behavior and what to do when you see them. Real progress will only come about if we can talk about this as a community, and not only when a celebrity dies by suicide. We have to rid ourselves of the stigma attached to seeking help for (or, hell, even having) depression and mental health issues. I know firsthand that seeking help is not one hundred percent curative, but it provides a chance at improved mental health, and hopefully less suicide, and less trauma. Someone struggling with mental illness should never have to weigh perceived or actual judgment by friends, family, or society when considering whether to seek help.

What I am trying to say is this: I am no expert on the American mental health system. I am not a psychiatrist, nor a therapist. But I wish for this country’s sake, and all of us in it, that we could embrace the concept that mental illness is a pervasive issue, and not only the rich and famous are afflicted. That mental illness and being a “good person” are not mutually exclusive. And that seeking help for mental illness is something to be praised, not to be intensely scrutinized nor for entertainment’s sake.

I happened to watch “Good Will Hunting” two Saturday afternoons ago. It was on one of the movie channels, as it often is, and it’s just too good to pass up. As I have every time I’ve watched the scene, I cried my eyes out when Robin’s character, Sean, tells Will that “it’s not his fault.” I only hope Robin knows that it wasn’t his.