Fido
When actor Robin Williams died in 2014 the world was shocked. How, after all, could an incredibly talented, funny, successful actor like him commit suicide? Fellow actor Misha Collins summed it up: “Breaks my heart that some one who brought so much joy could be quietly suffering so much pain.” For me, when someone famous ends their life, it is a puzzling shock. I guess I like to pretend that the people on the other side of the screen live perfect lives, never suffer, have it made. But that’s not true. It's not true for celebrities nor is it true of people we encounter every day.
When I started posting about my book and some of its themes—depression, childhood emotional neglect, dispassionate mother-daughter relationships—I was both humbled and surprised by the outpouring of support and personal stories shared back with me. A friend from college wrote on one of my Facebook posts:
“I too, have struggled with depression, and of course it was such a private disease for so long that I always tried to keep it secret with a smile. I'm so glad people are able to be more open about things today. I wish I had known you were struggling too. Might have been better for both of us if we had leaned on each other but back then we probably wouldn't have.”
It's not easy being vulnerable about ourselves, our failings, our pain and humility, but both physical and mental suffering is part of our shared human condition. I believe sharing and talking about our personal struggles serves to connect us to one another and alleviates tremendous loneliness that can occur when we think we are in something alone. I think back when my son was struggling with obsessive compulsive disorder as a 10-year-old. A 100-pound weight seemed to lift off his shoulders following a conversation with his psychologist when he realized that he wasn’t alone, that this “thing” he was burdened with had a name. I think it’s the same for all of us. We need to know we aren’t alone in our suffering.
Writing about my past struggles has connected me with others in a way I could never have imagined. Below is an excerpt from my book about one of the most difficult times of my life.
"I heard ten-month-old Haley stir in the small room across the hall, but I just kept staring at the ceiling, not able to move. It must have been close to noon—I wasn’t quite sure—and I was still in my nightgown. The birds were chirping outside, but a silent pressure in the room surrounded me. Like an anvil, it weighed on me making me inapt to move. My limbs were frozen in place, disconnected from my mind. They seemed glued to the exhausted bed sheets, sucked by gravity into the spongy mattress. Acknowledging that something was wrong with me and how I was feeling—or not feeling—I had begun reading about depression and mood.
I had recently read an interview with actress Carrie Fisher about her depression and bipolar disease where she described the ”Black Dog” that hung around her at all times, lurking in the background, ready to lunge at anything that tried to work its way in to incite happiness or joy. The term is also attributed to Winston Churchill and even referenced as early as Egyptian times as an icon for mental illness and depression. That day, my Black Dog was sitting at the foot of my bed, stoically “protecting'” me, surrounding me, holding me there with its silent, powerful presence.”
As you can read in the book, the psychologist I see after this event gave me a book to read that helped me understand where my depression was coming from and ways to think differently about it, separate it from my entirety. It didn’t “cure” me—if such a word can be used in a mental health context—but loosened the hold it had on me and helped me accept that part of me. It was the first of many books and articles I devoured as I journeyed—and continue to journey--through self-discovery and growth.
I never sank to the depths I did in those early years, struggling to get out of bed or take action, although my Black Dog continued to follow me and does to this day. He is a Rottweiler named Fido, and we’ve become friends.
