Yesterday I was going to post about Broadchurch, the British drama we finished watching this past weekend. The Michael Brown news put the kibosh on that, as it seemed tasteless to talk about fictional murdered white kids when there was a real murdered black kid who needed talking about. But not by me; the last thing this situation needed was a white nerd man pontificating on it. That story hasn’t gotten any better, and in fact just keeps getting worse.
Then, last night, came the news that Robin Williams had died, apparently by his own hand. The simple death of Williams is a weird thing. He’s certainly an icon of my generation, and I loved him on “Mork and Mindy”, but he and I parted ways soon afterwards. I occasionally saw movies he was in, but I went more toward George Carlin for comedy.
The suicide following depression thing, well of course that hits home. We’re going to get deluged with “tears of a clown” and “I am Pagliacci” stuff over the next few days, as we learn all over again, as we do each time, that sometimes even very funny and seemingly happy people are hiding a wealth of internal pain. But we’ll forget it soon enough and go back to how depression isn’t a really real thing and you just need to cheer up and antidepressants are evil emotion-destroying poisons and all you really need are Natalie Portman and The Shins.
I feel hollowed out by all this. Last night on Twitter this Achewood comic was going around and I joined in because it was so apt. And this isn’t just the Robin Williams thing, it’s also the Mike Brown thing. We’re all fighting and trying our damndest just to exist. Just to make it to the next day. It’s the only game in town and you can’t win.