Seeking My Best Self

Robin Williams died today, apparently at his own hand. I am reminded of the worst day of my life, the day my husband did the same. I am more than reminded. I find myself thrown into deep grief, because both were men who brightened and lightened the lives of others, yet were unable to do so for themselves.

It’s been almost twelve years, but I still recall the moments and the reaction.

The reaction was universal shock. Lee was well-known and well-loved in our hometown. He made his friends – and everyone was his friend – feel valuable, safe, protected. He brought levity and love to any situation. The shock waves over his death expanded outward and outward and outward. Even years later, people express disbelief and sorrow.

I try not to dwell on the specific moments, but they are there, always hovering just below the surface, ready to rise. I neither encourage nor prevent, but let them be what they are. Often they emerge as one large surge, which crashes and quickly dissipates upon the shore. Other times, they roll and roll, and I concentrate on being a boat – bobbing but not tipping. Today, though, I am swamped by continuous waves that swell and storm around me. Today, Xanax is my friend.

Did his wife suspect that Robin was capable of such an action, or was she, like me, shocked to find him so desperate? Did she also try to dissuade him from that last, terrible deed?

Am I sobbing over her tragedy, or over mine? Or is there really any difference? A beloved man has lost his way, and the result is a world with less joy, less love, less Robin, less Lee – a world with less.