Robin Williams died last night. He was 63. There are multiple reports that he took his own life. If true, and there is no reason to doubt the reports, he succumbed to depression.
Williams was so multi-talented and so brilliantly funny that it is hard for most of us to imagine him sad, much less depressed.
Part of it, of course, is that he was a movie star, far removed from our "normal" lives. But it is not only his celebrity status that makes Williams's depression hard to imagine. It's also that his energy level always seemed higher than that of anyone else in the room. He was the maniacal DJ in Good Morning Vietnam. He was the irrepressible Genie in Aladdin. He was the David Letterman guest who, as Richard Corliss wrote in Time, left viewers "astonished, thrilled, and wearied." He was even a featured character in Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy" video.
And by most accounts, it wasn't just an act. Many stars are known to be very different than their on-screen personas. Not Williams. He had a reputation for being kind and generous, as well as funny. (See, for example, this recollection from a one-time dinner companion.) Clearly, the humor was a core part of who Robin Williams really was.
But so was the depression.
The first-hand recollections of Williams appearing all over the internet today recall not only his humor but also his cocaine and alcohol addictions, as well as his pain and depression. In many ways, Williams is the modern-day, real-life Richard Cory, a tragic reminder that appearances can be deceiving and that even humor—especially humor—can be used as a mask that shields both the wearer and those around him, from the pain underneath.
For the past several years, I have had the privilege of spending a few hours each week with incarcerated youth in the county where I live. I'm there to introduce them to the values and practices of restorative justice, to the idea that there are more effective and productive ways to deal with conflict than with violence.
Sometimes, we do role-plays. Sometimes, I tell stories. Mostly, I try to listen, to really hear what is true and meaningful in their lives. I do this because it's the best way I know to build relationships, and also because if I'm not willing to listen to them, why should they bother listening to me?
Every week, the composition of the group changes a little. Over the years, I've met well over 100 kids. Some are so sad they are unable to utter more than a few words. Others are angry and resentful about being where they are, again. Another group tries to play it cool. Each type presents its own challenge, but there's another group that is harder to reach than any of the rest—the entertainers.
These are the kids who have learned how to make others laugh. They've also learned that, in that comedic moment, they can temporarily forget about their incarcerated fathers, their abusive uncles, their substance-dependent mothers, and all the other troubles in their life. In that comedic moment, they hurt just a bit less. And so they grasp every opportunity to entertain and, in doing so, cover up the pain.
And if I say to them, "You're a funny guy—I love how you make everyone around you laugh—but I can see that there is also a part of you that is sad," they say, "No, I ain't sad. It's all good. I'm good."
But they're not good. Because the pain never leaves for long.
I don't know anything about Robin Williams's inner life. I don't purport to know whether he was able and willing to confront his demons. Regardless, I have no negative judgment of him, for I trust that decent people do what they can to both live a good life and not cause others unnecessary pain—and Williams was clearly a decent man.
Despite their crimes, most of the kids I meet at the detention center are also decent, and most are also struggling. The ones who are silly, that tell non-stop stories and jokes? They may be struggling more than most.
So, when you see someone putting on a good show, go ahead and laugh. Robin Williams wouldn't have had it any other way; neither would the kids I've met.