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September 3, 2014
The Williams effect;
A belated funeral song
By Kara Fohner
Editor in Chief
In June of 2013, one of my best friends
attempted suicide.
“Jason” called me early on a weekday afternoon,
while I was tapping out an article in Bilo’s internet
cafe.
“Hey, can you come over?” His words were
frayed at the ends.
“Yeah. What’s up?? Are you okay?” My
stomach churned, and I snapped my laptop shut.
“No. Just come over. I’ll explain when you
get here.”
I sped down highway 64 in my rusty maroon
beater, my mind shooting blanks, and parked on
the slope of his driveway. Ten minutes had passed,
and I felt each one like the beating of a drum. I
entered his house without knocking.
He was balanced in the center of the living
room, eyes blood-shot, hands trembling.
“What’s going on?” I wrapped my panic in the
soft of concern.
Jason lumbered in uneven steps to the kitchen
counter, and pointed to the three bottles, arranged
in an innocuous row. He had swallowed the
contents with a swig of hard lemonade.
I dialed 911.
At the hospital, they pumped his stomach,
but they could not pipe out the depression that
polluted his judgment. Thankfully, he survived.
Many do not.
According to a nationwide survey conducted
by the Center of Disease Control and Prevention,
suicide is the third leading cause of death in
10-24-year-olds. Clinical depression is often the
little understood culprit, a disease so silent and
pervasive that it can go unnoticed by friends,
colleagues, and even family.
When Robin Williams committed suicide,
thousands mourned the loss of Pan, of Mrs.
Doubtfire, and of the haunted madman in “The
Fisher King” who discovered, but could not reach,
his Holy Grail.
Thousands more mourned the loss of a great
man, philanthropist who, even off-screen,
emanated a rare combination of personal warmth
and intellectual brilliance.
If Shirley Temple was America’s Sweetheart,
Williams was the godfather of an orphaned
country. His empathetic, relatable persona
rendered him an untraditional icon of masculinity
in a culture plagued by disillusionment.
Following his suicide, the public dialogue
about mental illness was suddenly personal to
the collective mind. Depression had received an
unexpected mascot: a man that would never again
receive a standing ovation from a live audience.
The media swelled with new updates; the
conversation became a chorus, and the dialogue,
a funeral song.
Katie Hurley, a licensed psychotherapist,
wrote a viral, but controversial article for the
Huffington Post titled, “There’s Nothing Selfish
about Suicide.”
“People who say that suicide is not selfish
always reference the survivors,” she said. “[But]
they do think of the survivors... Until you’ve
stared down that level of depression, you don’t
get to make those judgments.”
Hurley poignantly described herself as a
“suicide survivor.” She did not say when her
father ended his life - only that he did. For those
left behind, the trauma is ever-present.
Like my friend Jason, most who struggle with
depression and suicidal thoughts do so without a
glamourous social identity. Many would, upon
their death, receive only a paltry funeral and a
blurb in their local paper.
In college students, depression is an understated
illness that quietly draws patients out of the
academic world. They don’t always die. Many
simply withdraw, lacking the energy to persist
through years of intellectual labor. Some regroup
and return, having devised coping strategies.
According to the UCLA Loneliness scale,
designed by Dr. Dan Russell at Iowa State
University, College Freshman are the statistically
loneliest people on the planet. It makes sense.
They’ve just moved to a new location and shed
their previous identity. They’re in transience, with
nothing on hand but a dorm room of essentials:
Textbooks, cleaning supplies, and framed photos
of high school friends. By this measurement, they
trump single parents, high school loners, and
other groups that are stereotypically associated
with loneliness.
It’s rarely who you think it is.
Thankfully, BC is well equipped with a mental
and physical health center, located in Mary
Robin Williams
Frances Stamey, the narrow building located
between Dunham and Beam.
Dee Dasburg, a national certified counselor,
holds her sessions in a modest, pristine office
at the top of the stairs. “I have been in this
profession for 21 years,” said Dasburg. “It’s
not uncommon for students to seek counseling
support when they’re having thoughts of suicide
or worried about a friend. Over the years I’ve
known a number of students who have lost
friends and family members to suicide.”
Dasburg continued by citing a recent suicide
that shook the town of Brevard to the core.
Quinn Harris, son of Mayor Jimmy Harris,
ended his life on March 9, 2014. He was
17-years-old. At his service, his father said,
“If he had just waited 30 minutes or an hour
that day, the feeling would have passed. But he
didn’t, and his family didn’t know.”
“Most people who feel suicidal don’t really
want to die; they just want to stop feeling how
they feel,” added Dasburg.
Williams’ death discouraged many. He was the
proverbial sad clown, the hero who was able to
inspire hope in all but himself But his death has
spurred a remarkable social movement towards
the recognition and the treatment of mental
illness in a system where mental health care is
stigmatized and often inaccessible. Hopefully,
it will also serve as a reminder: depression is
different than other medical conditions in that
the sufferer ultimately controls the outcome.
You can choose to live, even if life seems
synonymous with the struggle. You win by
living.