Why Does It Hurt So Much That Robin Williams Died?

Robin Williams is a stranger to most of us.  So was Philip Seymour Hoffman.  And Heath Ledger.  And sadly, so many other people of fame who have died in some way associated with alcoholism or addiction.

Why does it matter so much to us when they die?  Strangers die unremarked in all kinds of ways every day.

Maybe (speaking only for myself) it matters so much because if they can’t do it – if ‘they’, who have so very much by way of resources and access to resources, can’t do ‘it’, who can?  What hope does the little guy, the average joe, the ordinary person, who may not have that kind of access in these United States, at least, have?

Of course, success may actually be part of the problem for the rich and famous – that same success that gives them ease of access to treatment and care gives them access to the thing that will kill them.

Obviously, the cost of addiction is not (or not only) an issue of class or economics.  

But when Robin Williams dies, I am not just mourning for him.  I am mourning for everyone else who struggles his struggle and wondering what chance they have if he couldn’t do it.

Of course, I know better.  Of course I know that all those who struggle have a chance.  And that so much depends on so many variables.  And that help is really only a phone call away.  But I also know that for some, it is sometimes just too much and Superman won’t arrive in the nick of time.  

And knowing all this, I mourn.

The Random Thoughts of an Ordinary Woman on the Death of Philip Seymour Hoffman

We didn’t lose him.

He left.

Checked out.

First words: oh no!

Why?

Like a FB friend, I am 

baffled by my the depth

of my own response.

But I am as sure as I am baffled:

He is not lost.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was not

 misplaced, like car keys left carelessly 

on the table instead of on the hook by the door.

He left.    

***

We see the wonder and must wonder at what he saw

– or didn’t – 

That’s the way it is with destruction of self.

The mirror is distorted, it seems.

Actors I have known (admittedly not many) 

are the most public private people and 

private public people I’ve ever known.  

What they see, I cannot know.

***

Maybe it’s not a bad thing to go out 

at the top of your game.

Maybe.

Yet maybe not.

What could have been

is perhaps not so much about you

but those left with that visual – 

that which we should not know

but cannot now unknow

strangers and children

loved ones and wannabe hangers on

***

You were too old

for this shit, you know?

Way too old.

But it doesn’t work that way,

does it?  It never does.

***

The charm, the passion

will not do in the dark,

will they?

They lack the necessary

weight to carry the moment

let alone the day

when there is no reflection

back – I sometimes think

that’s the job of the audience –

to reflect back to you that

you’re real – there really

is a there there to you

when we laugh and cry

and clap and shout and

groan and and and –

and how lonely it must

be or have been when

we aren’t there clapping

***

Why do I react as I do?

Because you cannot be

that guy.

That guy – the one who 

dies with a syringe in

his arm, unable to think

and thus unable to care

or care enough – unable

to do anything but the

banal over and over 

of the high sought but

never found – the perfect

high to end all highs –

but you are – you were –

that guy, weren’t you?

You wouldn’t break our

heart if you weren’t that guy.

You get that part, right?

Why do I care?

Because you just aren’t

allowed to be that guy . . . 

even when you are.

***