The shock of it hit me, and then I had a little cry.
It wasn’t the sobbing uncontrollable cry. It was my hand over my chest while I read The Huffington Post report that Robin Williams had been found dead from a suspected suicide.
I guess they have to say ‘suspected’ for legal reasons, but when you are found hanging in your room by a belt, I think the jury is out on the causation, right?
I’ve only read two articles about it. That’s odd for me because I tend to read everything when something like this happens. I am still reading articles and biographies about Amy Winehouse. I loved her too, and related.
For my entire life I have been raised on shows and movies featuring Robin Williams. My first favorite show? Mork and Mindy. I was just a kid but I thought it would be cool to be married to a fun alien. Little did I know I would be the ‘fun alien’ someday in another country. (See that’s the way my brain works with happenstance).
I’m not ashamed to admit, I had fantasies as a little girl of marrying Mork. At the time, I thought rainbow suspenders were “the shit”.
I don’t think there is a Robin Williams movie I didn’t see, or buy to add to my collection of movies because I loved his work. And Dead Poet’s Society? That was the first time it even occurred to me that being a Poetess was okay. That it was abnormal but in a great, wonderful way.
Robin Williams gave me permission to accept that I was a writer at the core of me, and that writing had value even if it never made me a dime. That the act of writing was important to the Universe. That creativity and imagination mattered more than material things.
My Dad wouldn’t even watch the movie when it came on television for free. He thought writers were stupid. I remember cringing at the comment as he changed the channel to Married with Children. Now there was intelligent, classy… erm. Nevermind.
It took me a couple days to figure out why I cried the second I saw that first article in The Huff Post.
“He always had sad eyes didn’t he Diego?” I asked Mucho Mutt. He nodded.
I’ve always been able to see behind masks. Some of them anyhow. I’ve been able to see behind the mask of arrogance to see vulnerability. I’ve been able to see behind the mask of anger to see fear.
And I’ve always been able to see behind the mask of hilarity to see isolation, and sadness. I collect masks from around the world to remind me that people are never exactly as they seem. They always wear one or more masks, and sometimes it’s hard to live life or breathe while wearing one or more of them.
I’ve got a few too.
I always knew he was sad and I suppose that’s why I cried. Because even though I never knew him, I knew that with certainty. And I wished someone had convinced him that the world was a better place with him in it.
It’s definitely a less joyful place without him. And I wish he had found the strength to stay a little longer. God so loves an Artist. I hope you finally know peace.