Robin and me

I can still see the bottle. It’s clear, with white labels and green and black writing. The aspirin pills are small and white. I’m sitting on our spare bed, a cheapie I picked up when we moved to Ottawa. It was supposed to be for guests, but two weeks ago I moved into the extra bedroom. After five quick months, my marriage is over. I am a failure. I do not blame my wife. All we do is argue. I cannot seem to find happiness.

I stare at the bottle. I do not know how many I will have to take. Ten? Twenty? Thirty? It doesn’t matter. I’m twenty-six years old. I sell newspapers over the phone. I make ten dollars for every subscription I sell. Some days I sell only one. I have never sold more than eight.

My wife is in her first year of teaching. She is doing well. Her career is under way, and I pushed for us to move here.

“I’ll find something,” I’d told her. “There has to be work there for me.”

But this is the only job I’ve found, and I’m angry about it. Angry that my dreams have been flushed into two hundred and fifty cold calls a day selling a cheap newspaper. I have only recently become aware of The Sadness. It has become a visceral thing, a constant companion. I do not know how else to explain it.

My friend shows up an hour later. I am still staring at the bottle. I am surprised, but tuck it away before he can see it. I ask why he’s here. Who drives three hours in the middle of the night?

“Your wife was worried. Really worried.”

I smile. I assume that I am going a bit crazy, but the pills suddenly seem a distant memory. Whatever this Sadness is, no one will be allowed to see it. That is the rule.

“I’m fine.”

He stays until he believes me.

I feel guilty. I am a failure. The Sadness has come.

Another image. Two years later. My basement apartment is dark. It’s winter. Snow covers my only window. My parents are knocking on the door. They’ve driven six hours to see me. They’re worried. I do not let them in. An empty beer bottle sits on my coffee table. My computer flickers in the corner. I feel guilty. I am a failure. The Sadness has come, and for two weeks it does not let me go. I fear it will never let me go.

Time passes. I slowly begin to understand my struggle. I read books that inspire me. I write. And I watch films that make me laugh. Of those, no one is funnier than Robin Williams. I watch Dead Poets Society often. It makes sense to me. But I cannot blame the Sadness on my father. My parents love me and support me. I am a failure, but it is not their fault, no more than it was the fault of my wife.

He is the kind of counsellor I wish I had, the kind of mentor I need.

Some days I am filled with happiness. I love those days. On those days, I make myself seen. I try to spread joy and laughter. I dream of making it as a writer. I dream of overcoming my failures. Of proving my worth. I watch the movie, Rudy, when I need a lift. I watch Robin when I need to smile. And when I feel the Sadness start to overwhelm me, I watch my favourite film.

He is the kind of counsellor I wish I had, the kind of mentor I need.

Good Will Hunting is just a movie, a story. But for me, narrative is more than that. The characters in my favourite books and movies are my friends. Here, Robin is a counselor, a teacher. He is the kind of counsellor I wish I had, the kind of mentor I need. I am not closed to counseling, but I am a youth worker. An aspiring writer. I cannot afford it. I can barely afford my apartment.

Robin will win an academy award for his performance. I do not know whether he is simply a great actor or that he knows what it means to suffer as I suffer, but the movie feels true. So does the pain in his eyes. That is what I need. Someone who has learned to deal with it and live, and not live just another life, but an extraordinary one.

When he passes away years later, consumed by the sadness, I am devastated.

His legacy is unique and yes, extraordinary. There is the sense of a light being extinguished. The grieving on social media is real. Despite his inner heartache, he has touched many lives.

I do my best not to hide it. That is the new rule.

These days, the Sadness remains, and on certain days, it is all I can do to get through the day. I do my best not to hide it. That is the new rule. The one that keeps me connected to others. Some days, I still feel like a failure. Some days I want to scream and ask God to make me normal. But such a thing does not exist, not for me or anyone else. We all have struggles. The Sadness is mine.

As for the funniest man in the world, I will never forget what he has done for me. And if I could say something to him, I would thank him for helping me through so many rough times, when his smile – his laughter, his jokes – showed me glimpses of the sun.

Robin Williams lived an extraordinary life. He blessed us beyond imagining. I miss him still.