Robin Williams & my Mom: lives lost to mental illness

Robin Williams doesn’t really have any part in my memories of Rome because he hadn’t yet become famous when I lived there.
But in a way, Robin Williams does correlate with my Rome memories. When he died at 63 on Monday, it was the same way my mother died at 37 in 1973.
They each committed suicide.
In Williams’ case, here was a man who made millions of people happy over the years with his talent, humor and kindness. He had a wife who loved him and three adoring children. He was wealthy enough to seek the best treatment for the disabling depression that haunted him throughout most of his life.
In the end, though, the depression won. It distorted Robin Williams’ perception of himself and all that he had, making his life appear too unbearable to continue.
The only good to come from this is people are becoming more aware about depression and acknowledging that it is a mental illness. I pray for the day when mental illness no longer carries any public stigma, shame or blame as it has for so many years.
In February 1966, my mother, then 30, was rushed to Rome Memorial Hospital after attempting to kill herself. Not only did she have schizophrenia, but she was depressed that she had schizophrenia. She remained in the hospital in Syracuse for several more months while I was sent to live with my grandparents near Glens Falls for the remainder of first grade.
In those days, mental illness was considered so shameful and scary, no one in my family would tell me what was really wrong with my mother. My relatives tried telling me that my Mommy had a “bad headache,” but even then, I knew that no one stayed in the hospital for three months because of something like tht.
Seven years later, my mother chose to die on an otherwise nondescript Thursday night just after Memorial Day. She probably didn’t realize that her suicide would hang over our family like a pall for the rest of our lives. In her note to me, Mom wrote “there was no other way” but to do this because she knew he would never recover from her condition.
By then, I knew that my mother suffered from schizophrenia, although no one dared speak the word to me until I was 11. When Mom became ill beyond repair, our family had no choice but to tell me the truth. I shared it with no one but my best friend. Marcy State Hospital was a place that kids laughed about at school. The last thing I wanted to tell people was that my mother was a patient there. Junior high was rough enough time at it was.
Today it is almost a relief that I can share this with you. My mother was a wonderful lady who happened to live in a time of limited treatment for mental illness. It didn’t make her a bad person.The illness robbed her of a sound mind.
So please, if you are depressed or suffering some other form of mental illness, don’t be ashamed. Don’t be afraid to let others know. Get help and hold your head high, knowing you are doing the best for yourself and your loved ones.