Dear Robin

Photo by Eva Rinaldi, used under Creative Commons.

Photo by Eva Rinaldi, used under Creative Commons.

I suppose I’m late to this. All the opinions have been opined. All the commentaries are done. We’ve moved past you, on to Joan, and whoever is next and next and next. There’s always another tragedy waiting to happen.

But I’m still stuck on you, because you scare me. You scare me because you were/are/always will be 63. 63 is a ways off for me – and because it is a ways off, I can hold it as a beacon. A beacon that glows with the possibility that time will mend me.

You see, I have clinical depression. I’ve had it since childhood. I have it right now, though I am well enough to write so it is in the ebb of ebb and flow.

Still, when it is bad I whisper to myself that better times are always coming. As I am older, it gets easier. It will keep getting easier. I will be more happy and more well because time heals all…

I remember a joke I read as a kid: Time wounds all heels.

And god, I feel like a heel.

I mean, I’ve never met you. I don’t know you. But like my friends on wheels who followed Christopher Reeve and my ASD friends who fangirl/boy out for Temple Grandin, I felt connected to you. You were someone like me, out in the world, making good. Your sorrow was a base, but what you built from it was brilliant and silly and clever. (Also, I watched that scene in Good Will Hunting where you told Will it wasn’t his fault over and over because hey, if I could only hear it from a film, it was better than hearing it nowhere.)

I felt like this when Spalding Gray died. I feel like this whenever one of us exits. Like a small piece of the hope/lie is eked away. Like it’s been chiseled from my structure. I fall apart a little.

So yeah, I miss you. I miss the survival I saw in you. I miss that little bit of hope.

I’m sorry depression had more stamina than you. I’m sorry that you had to go.

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