Amy Scher’s father chose to end his own life. She’s proud of him, and she never judged his decision.
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“Take your goddamn meds.”
That’s exactly what one of my most favorite authors wrote on her blog after Robin Williams’ death. It was a genuine effort to make sure no one feels shame in taking the prescription drugs that many people do; just to get through the day, and maybe even, to stay alive.
But, it stopped me a little in my tracks. Okay, a lot.
This author is talented, funny, and compassionate and there has never been a word of hers that turned my stomach like this.
“Take your goddamn meds.”
I know a thing or two about the convoluted message behind this statement because Robin Williams was my dad.
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I know a thing or two about the convoluted message behind this statement because Robin Williams was my dad.
Not literally of course. But the story of taking his own life, even with a wife and kids who adored him to the moon and back, was my dad’s too. And just for the record, that was while he took his meds, which apparently weren’t any magic bullet. None of the hundreds of different ones doctors had him try over the course of 25 years were. The countless therapies including drastic shock therapy were void of success, too. Still, he wrestled with this gripping fear and darkness that followed him everywhere. We, his family, wrestled right along with him.
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Robin’s death has stirred a storm of controversy, even from those who have “been there.” These well-meaning statements of “take your goddamn meds” and “just get help” are the equivalent of saying to an anorexic, “just eat.” The suggestion assumes that someone experiencing anorexia will actually understand the importance of food from where they stand at that moment. And just like when I had Lyme disease and 44 pills a day wasn’t my cure, for someone with anorexia who can or is willing to eat, food may not be enough either.
While the message in the blog might have been as simple and genuine as just freakin’ do what you have to do to be helped, for those of us left behind, it’s okay to know that sometimes, even all they could do will not save them. For those of us who remain, we get to choose for that to be just fine in our half-broken hearts.
You could not cross my dad’s path without feeling special, almost lit up. He was a talented therapist and mediator, who helped so many people bring their lives into focus and find joy after darkness. But, he could not do it for himself.
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You could not cross my dad’s path without feeling special, almost lit up. He was a talented therapist and mediator, who helped so many people bring their lives into focus and find joy after darkness. But, he could not do it for himself.
Again, on my dad’s last day, he took his “goddamn meds.” About 300 pills too many of them this time, and that’s how he finally made his way out of the hell he had been living. When I saw him just minutes after his last breath, do you know what I felt? It wasn’t sadness or fear or anger that he should have done more. It was pure, unfiltered relief – for all of us. His plump cheeks were squished up like a baby’s and he literally looked like he had napped his way to heaven. I kissed them both.
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I wouldn’t go back and change it. I don’t wish I did more for him. I do miss my dad with an ache so deep I cannot convey, but I don’t want him back here, for him or for me or anyone else in my family. In fact, I am immensely proud of him for doing what he did, because even though he couldn’t free himself and our family how we wished; he found a way to get us all some peace anyway.
People are allowed to do that in this world; just do the best they know how.
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People are allowed to do that in this world; just do the best they know how.
If we can let that be enough, we will survive and thrive beyond what we could in the presence of our loved one’s suffering. If we can’t, that’s our ball of yarn to unravel. It means we need more understanding and forgiveness. It means we need more practice letting the people who we love, be human.
The CDC estimates that nearly 8 percent of people over age 12 report being currently depressed. More people now die of suicide than in car accidents, making it the 10th leading cause of death for Americans.
Many of those people will not have access to or be able to afford medical help or drugs.
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In the years after my dad’s death, I became a minister of holistic healing. I have helped guide many of my own clients out of that place of total despair into the light of their lives. I believe with absolute certainty each person, independent of their struggles or their history, can heal. I’ve seen it so many times when it seemed like all hope was lost. However, sometimes, for reasons beyond our understanding or approval, it will not happen.
There are few people who say or sing things more brilliantly than our family’s favorite, James Taylor, who wrote, “Perhaps, just as we were swept away, so was he. Who can pretend to understand a gift like Robin Williams’s Meteoric, volcanic, fast and furious… Perhaps there is a price for such brilliance.”
My dad’s life may have been short too, but it was not scarce.
In his obituary guestbook, I wrote:
Although I have struggled immensely with hating that you had to suffer so much in your life, tonight, I finally came to something that brings me complete peace. Because of, and in between your times of suffering, you experienced a level of joy that most never even touch. The good days were better than life. When you smiled, it illuminated the entire space around you. And when you loved, you made people feel it better than anyone else I know. You taught us such important lessons, because you lived fuller and more, in 64 years, than most could accomplish in 100. And for that, your entire life, even the sad times, were absolutely perfect.”
Eventually, he felt he had enough brightness, and darkness, too.
His life was not void of joy. And in his wake, our family’s is not either.
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His life was not void of joy. And in his wake, our family’s is not either.
America’s hilarious superhero was the same.
There is just one thing left to do so we can let this man rest, or play, in peace: Ditch the goddamn judgments and let his final act be good enough for us.
Originally published on amybscher.com.
Photo courtesy of author.
Beautiful article Amy, brave and true. Had to read it out loud to my husband. Thanks for writing it and helping so many others
Thank you so much for your sweet comment, Carolyn.
Yes, Amy! Thank you for your mature, complex, soulful understanding. There is an unintentional cruelty and selfishness behind peoples’ assertion that someone in excruciating pain should be in excruciating pain until “natural causes” bring relief. I found it so painful when some folks were angry at RW for his choice. Death can be a mercy and those “left behind” might better take the opportunity to find the depths of their own compassion for another’s pain, rather than judge and rail from their own fear and anger. I hope those who reacted from that place find peace within themselves. Bless your… Read more »
Yes, Kate. I do think it’s an amazing opportunity for those who need to find more compassion and less judgement. Thank you so much for your kind comments and support.
I too am a daughter of suicide. I too honor that his final choice was the one that set him free. My sorrow is that he suffered as much as he did while alive and that nothing could ease that suffering. Five years after we lost my father my mother too tried to take her life, and I was the one that found her and prevented her from continuing. Once she stabilized I told her I wouldn’t stop her again, but if she ever felt so desperate again to please call… I would hold her hand and bear witness to… Read more »
Wow, Jo. You are a strong, brave, and wonderful daughter. Isn’t it amazing how being witness to a passing can be such an honor if we look at it that way? I feel the same. Many blessings to you and your mother. She is very very lucky to have you.
Thank you, Judy!
This was a gorgeous piece of writing!
so beautiful, so articulate, so honest and human and humanizing. thank you for writing and sharing!
Thank you so very much, Temim.
I have never known anyone that made me feel SO special as he did!
His final act was good enough for me as I knew he was finally at peace.
This story is a wonderful tribute and I can see the smile on his face right now- beaming with pride for you, Amy!
He definitely is smiling at both of us right now, Catherine! You were always a star in his book, too.
I’m felling astonished. I don’t think I’ve ever heard something like this before. And I’m not saying this in a bad way.
Not everyone reaches this comprehension level. I can only imagine how hard it is for everyone involved. Thank you for sharing.
Wow, Susy. Thanks so much for that comment. I love how we get to share with each other and learn new ways of seeing things. Many blessings and thanks to you!
You are right–it is not as easy as “take your meds.” Thank you for sharing this–beautifully written, and from the heart.
Thanks, Mandy. Hopefully this article brings new perspective to those who really believe it’s that easy…
This is so brave, important, and beautiful.
Thank you, dear Maggie.
This is beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Caitlin. I really appreciate you letting me know it touched your heart.
My dad committed suicide, too. Thank you for sharing this beautifully written tribute to your own father, and for your courage and honesty surrounding a profoundly difficult conversation. Your understanding is a gift to your father, he was blessed to have you for a daughter.
Thank you for sharing that Loryn. I bet you are a wonderful daughter, as well. Many blessings to you.
Beautifully written, Amy. Thank you for sharing your story and also thank you for sharing it with passion and total honesty.
Thank you so much, Nadine!