O Captain, my captain.

I'm angry. And sad. And on the verge of tears. Seriously. Robin Williams has committed suicide. It's terrible news, folks. Celebrities die all the time, but some how, for my generation, this is our first real big guy to go. He was in our children's movies. We thought he was just the funniest thing ever! I remember watching an interview thing on tv with Robin Williams and John Travolta about the movie Wild Hogs. The interviewer asked Robin what it was like to work with a great actor like Travolta. I was like, excuse me, kid. Robin Williams is WAY better than creepy ole Travolta. Totally. I was actually mad at that poor little interviewer. lol.

So, I've seen people saying things like "I don't get it" and "Why would he do this" or "But he was so funny". I'd like to address these things. I certainly don't know Robin  Williams, but I know his ailment. If you've never been depressed, you can't possibly know what it's like to feel like that. No, you can't. Normal people get sad or even FEEL depressed, but that doesn't mean they have depression. The difference is that those of us who suffer from clinical depression can't just "snap out of it" or "cheer up" or even "fix what's wrong". Most of the time, nothing's wrong. Or everything's wrong. But when someone thinks of taking their own life, it's often the only way they can see out. It's not a selfish act. It's not about other people. It's about life. About not being able to see that there is a life in front of you. All those things people tell you you have to live for are just more things you feel bad about. They're just more things you're screwing up or not doing right. You feel like people would really be better off without you because you honestly cannot see the good. Good doesn't even register. Winston Churchill called it his "big black dog" that followed him around. It's accurate. J.K. Rowling used her experiences with depression to influence the dementors. All I can think of is Ron Weasley's comment that he felt like he'd never be cheerful again. And it's true. I think of it as a big pit. A giant hole, and when you're in the pit, you can't see a way out, or how you'll ever feel anything but that gut wrenching emptiness, guilt, and pain. And you know, sometimes, the funniest people are the most messed up. Look at me, I'm freaking hilarious. And messed up as heck. I think it's the depression lens that you see through that makes it so you can view the world in that funny and yet depressing way that is so common.

Now that I've cleared that up, I'd like to say how angry this makes me. It feels personal. Not like it was about me, but it hit me in a personal way. I've been thinking of Ernest Hemingway as my personal and professional hero for a really long time now, and I've just now gotten over the romance of living hard and fast. Living for the experience. I mean, I'd still rather regret the things I've done than the missed experiences, but I don't want to just do everything I want until I can't deal with it anymore. That was a huge thing for me. HUGE! And now, at about the same age, and able to grow the same beard, someone else I held in esteem has taken this way out. No, it's not the easy way out. I would argue it's the hardest way there is. I just wish someone would have been able to help him. I wish that he would have been able to see how much it was worth it, how much his work and his life meant to so many people. Now we're left with a deficit. One of the truly funny, not just crass people in the world has left it. Imagine what he'd have had to say about getting old.

So I'm going to watch some of his movies and wish him safe travels into the afterlife. May he still be making them laugh.

Short Story- Somehow It Was All Beautiful

Today I walked out into the tiny village in which I live. The work day had only just begun for the shop keepers on the main street. It was all of ten A.M., for, you see, things move more slowly here in Turkiye than in many other parts of the world.

Living in Turkey has ben like living on a completely different planet. Live moves along at its own pace here. The shops open whenever they please, which is why, at the not-so-early hour of ten, I was witness to the opening rituals of my village.

Normally, the dust and disorder seem to grate against my nerves, turning me vehemently against this friendly and haphazardly cohesive culture. But today. For some reason, today was different. The sky was brighter. The air was cleaner. It was all really quite charming.

This tiny street in this tiny village has been puzzle pieced together for at least the past twenty years. The result being that the sidewalk is not a sidewalk in the strictest sense of the word. In reality, it is simply a pathway made of a myriad of paving materials including, what I am almost certain is kitchen tile. It is all in varying heights, widths, and states of disrepair.

This morning, as I set out on the important task of checking for new movies and procuring lunch from my favorite doner shop, I owned the street. There were no men out to call, "Abla, you need carpet/haircut/watch?" The shop keepers were occupied with hosing down their bit of the sidewalk or sweeping out their store fronts. The old men were sitting down to tea on the tables set on the side of the street. So relaxed, in fact, is the attitude of my street, for it has become MY street, that the men leave their shops, wide open, to go and sit down for their tea.

And it was today, as I walked around the parked cars so as to not disrupt this most inane yet sacred of rituals, that I saw the beauty inherent in the simple. Today, I saw the little old man who makes the doners. I saw  him ready his knives, saw his skill with the meat on the spit, saw how things are done here. This man is always assisted by a young boy whom I can only assume is a relative, as nepotism seems to be the rule here rather than the exception. This man - these people - take pride in their work and the simplicity of life. As well they should, because today it was beautiful.

My, that antidepressant sure looks nice.

You ever get depressed? Happened to me. Like when I was a kid. I'm on medication though, so I'm better.

Then some of my friends who are, if you can believe it, bigger hippies that I am started talking about how they got off antidepressants after like seventeen years. I was like, WTF? You can do that? I'm gonna do that!!! Because, you guys know, I can

So, after much research on Dr. Google and talking to my therapist who by the way was not so much with the on board thing, I decided I can do it!

Except that then I discovered the true depth of my disease and decided, eh, maybe not.

And it's a good thing too because then shit got real. Like really real. I sort of lost my shit. So, that's not happening. I'm working on it. It's a journey, but I've definitely decided that those antidepressants sure do look nice.