INTERSECTIONALITY
What Took Robin Williams From Us?
A Personal Reflection
I’ve been watching a video I randomly stumbled upon on YouTube. It’s about a remarkable gorilla named Koko, who learned American Sign Language to communicate with humans. In the video, Robin Williams — the beloved American actor — is spending time with her.
Robin was clearly moved. His eyes were glowing with wonder and joy as he played with Koko. I could see how deeply he was touched and how amazed he was by Koko’s intelligence and the depth of her thoughts and emotions. He was in awe, fully present, and lit up by the moment.
And that made me think:
How could someone like him — so emotionally intelligent, so alive to wonder, so capable of extracting joy from life — fall so deep into depression that he chose to end his life?
What forces are strong enough to take a sentient, creative man and turn him into a prisoner desperate to escape?
What pulled him into such darkness that he couldn’t see any light left?
About seven years ago, I came close to falling into depression myself. I remember how powerless I felt against the dark thoughts that invaded me — how they seemed to move on their own, crushing me. I knew I needed someone’s help to make it out. I could still see that I needed help. But it seems Robin reached a place where no help could reach him. And that breaks something in me.
I ask myself:
What kind of ruthless and consuming force is out there that the only way to silence it is to surrender the most precious thing a person has? His life… Can you feel how brutal that must be?
These thoughts are like weeds. If one doesn’t notice them and prune them, they spread. They feed on their victim’s energy, choke his joy, and slowly ruin everything they touch.
I’ve come to realize that in my everyday life, there are subtler versions of those thoughts. Weeds that sprout daily in the garden of my mind. They find dark corners to grow in — just out of sight. They feed on my energy and slowly climb up my body, reaching my head. It’s as if they lie dormant while I sleep, then load themselves into my system the moment I wake up. I didn’t always notice them. But they were there, feeding on my joy like emotional parasites. Maybe my long-standing mindfulness practice is starting to help. Not perfectly, but it’s something.
Honestly, most of my meditation sessions feel like a battlefield. I sit, and I fight these thoughts with everything I have. I lose focus again and again. But each time I notice, I restart. So 30 minutes of meditation often feels like 30 minutes of fighting. It doesn’t feel peaceful — but maybe that fight is doing something.
Over time, I think it’s given me a small power. Now, I can detect some of these weedy thoughts. I can feel them crawling up my legs like a subtle itch. And when I notice them, even that awareness feels like a tiny win.
But I still don’t quite know how to fight them. Seeing them isn’t the same as knowing what to do. Still, I now recognize them for what they are: not mine. They’re intruders, eating away at my energy, my joy, my moments.
And while I can’t always stop them yet, I’m starting to look for ways to uproot them.
I’m still in discovery mode.
