Tuesday, August 12, 2014


I was waiting for the cab to take me to see my therapist when i heard or rather saw on my facebook app that Robin williams had died. I experienced a momentary sense of unreality which is usually my response to death. My senses clamp down, i feel vertiginous, my mind disorients. And then came the gradual onrush of reality, the imperceptible inner tweaking with which i managed to reorient myself.

Travelling through i anticipated the hour i'd spend discussing the suicide ,the whys, the wherefores, the philosophical implications. I was hoping to inveigle my own existential predicament alongside Robin's. I looked forward to a methodical exploration of creativity and madness. I expected my therapist's prompt foreclosure of such areas of inquiry with a perfunctory reversion to the present, invariably directed at me. But this is the present and i was willing to forestall her misgivings with my own counter rejoinder.

I feel a kinship with Robin williams because i am bipolar, as i do with plath or woolf. Their irrevocable deaths rationalize my imminent one. Their explosions of insanity preempt my putative ones. In general i am a very self contained manic depressive. I am not given to undue theatricals or needless talking about it to family and friends. That is an indulgence i preserved in the salad days of my therapy where meanderings, ineluctably inchoate, cohered into possible, plausible channels of action.

And really the number of manic depressives who commit suicide is shocking and painful. The numbers are increasing, the case histories proliferating. Perhaps it is the madness of our age , our fragmentation that necessitates these inexorable conclusions. Was Robin williams happy? What were his thoughts before he died? How did his struggle with mental health manifest itself? Such were the unanswerable imponderables that surfaced in my mind, floated around unsorted and resolved mentally into questions, queries directed at my therapist.

My therapist comes across as rather inimical to discussion sometimes. I hesitate to call it intractability though there is a certain stubbornness in her unwillingness to discuss bipolar. She seems to feel that dwelling on the illness is part of the illness and that pragmatism lies in looking at the course of action that is to be followed than the past. Philosophical divagations, metaphysical detours are not agreeable to her. Which is why broaching this topic today will require some forcefulness on my part. But i desire to bring the crises this suicide has activated in me to some closure. It feels like my loss. So i sit on the couch waiting for her.

'Good morning. I know of Robin williams suicide. Can we move on to the next issue please' she asseverates with a steely glint of determination.

I proceed to tell her about the current crises at my workplace instead.

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