"You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it." ~ Robin Williams

On Monday, August 11, 2014, Robin Williams committed suicide. He was depressed and he hanged himself. Sadly, 10 or 20 years from now most people won't remember his genius, a comedian and actor that entertained us and made us laugh. I remember watching Mrs. Doubtfire and Hook with my kids. They loved him. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of his death for people like me that suffer from depression is that if someone as talented and successful as Robin Williams, an individual that seemingly had it all, could take his own life, check out of this world forever, what are we to make of it, the rest of us? We can either see our own lives as devoid and useless or we can observe that even people like Mr. Williams suffer as we do, and if anything, his tragic departure can become a learning moment by bringing the issue of depression to the forefront so that other people might understand that it's never as simple or as easy to merely "snap out of it."

What my depression felt like

Depression is a funny thing: it doesn't throw itself in front of you; rather, it creeps up...slowly. At first, you're still waking up every morning, making coffee, feeding the cats, bringing in the newspaper; doing all your normal routine things. But then you begin to notice that your To Do list is getting longer and you're doing less and less each day—even simple things like responding to an email or making a phone call becomes difficult. Smiling and trying to make small talk is hard. Eventually you stop answering the phone altogether because it's easier to listen to the messages on the machine than to deal with actually speaking to someone.

You stop going outside. You know you..should..get..up, but it all seems like such an effort. All the things you used to enjoy cease because you have no joy. You become frustrated because you can't muster the strength to do the things you do—you're a writer and you can't write; you're a photographer, but sunsets and colors that used to arouse great passion in you leave you cold and unfeeling. You feel empty inside, and even though you hate the way you feel and you berate yourself and tell yourself to just snap out of it, the worse you feel.

Pretty soon you're not doing much of anything anymore. You're lucky if the day passes and you've even made an attempt at completing something on your list. At night you faux sleep. Your dreams are filled with struggles. You start taking naps in the afternoon because you're tired from fitful sleep at night, but also because sleep offers a brief respite from thinking about how depressed you are; of thinking about death. Everything feels a little surreal. Reading a book or even changing the TV channel with the remote takes too much effort. Sure, there are moments when you don't feel so bad; "maybe I'll do some writing today or set up my tripod at dusk and shoot the moon," you ponder, but then the dark cloud descends and you are right back there, feeling heavy and sluggish and blah and wondering if you'll ever be happy again...ever.