I hate to say it, but I wasn't surprised. That's actually the part that shocks me.
When I was in my junior and senior years of high school, I had an idol — like we all do — someone I wanted to be like so much; and the thing was I was most of the way there: We had a lot of the same look. Same fashion sense. Same sense of humor. Same hair (nearly). He was almost exactly ten years older than me.
As it turns out, there's one other thing we shared. The trouble is, I faced my demon and won. He didn't.
It's August 11, 2014 and the person I wanted to be when I was a kid — Robin Williams — is dead, an apparent suicide.
Last entry, I mentioned a lot of the signs, and he had them in abundance: Creative, funny and smart with talents in many directions. Robin Williams was almost the poster boy for Bi-Polar Disorder, if not outright depression (Media is currently saying severe depression, but I'm pretty certain he was dealing with BPD I, but we'll probably never know.). But we never saw it coming. Not him. He had it all. How could he...?
But I wasn't shocked. I think I saw it coming, but I didn't put it together until now. He'd be in the spotlight doing several projects, then disappear for a while. Recently, he checked himself into rehab. Not once, but twice.
"To focus himself after some hectic projects," his agent said.
Sadly, I also understand how he felt. In the late 70s/early 80s, Robin Williams was THE man. He could do no wrong (except, maybe 'Toys'). Mork and Mindy, comedy tours, movie roles.
Now, in the next ten seconds, name the last movie he was in.
Couldn't do it, could you? Therein lies part of the problem.
Some people start out terrific in their careers. Some blossom as they get older; George Carlin being the ultimate example of that. Most peak quickly and decline. Sadly, Williams was one of those. During the last 30 years, his shtick never really changed and he went from cutting edge to routine to a parody of himself. He could look behind him and see his shining glory, but he saw nothing to match that glory in front of him.
I understand that. Deeply. I spent 10-15 years in radio, with some of my best work in Springfield and Peoria. In fact, as a fill-in disc jockey, I won my slot with the stations' prime demographic in two consecutive years. I say "stations'" instead of "station's" because I worked at two different radio stations those years. And won. Easily.
Although it's nothing of the sort, most people see DJs as "this close" to the entertainment world. Even a small town radio announcer receives a bit of awe and special treatment from people, even if it's on a subconscious level. It's an ego boost. And it becomes a drug that's hard to break from.
I miss that "fame," that "ego boost" that made me feel like I was something special. I don't miss the people I worked for or with, though. Radio is a toxic atmosphere. I don't think I ever worked at a station where half of the staff wasn't either afraid or knifing someone in the back. But damn, the feeling of being on the air or at a public appearance and knowing that people are hanging on your every word (and they ARE YOUR OWN WORDS) is a high that I can't explain.
...and one I'll likely never have again. Theater fills in somewhat, and the occasional stand-up is better yet, but my days of reaching more than a handful of people at a time are behind me.
Now, that's the same for Robin Williams.
R.I.P., Mork.
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