Through other writer’s stories I have navigated to the surface from underground places where my only ally, and my only villain, is me, sometimes disguised as a reptile. Not an unusual trait for a writer (or artist) but I am challenged with (suffer from, experience, embrace) severe depressive episodes. I have learned to build and maintain depression escape tunnels where the walls are lined with things to make me feel better. Books, movies in particular, are embedded into the walls, each a rung of hope helping me to clamber out of my gritty and isolated hole.
I cry a storm for Robin Williams. A beacon, he weathered bipolar waves, hid dark downs in high laughter. His death released a million floating secrets. I understand but mourn.