From the output of my fitness tracking devices, one might perceive that I have spent a little too much time not being active.  With my best day over the past week being 6,077 steps on the Jawbone, and 6,571 steps on the Fitbit, one might be right. (The Jawbone reported 965 steps last Wednesday. Really, 965. I mean, several trips to the bathroom should add up to more than 965 steps, yet here we are. Small consolation, though: the Fitbit logged 4,812 steps. Same wrist.)

What do we think about people who sit around all day? Have we ever looked at someone who was overweight and thought, they’re lazy, they have no self-control, don’t they know what they’re doing? They aren’t even worth looking at; they’re the only still acceptable punch line. We see the outside, but we cannot see what’s happening on the inside. Maybe that person who hasn’t taken any steps just can’t, that day, take another step. Perhaps the act of getting out of bed and putting on a brave face is simply too much. And maybe they already think they aren’t worth looking at.

Yesterday’s passing of Robin Williams brought forth a slew of social media posts along the lines of:

• Reach out if you need help
• Don’t give up
• I’m here for you
• It’s never that bad

I read these posts with a mixture of heart-swelling gratitude and a scoop of fuck you. Hey, I know these posts are genuine and kind, and I am really not knocking the sentiments. It’s just…well, what would really happen if someone (I) started a conversation like that? Would people laugh derisively? Be repulsed? Would the handful of people who care suddenly not care any longer? On paper, things couldn’t look better. I work in a field I enjoy, and get paid semi-OK for doing so. The man I love and I share a home, and we bring to the party four awesome kids. We’re healthy. We’re reasonably attractive (well, he is, minus the “reasonably”). We appreciate a good pun. My parents and brother are nearby and supportive. So what, Emily, what could possibly be the problem?

Robin Williams is the epitome of a guy who had it all. Smart, successful, funny, adored. Three kids. Money.  Fame. I could go on, but we know, especially now, that these don’t conquer the depression. Underneath a sparkling veneer like his or that woman over there or maybe yours or even mine lives a colony of demons, each one with its own mantra: You’re no good, you’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re stupid, your friends don’t even like you, you’re a terrible person, why bother anymore, you suck in more ways than anyone can ever describe. On a good day, they’re quiet, and you can see the sunshine, and you know you’re loved, but on a bad day, you can’t see beyond the darkness in front of you, and you wish everyone would disappear while simultaneously holding you tight, keeping you safe from yourself. And then on the worst days, you don’t even care that it’s dark or that anyone’s around or not. You’re numb. You can’t see past your own wish not to wake up.

Robin Williams, who brought so much light into people’s lives, couldn’t see beyond the darkness. He will be missed and mourned. He can also be a reminder – you simply don’t know what’s happening underneath, and you don’t know when people need help.  I’ve lost a bunch of people I once held dear because, in large part, I never let on what was happening underneath. What the next step will be will be determined at some future moment of clarity. Right now, I share the grief that the demons’ victory has caused.