It’s been eleven years since Robin Williams left us. Eleven years since the news hit like a sucker punch, and we all realized we’d never get another one of those moments where he just owned a room — whether it was a late-night couch, a stand-up stage, or a movie scene that could rip your heart out.
People still argue about it. Some called it selfish when they heard how he died, like he just gave up. But if you know what was going on, you know it wasn’t that simple. He had Lewy body dementia, a brutal disease that messes with your mind, your memory, your sense of self. It wasn’t just depression. It was watching the very core of who he was get chipped away, day after day. That’s not something you “power through.”
I don’t think it was about giving up. I think it was about ending the pain he was in. And that’s hard to talk about, because it’s easier for people to cling to clean, comforting narratives than face the messier truth.
The world hasn’t felt the same since. You can measure it in how people talk about comedy, or how certain movies hit different because he’s not around to star in them. There’s just… a gap.
If you’re in that kind of place — the place where you can’t see a way out — there are people who will listen. The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (afsp.org) is a start. It’s worth reaching out.
Wherever Robin ended up, I hope he’s doing what he loved: making people laugh, making them feel, giving them something real. Maybe he’s up in some smoky green room, maybe he’s somewhere else entirely. Hell, maybe he’s down there pulling a Little Nicky — making Hitler sit on a pineapple for all eternity. Feels like the kind of bit he’d commit to.
Eleven years gone, and it still hurts. That says everything.
Hollywood After Dark 