I

woke up on Tuesday to the stunning news of Robin Williams'€™ untimely passing.

No, I won'€™t talk about his extraordinary talents or stellar career '€” you can'€™t fit that into 800-plus words anyway. But I want to talk about what people don'€™t talk about until a dramatic demise occurs '€” mental illnesses. The depression that Williams had suffered from for years is one.

The problem lies in the fact that '€œdepression'€ generally defines sadness, whereas '€œclinical depression'€ is a diagnosable mental disorder that requires medical treatment. Most people who never experience clinical depression often fail to fathom why a clinically depressed person is any different to someone having the usual blues we all feel at times.

Beyond linguistic vagueness, often the lack of physical marks makes many people believe that mental illnesses are not real. There are no cuts, bruises, fractures or discoloration. '€œIt'€™s all in your head'€ the sarcastic comments go, and how true it is. Yet, just because it'€™s somewhere inside the mind where you can'€™t see, it doesn'€™t mean it'€™s not a real, medical issue.

That lack of understanding creates the misconception that a person battling depression, or mental illness in general, is someone simply losing grip of his/her mind '€” the very core of being.

Misconception breeds no compassion. In the modern world that fiercely prizes sharp intellect and driven personalities, carrying a weak constitution is equivalent to being born a hunchback in ancient Sparta.

Forget about winning the game, sometimes you'€™re not even allowed into the stadium at all. Career opportunities reduced, social life stunted.

So instead of checking for symptoms and getting medical treatment, people clam up about their mental health problems, sink into a bottomless hole while hurting themselves and others along the way, stigmatizing mental illnesses further in a vicious cycle that has no benefit for society in the long run.

Several years ago, I hit a very low point in life. At the beginning I didn'€™t consider it any different to some bout of unhappiness one may feel after a series of letdowns.

Knowing something about the standard Kubler-Ross grieving stages, I went with the flow '€” punching sandbags, pigging out on comfort food, impulsively shopping for whimsical shoes and horrible lipstick, crying myself to sleep.

But things only worsened. I started sleeping intermittently or not at all, failing to focus on simple tasks and losing my appetite. On certain days I was just too exhausted to get out of bed, even after hours of sleep. I felt I did not have much left to deal with the world that was rapidly closing in on me. With my last bit of good sense I searched online about my condition and found that I ticked half the boxes for clinical depression. Red flag.

I went to seek help. I went to see professional counselors. I even went away on meditation and recuperation retreats. It turned out to be a mild case of depression that required no prescription drugs, yet the healing process was admittedly tedious and discouraging at times. I persisted through the roller-coaster ride before gradually feeling better.

Was I lucky to have had a bit of knowledge, or the awareness to seek professional help? Yes. Was I lucky to have had some resources to afford consultations and healing time? Thankfully, yes. Was I lucky to have known better about society'€™s potential backlash that I barely told anyone, even my closest friends, that I was getting help? Disturbingly, yes.

Disturbing, because anybody suffering from an illness should never have to be in the position of being too self-conscious to seek the best professional help that is available, or at least affordable.

Even more disturbing is that nobody suffering from an illness should have to be in luck before finding treatment. Just as someone with back pain might see an osteopath or a person with leukemia would visit an oncologist, someone with a mental health problem should be able to freely seek professional help from psychologists or psychiatrists without needing to worry about social repercussions.

I mean, if A has cancer and B shuns A for having a cancer, so that A has to tiptoe around to see doctors, wouldn'€™t you call B a heartless jackass? If so, then why should it be any different when A has a mental illness?

Fashionistas have mourned for Alexander McQueen and his mentor Isabella Blow. Music diehards have lost Kurt Cobain and Michael Hutchence. We'€™re all reeling from Robin Williams'€™ shocking departure. What about the non-celebrities among us? What about that little person inside all of us? Are we doing okay? Are YOU doing okay?

Start small. Instead of using your search engine to find out about Syahrini'€™s latest antics, look up '€œclinical depression'€. Read carefully, and calmly. Buy books if you want. Read up on mental health disorders enough to recognize the basic symptoms.

Seek professional help if you suspect you'€™re suffering from a mental health problem. Support people in need of help while knowing that, though your friendship is valuable and religious clerics may bring a certain comfort, medical professionals are what is needed most.

And, for the love of God, stop using '€œbipolar'€, '€œsplit personality'€ or '€œpsychopath'€ as punch lines for jokes. Muddying those medical terms in people'€™s minds only makes it harder for actual mental health patients to seek the help they need.

'€œNow you'€™re free, Genie'€, the Academy Awards heartbreakingly tweeted along with a still from Aladdin. Every Genie deserves to get help to be free. Please do your part.

Lynda Ibrahim is a Jakarta-based writer and consultant, with a penchant for purple, pussycats and pop culture.