In the Broadway version of The Lion King, Simba sings of the “Endless Night” that he is experiencing when he feels abandoned by his father:

“Where has the starlight gone?

Dark is the day

How can I find my way home?

Home is an empty dream

Lost to the night

Father, I feel so alone.”

But something amazing happens. The chorus starts singing,”I know that the night must end. And that the sun will rise.” And Simba eventually joins in. His story, his battle is really just beginning, but he’s already starting to realize that he has a choice. He can either believe that the night, his exile, is never ending… or he can put his faith in the ever consistent sunrise.

Everything is a choice.

Whether or not we get out of bed in the morning is a choice. Eating breakfast is a choice. Driving safely is a choice. We always choose what we do, even if we do not realize it. Even if they are automatic.

I read a short, not quite credible clickbait article from “Health of Women” that made me upset this morning titled “Robin Williams did not die from suicide, wake up people.” A couple of my Facebook friends had shared it. I clicked on it because I was expecting some crazy idea about some conspiracy (it was on Facebook, after all). As it turns out, the author did have a crazy idea. And it was this: Robin Williams died from depression and not from suicide. He also wrote that suicide is not a choice.

Becoming depressed may not be a choice, but staying depressed is. One can cheer themselves up (it can seem impossible, I admit) or choose the night, to stay burden down by the oppressive blackness. If one can choose to not feel depressed, shouldn’t one be able to choose life?

Suicide, by definition, is voluntary. It is deliberately, intentionally killing oneself. It usually means that one has a plan thought out beforehand. It is not inevitable.

I agree wholeheartedly that mood disorders, all mental illnesses, and suicide have collected stigma that should be dissolved. This will only happen when those afflicted with these kind of darknesses are truly heard. Not understood. I don’t think it’s possible for mental illness to be completely understood by everyone. They just need to be heard and acknowledged.

That acknowledgement is a choice.

Going to class is a choice.

Eating beef ramen over chicken is a choice.

Going to work on time (or even working in the first place) is a choice.

Reading this is a choice.

And above all, life is a choice. The biggest, the hardest, and the most important one of all.