When I was 24, I very nearly killed myself. I was living in Ibiza at the time, in a very nice villa, on the quiet east coast of the island. The villa was right next to a cliff. In the midst of depression, I walked out to the edge of the cliff and looked at the sea and at the rugged limestone coastline, dotted with deserted beaches.
It was the most beautiful view I had ever known, but I didn’t care. I was too busy trying to summon the courage needed to throw myself over the edge. I didn’t. Instead, I walked back inside and threw up from the stress of it.
Three more years of depression followed. Panic, despair—a daily battle to walk to the corner shop without collapsing to the ground.
But I survived. I am days away from being 38. Back then, I almost knew I wasn’t going to make it to 30. Death or total madness seemed more realistic. But I’m here. Surrounded by people I love. And I am doing a job I never thought I’d be doing. And I spend my days writing stories that are really guide books, the way all books are guide books.
I am so glad I didn’t kill myself, but I continue to wonder if there is anything to say to people at those darkest times. Here’s an attempt.</p…