In late February 2018 I woke up in the psychiatric ward of a hospital in West London. Outside, thick snow covered everything. I’d slept fitfully, waking every 15 minutes throughout the night when a nurse or orderly would open the door to my room to check on me. I was on suicide watch.
Over the past year my life had started to unravel. I’d been drinking heavily, mixing alcohol with Xanax and tramadol. My relationship with my dying father was at a silent impasse, and on Valentine’s Day my girlfriend had broken up with me by phone.
