Looking back, 2015 was a banner year for me. It started with a breakup and became masked in a fog of depression that only cleared when I was snorting cocaine. (Things get better, promise.) I was 32 and addicted, driven by a desire to make it. I had everything I was supposed to want: the badass career, the six-figure salary, the weekend home. But I see now that my happiness was conditional – I was always just a setback away from spiraling out of control. When things ended with the girlfriend I thought I’d marry, I plunged into darkness. Truthfully, I wanted to kill myself, but my father had done that and I’d never aspired to be like him.

I was looking for a way out of the city, so I made plans to visit my mother and stepfather. They’re classic new-age baby boomers. They have the crystals, the flowing clothes, the angel artwork. I thought they were crazy for most of my young life.

Yet they’d somehow persuaded me, in my hapless state, to sit