I used to be married to a wonderful yet complicated man named Rob. He worked as a science journalist, we had a house and a dog, and one day we planned to have children. He also suffered from depression since he was a child, and developed a formidable opiate addiction as a means, I believe, to self-medicate that illness.

In May 2015, he took his own life, unable to see a future in which he wouldn’t still be fighting his illness, unable to reconcile what he thought he was versus what he believed a man should be.

In one of his last messages to me, he said he couldn’t live with being bankrupt, an addict, mentally ill. This speaks heartbreaking volumes of how he saw himself at the end – someone no longer valuable to society.

He had forgotten his huge intellect, his stunning ability to name any species of bird or plant he came across, his kindness, generosity, friendship. His immense capacity to love, which came without conditions or limitations.

As a man on the cusp of 40, he struggled with a lot of things other men do – being a good partner, making money, one day being a dad – but more often than not, those worries were kept hidden beneath a veneer of nonchalance, jokes and ‘everything’s fine’.