At 9:08 AM on April 21, 2011, I captured this view out my window, looking across the southern waters of Lake Atitlán in the western highlands of Guatemala. I had been living in a small apartment (about 600 sq ft) in the village of Santiago Atitlán for almost a year, and the spring rainy season had come. In the mornings, mists began to descend, first gathering around the peaks of the three extinct volcanoes that created the lake long, long ago, and then slowly wafting ever lower, until all definition faded into ghostly memory. But I remember those days of solitude. I'll never forget.
I left Santiago a few months later, carrying everything I owned in two carry-on-sized suitcases and one backpack. Moving is easy when you have so little. I ventured to Panajachel, on the far side of the lake, where I found life to be different, but no better. I remained severely depressed; suicidal. And a year later, I was headed back to Tucson for a round of 19 Electro Convulsive Therapy treatments. Their only effect ended up being what has been characterized by one of my doctors as a traumatic brain injury that resulted in unrelenting, debilitating insomnia. And my life entered a new chapter, the end of which remains to be written.
