When I was 22, one of my best friends committed suicide by jumping out a window from eight stories up. He was an extremely intelligent guy who got expelled during our senior year of high school, which meant that the best university that he could get into was _only_ the University of Chicago, which is still one of the best in the world. He did well there and was just starting grad school at Columbia (another prestigious school) when he jumped. It was less than a week after the last time I had seen him, and I remember that he was very troubled at the time. He was Chinese-American, and there had been a recent cover story in Time about "Asian-American Whiz Kids" that suggested that perhaps my friend's success was more about his cultural upbringing than his own hard work. He had other issues, too. A close mutual friend of ours who also went to University of Chicago said that our friend never dated anybody there, and was apparently still a virgin.
I took it hard. That last time we got together, he talked about that article, and I was the only other person at the table who had read the article. I wish I had said something differently, to undermine the message that he took from it, instead of just joking about it. I struggled with guilt for a year, and then finally I got mad at my deceased friend. He could have called me, or someone. He could have reached out for help. He could have done so much more with his life than just jump out a window. But in the end, he did what he wanted, and that was that. I accept it all now, but still wish he had made better choices.
Good decisions come from experience. Experience comes from bad decisions.