I remember the night that I literally gave up. I had been doing much better with the depression and my wrecked life. I assumed I was okay, but I was not. That night, I lost the desire to fight. Curling down into a fetal position, I felt the darkness sinking in. Tears spilled over each eyelid and fiercely rolled down my cheeks and neck. I felt tight in my chest like something heavy was pressing against it. “It’s too much,” I thought to myself. “It’s too much.” It seemed as if I was no longer breathing, and why should I try? It was better this way. Someone would find me in the morning. I would die a natural death, depressed and alone.