It came back. That cloud. The heavy, dark, consuming cloud of hopelessness. I have tried to kill myself on two occassions. Both using medication used to treat depression. Both times would have been successful had I not been found terribly drugged up. The second time I had a seizure as a result and lost a bit of my memory. How I wish I had lost more. I was in the hospital for months, “getting better.”. Then I got out, got another job, started upgrading some courses, even started having dreams again. That was a big sign for me that I had made it. I had made it back into life again. I was going to live. About two weeks ago, something collapsed in me. I lost whatever it was that had given me the will to live again and became suicidal. Desperately suicidal. Now I’m back to looking up fatal combinations of medications on the internet, preparing to write final letters to friends, and even putting together playlists to listen to when I finally do it. Anything to make the pain stop. I’m scared. Scared that I’m doing the wrong thing. But I can’t–as hard as I try–remember happiness, remember…purpose.