It’s like a whirlpool. It seems so innocent, so comforting at first. This is what it’s like: you dip a toe or two into the waters. Then a foot, both feet, your ankles. The water rises a bit, but it’s okay. It might be cold at first, but you get used to it. The swirling waters start to rise faster than you thought it would. It rises to your knees. Then to your waist, your stomach. You tell yourself its fine. That it’s comfortable. That the waters will surely stop soon. But it doesn’t. It rises ruthlessly. Eventually, it rises to your head and sweeps you off your feet. You panic, you struggle, you strive to find your footing. But its impossible. You’re pulled under and you hold your breath as long as you can, but know you can’t hold it forever. And for a moment, when you know it’s over, you find a moment of peace. For that one moment, it’s okay. And then, and only then, the waters lower and release you. That. That is the weight of depression.