because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air. ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Depression is a hell of a thing. I feel like I am drowning. My head briefly gasps for air above the waters surface while I sleep, then I wake up and I’m pulled back under. I cannot breathe, I’m tired, I wish I could give up.