The depression. The overwhelming force of the work load. Written in my planner were at least two projects in each box. Dread was all that I felt. Work was all that I saw. “You shouldn’t of waited till’ last minute!” was all that I heard. I craved time off my own but I had invisible chains binding to my work. Page after page of writing blending together. The motion of writing became mechanical. Color, draw, type, type, research, type, cut, print, paste. Only when the lead of my pencil was flat did I notice it was morning. A wave or exhaustion rushed over me. I passed out.