Depression is a silent killer. I remember waking up one morning to find my mother —a particularly tough woman—sitting at the edge of her bed, hair brush in one hand and an open palm in the other with a defeated, glazed, stare on her face. That sight scared the reasoning out of me. I did not know what was was wrong; I did not know what to do. I was scared. I knew what depression was from all the psychology classes I had taken but this seemed different it seemed like it was more than just sadness. This looked like…well…defeat. It’s hard because she looked at me and asked, “What is happening to me?” Usually I 'm the one with the answers. I could have given her a rational answer, backed by my little knowledge on depression, but I was at a loss.