I joke about being in the midst of my quarter-life crisis. Hell, maybe I really am. As someone who has dealt with waves of anxiety and depression since puberty, it’s all business as usual. This crisis didn’t start when my head began spinning endlessly. It didn’t start when the tears rolled down my cheek. It didn’t start when I stood alone in the dark on top of a mountain. It didn’t start when I looked down at what appeared to be nothing but blackness or when the count began in my head. One, Two-- No, this, this part of my life began when I turned around and got back in my car. When I decided it was better to live without vision or hope than to just give it all up. Which perhaps is hope after all.