I used to think my life would be something straight out of Sex and the City. Happy nights, a good friend group, great clothes, a writing career in fashion—you know, the good stuff. But somehow, I’m found myself smack dab in the middle of Catcher in the Rye. Alone, confused, and not really knowing what direction to take. I have begun to lose a passion for the things I love, like writing, editing, blogging. What is this? I know I suffer from depression, but this is something to a greater extent. It’s like I have bursts of motivation, those fleeting moments where sparks are ignited and oil is burned, but then, inevitably, the moments of lowness follow. And they stay… and they stay some more… and they just… don’t go away. The ratio of productive to uninspired is completely unbalanced. It’s not like I don’t want to do those things. I know I have to and I know they’re beneficial. I like doing them, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m not happy. I am happy, trust me. But it’s something else… Something I can’t quite pin down. My head and my heart are not on the same page right now and I don’t have the strength to flip through chapters to get us there. I know what I have to do to get that sex and the city life, but my inner Holden Caulfield is angstily sitting this one out. Again. For the fourth time this week. If this is the quarter life crisis my friends told me about, where do I check out? I don’t need this in my life, especially not at the moment where my future is on the line and the decisions I make now finally, after all these years, have consequences. Not now, Holden. Not now.