A Remarkable Loss

I'm really depressed this morning.

Last night, I got it in mind to go through some of my old writings. I can't even recall at this moment what possessed me to do this. It's something I do every once in a while, for a bit of nostalgia.

That's really all it is because most, if not all, of those writings are pure crap. I used to write almost all the time in junior high and high school, but I tended to write about things I didn't have a clue about, so it also tends to kind of suck. Still, I enjoy pulling them out and looking at them. It's fun and entertaining, and I did put an awful lot of effort into these things, and there are some great moments which I could pull from and attempt to write something actually good.

Or maybe not anymore.

You see, I used to write everything by hand. I'd write while I was at school, in class. I'm a smart girl, but I nearly ended up with a C in Algebra II because I almost never paid attention to what was going on in class. Because I did most of my writing in class, and because this was before I had my own PC and had to use the parents' computer if I was going to type anything, almost all the writing I did was by hand. I kept all these little notebooks and binders full of looseleaf papers with all the things I'd written.

Only now, I can't find a good chunk of it, including the two (completely dreadful) full length plays that I wrote. Maybe they aren't even as dreadful as I remember, but I guess I'll never know because I can't find them.

I had pulled out some of my writing to read, which of course made me think of some of the other things I'd written, and when I went to look for them, I couldn't find them. Not anywhere. I tore my room apart looking for them, but they aren't there anywhere. I can't imagine where they could have gone. I certainly wouldn't have thrown them away. I mean, they're trash, but they're my trash, and I wanted to hold onto them forever.

It seems profoundly silly to be so upset about it. I'm not crying or tearing my hair out or anything. Really, it's almost too bad for that; it's a deeper feeling that even tears can express. Honestly, and it feels so stupid to say this, losing my writing may be one of the most upsetting things that's ever happened to me. Yes, it was all terrible and it wasn't going to earn me any accolades or money, but all those things I wrote, even if they didn't have anything to do with me and weren't personal in that they were about me, were very much a part of me, more so than any friend or boyfriend who has come and gone from my life. The pain is almost greater at this loss because those writings were not only a part of me but they came from me. Without me, they wouldn't exist, and now they don't exist, even though I'm still here. It's very strange because I mostly don't ever think about their existence at all, but now that their absence has been called to my attention, I'm beside myself with grief.

That's a word I don't use often, mostly because, no matter how sad I've been about various things that have happened in my life, I'm not sure I've ever felt it. I am truly blessed in this regard. But I believe it is what I feel now, even though I'm embarrassed to admit that the lose of some juvenile drivel that I wrote a million moons ago could be the thing to finally make me feel it. Not only is it silly, it's fairly narcissistic.

I haven't given up hope that they may turn up, even though I can't possibly imagine where they would be.