All the Manic--Depression comes Later.
Have you ever lost something very dear to you that, even years later, you can't stop thinking 'what if I left it here?' and then actively search for it. Well, I have. And when I hit upon these keepsakes in my memory it only unleashes such a wave of guilt and fond remembrance that I must tear apart the house looking for it.
Take last night for example. I was at work, pushing boxes, wondering how I could end up at a job that requires the skills of an untrained monkey and, let's face it, possibly drooling when all of a sudden I think about an old notebook that I lost about 6 years ago. Now, it just wasn't any notebook and I'm not particularly annoyed by losing the writing I had in it, ( I've come a long way as far as my mediocre talent is concerned), but more by what the notebook meant to me.
It was a little hard cover, green, spiral bound notebook that I could carry anywhere with me and I wouldn't have to worry about finding scrap paper (take that Emily Dickinson) or scribbling all about my pants--which is a totally different story--because this awesome little text was always with me. Add to the top of that tiny list that it was a gift, but not just any gift from any person. It was a gift from a woman I once(2) dated. A woman who will always be very dear to me. AND I LOST IT! What the Fuck? How could I lose it?
Anyway, after punishing myself about where I could have left it for the 4 hours I was at work I decided that when I get home, I'll look for it. Boy-howdy, did I look for it! In a manic haze that overcomes me about once...twice...no, about 5 or 6 times a month I tore through the house searching for this lost treasure that I'm sure to never find, but somehow I still convince myself that, 'it's around here somewhere.' So, I dug all the boxes of writing and old notebooks from my closet, (seriously, I need to get a filing cabinet and possibly a secretary to take care of this stuff for me. Any cute girls want to apply for the job? I'm a nice guy, I swear it.), only to find that it wasn't there. On to the rest of the bedroom. It wasn't under the bed. It wasn't in the bed; this search included pealing away the filmy cover over the bottom of the box spring and I'm fairly positive I didn't own this bed way back when I lost the book. Trying to keep quiet so as not to wake anyone I rummaged through the hall closets ripping out all those insides: wrapping paper, linens, boxes, tools and tool chests, hurricane supplies, bottled water, medicines, washing detergent, those little clingy things you put in the dryer, etc... It wasn't there. If I could rip up the foundation to my house I would. Last year when we had our pool drained and resided I kind of freaked out the guys working on it when I would go out and poke around the pool's foundation. It only got worse when they would ask what I thought and I would counter with, "Have you guys found a little green notebook?" Yeah, I'm a bit off I know, but dammit I'll find it one day.
After an exhaustive search I lay down in bed, (my couch), and started thinking of other places it could be. Was it stolen? Did she take it back to spite me? Did I leave it in an old car I sold sometime ago? Did I leave it in some random coffee shop while acting all pretentious? Where the hell could it be? As I lay there racking my brain I realized that it's not even the book I'm looking for. Somewhere I lost a memory that I truly enjoyed and I was desperately trying to get it back. That I have a problem moving forward. I guess it'll be okay. The notebook is a nice memory and when I run these goose chases I'll just have to keep in mind what it is that I'm actually looking for.
Take last night for example. I was at work, pushing boxes, wondering how I could end up at a job that requires the skills of an untrained monkey and, let's face it, possibly drooling when all of a sudden I think about an old notebook that I lost about 6 years ago. Now, it just wasn't any notebook and I'm not particularly annoyed by losing the writing I had in it, ( I've come a long way as far as my mediocre talent is concerned), but more by what the notebook meant to me.
It was a little hard cover, green, spiral bound notebook that I could carry anywhere with me and I wouldn't have to worry about finding scrap paper (take that Emily Dickinson) or scribbling all about my pants--which is a totally different story--because this awesome little text was always with me. Add to the top of that tiny list that it was a gift, but not just any gift from any person. It was a gift from a woman I once(2) dated. A woman who will always be very dear to me. AND I LOST IT! What the Fuck? How could I lose it?
Anyway, after punishing myself about where I could have left it for the 4 hours I was at work I decided that when I get home, I'll look for it. Boy-howdy, did I look for it! In a manic haze that overcomes me about once...twice...no, about 5 or 6 times a month I tore through the house searching for this lost treasure that I'm sure to never find, but somehow I still convince myself that, 'it's around here somewhere.' So, I dug all the boxes of writing and old notebooks from my closet, (seriously, I need to get a filing cabinet and possibly a secretary to take care of this stuff for me. Any cute girls want to apply for the job? I'm a nice guy, I swear it.), only to find that it wasn't there. On to the rest of the bedroom. It wasn't under the bed. It wasn't in the bed; this search included pealing away the filmy cover over the bottom of the box spring and I'm fairly positive I didn't own this bed way back when I lost the book. Trying to keep quiet so as not to wake anyone I rummaged through the hall closets ripping out all those insides: wrapping paper, linens, boxes, tools and tool chests, hurricane supplies, bottled water, medicines, washing detergent, those little clingy things you put in the dryer, etc... It wasn't there. If I could rip up the foundation to my house I would. Last year when we had our pool drained and resided I kind of freaked out the guys working on it when I would go out and poke around the pool's foundation. It only got worse when they would ask what I thought and I would counter with, "Have you guys found a little green notebook?" Yeah, I'm a bit off I know, but dammit I'll find it one day.
After an exhaustive search I lay down in bed, (my couch), and started thinking of other places it could be. Was it stolen? Did she take it back to spite me? Did I leave it in an old car I sold sometime ago? Did I leave it in some random coffee shop while acting all pretentious? Where the hell could it be? As I lay there racking my brain I realized that it's not even the book I'm looking for. Somewhere I lost a memory that I truly enjoyed and I was desperately trying to get it back. That I have a problem moving forward. I guess it'll be okay. The notebook is a nice memory and when I run these goose chases I'll just have to keep in mind what it is that I'm actually looking for.