Coping(?)

It seems ridiculous to me that I should cry over some books, but I have. I haven't slept much at all since Saturday night. I can't. Every time my mind idles, preparing for sleep, I think about the loss of my journal. That chain of words was one of the most frightening things I've ever had to consider: The Loss of My Journal. I used to wonder what that would be like, if there ever came a point where I would have to cope with the journal not being around anymore. And the more I thought about it, the more dedicated I was to keeping it near or with me all the time. As it started getting too big, I had a desire - perhaps it wasn't strong enough - to get the thing, all 1500+ pages of it transcribed. In the end, I got about one-sixth of it finished, and that gives me some small comfort. But not much. It just kills me, in a way like I haven't felt since probably Mel and I were breaking up, to think that my journal is probably sitting in a dumpster somewhere, or already in a landfill. So much love, so much time, so much of me is there, in those pages, and it honestly feels like that part of me is gone. The journal has always been a part of me, as much as anything else is a part of me - as much as my nose is. I don't always notice it, but I would surely miss it if it were gone.

The sheer number of things I've written about in those seven and a half years, things I'll never see again: The things I wrote about me and Jaime, and then his death; the things I wrote about Dad, including the dedication I wrote to him on my graduation from Susquehanna...

It's just too hard to write about this now. I can't think about this. It makes me cry every time I start thinking about the fact of what I've lost, when I try to count the cost, and I can't really be a blubbering idiot all day at work today.