My own 116 lost pages.

One thing that brings me more consistent anxiety, frustration, and anger than anything else is losing things. I can't stand it. I HATE losing things. Money, keys, a pen...you name it, I've lost it. And been mad about it.

I may never completely comprehend what Joseph Smith went through when poor Martin lost those 116 pages. But today, I feel like I am experiencing his feelings in small part. So I've been going through old journals, and I realized that I am missing one. An entire journal. More than 116 pages, by far. My journal from junior/senior year of high school is completely missing. I am sick over it. I have scoured every remaining box in the garage. (As a plus, I have stumbled upon several hundred more pictures, giving me more work to do in organizing. And more reminiscing.) But it is nowhere to be found.

I don't know what to do. It's not like there is some pressing reason I need this journal. But I need to know where it is. I need to remember who I was in 2001 and 2002. I need to know what I thought, and what made me happy, and what boy I liked. (You know it's inevitable that information would be written in its pages.) I NEED to find that journal. But it's gone.

Maybe it was lost in one of our many moves. Maybe it's gone to heaven - the same place the socks go when they mysteriously disappear from the dryer. I don't know. But I can't stop thinking about it. I don't want my writing to go to waste. I don't want there to be a big 2-year hole in my life's record. I keep praying it will appear in one of the boxes, and maybe the 48th time I look, it will just be sitting there on top. I keep hoping it's not really gone forever.

If I don't find it soon, I will be SERIOUSLY disappointed.