Well, it feels like just about everything that could have gone wrong today has gone wrong. Sure, we got to the top of the Old Man -- big deal. We got back and I emptied my bag ... notebook, soaking ... business cards, soaking ... phone, soaking, full of water and refusing to turn on. Everyone expects me to be upset about the phone, but I'm not. Well, only a bit. Everything I've written this week: my journals, my chapters ... all gone, just smudged ink and soggy paper. And Mum's going to kill me if she finds out I've broken my phone.
People just don't get it. They're trying to comfort me, but they don't understand. Writing is my life. It's everything to me. Now I've lost it all, almost as bad as when my USB pen snapped in half. I don't want to go to dinner today, or to the evening meeting. How can I praise God when I'm wondering why he let all my work be lost? Is he trying to tell me that I shouldn't write?
And how can I face people who want me to be happy and enjoy myself? Everything's gone downhill so fast, just when I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself and make friends.
I won't get my work back, I know that. If my phone works again I'll count myself lucky.
I cheered up later on, as you'll see from the next journal entry. I overreacted, but who wouldn't? Still, writing therapy helps: write something scary and/or depressing and you're bound to feel better afterwards. Fact. Check out http://www.protagonize.com/story/fool if you want to see the product of this 'therapy'.