of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most

There are many things about myself that I would like to change. One of my most disturbing , well, disturbances is my obsession and preoccupation with lost things.

I HATE to lose things. When something gets lost a panic rises up in my esophagus and my stomach clenches up in nauseous knots and my breathing gets shallow and my eyebrows squinch together and my scalp constricts and I break out in boils. And I simply
can. not. move. past. the lost thing and its mysterious whereabouts.

I then need everyone in my family to join the search. I call Corie. I interrupt Jim's work. I view all my children through the suspicious lens of accusation. I harbor ill will toward my dog. A deep resentful loathing begins to percolate toward all mankind because I'm sure that someone somewhere knows where my thing is. Even if they aren't guilty of theft, they're surely guilty of irresponsibility, or of (worse!) ambivilence.

All these symptoms manifest themselves even if the lost item is the lid to the milk jug, or my grocery list. But they intensify in direct correlation to the perceived preciousness of the lostee.

So.

I can't find the pashmina scarf that I was given as a gift the morning we left Korea. It was beautiful and special and irreplaceable.

I've spent the better part of the day straining my brain, trying hard to remember the last place I wore it, calling the hospital and Panera, interrogating my kids, scouring the house.

I'm just sick.

And you know what? The little sanctimonious comments that my conscience keeps chirping in my ear are not exactly helping. I know it's just a thing. I know I am not supposed to hold tightly to the things of this world. I know.

But I would sure be happy if I could just find it.