I toss and turn in bed each night, with a bombardment of thoughts. Some nights I surrender and take something to quiet my mind and bring sleep. Some nights I turn on my nightstand lamp; just as I did every night in my apartment in New York for a year after 9/11. It makes me feel safe.
But then comes the morning; and the apprehension and dread of having to go through the motions of another day
Sadness, my constant companion, deepens and familiar cycles of depression seem darker; lingering longer than usual. I’ve learned to mask them, assuming no one will know what’s beneath my seemingly happy exterior.
Images of 9/11 appear more frequently; at times inducing tears I wipe away; hoping no one has noticed. There are times when I want to just weep and the only place to do so is in the privacy of my car.
I become short-fused; easily agitated by the slightest irritating situation or annoyance of someone.
I dream more. The most repetitive one taking place pre-9/11; as I try to warn people about what is going to happen. I beg them not to go to work on 9/11 but they ignore me.
That dream symbolizes the utter helplessness I felt during the nightmarish reality the morning of 9/11.
Sometimes, like at work, I become oblivious to my surroundings and a movie projector switches on in my mind, and I watch, retracing every step I took on 9/11. I’m overcome with anguish because I couldn’t, or didn’t, do more that morning. I’m angry that I let self-preservation overcome risking my life to run to the people I watched hitting the ground. I question why I didn’t die and find myself teetering on a fine line of imagining if I had and wishing that I had.
“9/11 is forever a part of who we are. It is in us; linked to our DNA.”
I am not alone, though. Every survivor, first responder, rescue and recovery worker and volunteer in my 9/11 support group faces August similarly. They understand every word, feeling, and emotion I express. We keep the dialogue among ourselves, instead of trying to talk to friends or family because of the reactions they give, or we assume they will give.
“But you survived. You’re alive.”
Yes, we walked away from Ground Zero; physically alive. But our spirits; the heart of who we were before 9/11 did not survive. That part of us died and can’t be restored. Our souls were shattered and we are still trying to find the pieces of who we were once; knowing we’ll never find them. Those pieces were buried among the rubble of the fallen towers.
“You should be over this by now!”
We were ordinary people that day; in the towers, the surrounding buildings, on the streets. And the first responders, fire crews, and police were skilled professionals who, up until that day, thought they had seen it all. All of us, the ordinary and the skilled, were subjected to an unprecedented cataclysmic event none of us could have ever been prepared for.
Carnage ... destruction and devastation ... smoke ... smells ... casualties ... falling debris ... running for our lives ... moments we thought our lives were ending.
We were in a battle zone; surrounded by inconceivable horror.
Most of us are still living in the shadow of post-traumatic stress.
Tell me how we’re supposed to get over this.
“Don’t dwell on the past. Just move on.”
Moments in everyone’s past, be they good or bad, contribute to who we become. I am not negating the traumas and tragedies and losses that others face that are unrelated to 9/11. And I wouldn’t dare suggest our suffering is of greater importance than others.
But it is different.
That difference being that the survivors of 9/11 experienced, in that one specific morning, obliteration; a word which means to remove or destroy all traces of; do away with; destroy completely.
All traces of who we were on September 10, 2001, were destroyed and done away with. Our lives, as we then knew them, were removed and destroyed completely.
If you tell me I need to move on, you’re asking me to put that day in a box and put it away; never to look at again. You’re telling me to forget. I can’t do that. No survivor I know can.
9/11 is forever a part of who we are. It is in us; linked to our DNA. That day we breathed in the smoke and smells. We heard the continuous wail of sirens and screams of people. We saw the casualties of war; the dying and the dead. We felt the pavement if we fell; the debris, as it rained down on us; our tears as they streamed down our faces; the embrace of someone we may not even have known, as we wept together; we felt the skin and blood of the injured we helped. We tasted the ashes from buildings and individuals engulfed in flames.
This is why I can’t just move on.
But what I can do is try to move forward.
9/11 is in my past. That can’t change.
I don’t remember what it feels like to be truly happy. This is my present.
Will I ever feel utter joy, happiness, and genuine laughter again? That is my uncertain future.
And I can only have a future if I move forward; one day at a time. Some days I can. Some days I can’t.
I still think of 9/11 every day.
I’m not writing to elicit sympathy or pity. I’m writing for the survivors, first responders, rescue and recovery workers and volunteers who haven’t found the words to describe all that stays within.
For most, 9/11 is seen as a part of our country’s history; a chapter in the history books. For some, it’s as if it happened last week.
