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I barely remember anything about 9/11. I read a personal essay by poet Rachel Custer that tells of her own difficulty concerning memory and the horrible tragedy that faced our nation [”Why I Can’t Remember the Day the Towers Fell”, The Establishment]. At the time, I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and only on occasion took the prescribed meds because things weren’t hard to handle at that point. I have a mesh of memories around the time of 9/11 and the essay by Custer stewed me to deeper thought on them. After realizing the confusion I faced, I felt my story was relevant to the dialogue taking place.
Rachel suffered from depression and anxiety, she says, and simply cannot remember 9/11. I remember certain fragments of a variety of memories during that period, but I cannot put them in order. I lived with my grandmother and aunt in a small house in Dickinson, Texas. My depression hit an all time low and I would not leave the bed; instead I listened to music with a fast tempo to keep me in good spirits. I exhausted myself and would sometimes leave my room for a cup of coffee or water. I walked into the living room and my grandmother suddenly exclaims, “We are going to war, Dustin!” I glance at the television, which is broadcasting the same trauma on every station continually. I have another memory of my grandmother not even being in the room when I see the horrors taking place. I was in shock even if I didn’t know it.
My illness struck at me hard. It sneaked up on me during my third semester in college as passive delusions. The delusions were more like suggestions. I believed myself to be a savior of the world, and I also believed the world was in peril because of Satanic contracts I signed in previous lives. Yes, I obsessed over people like Ted Kaczynski and Sylvia Plath. I remember, for some reason, I constantly read over and over the lines from “Lady Lazarus”:
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
This is especially poignant because I not only absorbed the poem without considering why I dwelt on it, I invented a hidden language between myself and Plath, and thought I could decode the messages presented by the Universe through Plath’s poems. At some point I left the house and walked the neighborhood. I had a daily habit for several months of picking up a copy of The Houston Chronicle and reading the front page section every morning. During these walks, I felt the urge to count all the white vehicles and somehow the number and algorithm of the vehicles would tell me something hidden.
At some point near that time I was hospitalized after a severe breakdown. I lived in a fantasy world that imposed itself on my consciousness. I felt myself bound by soul and contract to Sylvia Plath— and even attempted suicide to meet with her. This is how I ended up in the hospital. Later on, I was on a higher floor at UTMB for a suicide attempt for the same reason. Granted, I did not want to die. I felt I was obliged to kill myself to save the world and live with Sylvia who I accepted as my eternal soulmate. Many curious delusions crept into my head and I found myself believing them. Many of my artist-heroes joined the phantoms to advise me during this struggle, including Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. Sometimes I heard the voice of Whitman or Cobain, and I occasionally heard suggestions in my music that I was the “next Jim Morrison”. I was tormented and thought I was happy. I thought all dreams collided in these moments, but I was terrified and could not sleep. I read a book of Virginia Woolf essays in my hospital room, then I tore the book apart: single page after single page.
I remember a voice began talking with me, holding full conversations. At first it was my father. Then it became Jason who was my cousin, then the mythic Jason chasing the Golden Fleece, and finally a bully from seventh grade who I fought with and lost. The story is he bullied me continually and the school administrators avoided doing anything. When he jabbed me on the bus, I punched him in the back of the head to warn him to stop. He immediately jumped up and beat the hell out of me. I had a serious black eye, missed several days of school, looked like a fool to the student body, and some teachers remarked that if I hadn’t been in a fight I would not have missed class. I was also issued a citation and had to appear before a judge.
At UTMB, I told several nurses and staff about Jason. Ironically, the coming Friday was a Friday 13th. I didn’t note this until I was asked if I knew the date. I cannot place when this happened, but I know it was near the time of 9/11. [This was probably September 13, 2002]
When 9/11 happened, I was so startled I called a professor friend of mine (known locally as “Red David”) who taught government. His phone rang until the voicemail picked up. I simply asked if he knew what happened. My confusion was probably expressed in my voice. I thought he may have some idea about what would come next.
My grandmother’s “We’re going to war!” was all I was left with. My mental health declined, and I suffered for years while fighting by tooth and nail. I simply can’t place these events in order. I remember the mental health facility at UTMB was totally full and had a lot of people waiting because of the effect of 9/11. They brought me to a room, gave me the highest dose of a powerful sleep aid, and left me alone. I still could not sleep. I recorded bits of conversation during the day on paper and turned the pieces into raw poems. I got angry at my roommate because I would get right at the bridge of sleep but his snoring kept me from a full rest. I threw my pillow at him. He kept snoring.
I paced the room in a stupor, peed on the floor several times while in a daze, and was groggy and fog-eyed. Life would not heal for me completely until nearly ten years later.
I don’t know what caused such an immense breakdown. All I know is I was as terrified, if not more so, than every other American during that period. I read that before the final collapse of the towers, its inhabitants recited Psalms while running quietly down the stairs.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He will lay me down in green pastures...etc. We are all recovering from the turmoil.