looking back, part 2
I've been looking over everything I've written for this weblog in the past two years and I see that everything before September 11, 2001 was just shit - save for the journal entries. It was if the floodgates opened after that date and the hiatus I had taken from writing every single day was over; the words poured out of me at an astonishing rate.
I've said it before and I'll say it forever; it was having this weblog that saved me from having a complete and total breakdown in the days and weeks after 9/11.
I don't even know if anyone is interested in reading entries from the past. I know I am, because this weblog allows me to see not only how much I've changed and grown over the past two years, but the slow transformation of my inner self - how I finally got to be in the place I am today, a place I love.
This is why I've kept this up for two years. It's become so much a part of me and has helped me discover myself and heal myself. I can look back and see my breaking points as well as the points where I started to put myself back together.
It's no coincidence that I was able to let my guard down and finally open myself up to others when I started this blog. I've alway kept to myself. I was distant, a bit hard to read and not very open. It was when I started writing daily and opened up that writing to feedback that the wall around me started to crumble.
Why do I blog? I blog because I need to, I need that release. And I blog because doing so has given me the gifts of real friendship and honest relationships.
This following post is from September 17, 2001:
The rise and fall of my emotions...
I'm trying. I am trying to get back in the swing of things, live a normal life, get back to a routine, all those things the nice newscasters have been telling me I must do. But I can't. I simply cannot. Sure, I am fine in fits and starts. I smile, I may laugh at your joke, I may sing along with a cd. And I may cry. I may get angry. I may get depressed and sad and mournful. I may be fearful and paranoid. I may have this adrenaline coarsing through my body that makes me want to take a swing at the Taco Bell worker who forgot the cheese in my burrito. It's hard to breathe sometimes. I am suffocating in my own grief.
I try to escape into my work. It's ok for a bit. And then I overwrite a 3 page decision with a phone list. I stare vacantly at my computer, not really seeing anything. I'm not here. I try to escape by going shopping during lunch and its ok for a bit. I buy some snacks for the kids and some candy to keep in my desk at work and there's the shampoo I like on sale. I laugh with my sister. And then leave the store and a plane flies overhead and I remember. And I'm not ok.
I try to escape by talking to people. But a lot of these people have been there. They tell me things I don't want to hear. They tell me what's not seen on tv, what they are finding and how they find it and what's really underneath all that steel and concrete. Things I don't want to know. But they cry when they tell me and I can't ask them to stop because they need to talk. And I think about these things the rest of the day and I know I will lose sleep and I wonder how in the world these rescuers - the firemen, the policemen, the construction workers and steel workers - will ever sleep well again. I am not ok.
I try to escape by going home and seeing my family. And it's ok for a bit. We go over homework and talk about school and Natalie tells about her crush on Jason and we giggle a bit and my mom calls and asks if the kids want to sleep there tonight. So we go there and I see my father, and I see by his eyes that he finally broke down and he had been crying a good long time and I am not ok.
I try to escape by reading, by playing a game, by sitting on the couch with Justin and watching a movie. And it's ok for a bit. And then I remember. And my stomach tightens and my throat constricts and my eyes well up and god damn it I am not ok. I see people getting on with their lives. I wonder what's going through their heads, if those smiles are only temporary and when they go home the smile is replaced by looks of sadness or fear or worry. I wonder why I can't get over it like other people have. I wonder why I can't smile without feeling guilty. I wonder if this lead feeling in the pit of my stomach will every go away. I wonder if I will stop crying every hour or so.
I try to escape by coming here and writing and maybe getting back to the way it was here before last Tuesday. I can't. I can't cope. I can't move on. I am not ok.