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brightlotusmoonHoly crap, I hate anxiety disorders.
Adam and I went to bed around one, with him needing to be up by seven so he could be at work by eight. I barely slept. I am pretty sure I woke up every hour, luckily not disturbing my husband with the memory foam mattress, although the two tabbies kept trying to hold me down to the bed. I woke up with Adam, kissed him goodbye, and fell back asleep.
This time, I dreamed. I dreamed of being in Manhattan in the middle of the night, dropping colorful shapes down a giant granite cylinder that seemed endless. Lights along the rim of the cylinder illuminated writing on paper glued all down the curved white marble inside: poetry, names, drawings, random scribbles and scrawls. I stood up, my legs and hips aching, and called out that I was done, I was tired of dropping all those things down there, that I never heard them hit bottom. I wanted to stop. I wanted to walk away. I was tired, I was hurting, the lights were too bright, I wanted to go back home to Brooklyn, or Long Island, or a different part of Manhattan itself where I grew up. Nobody spoke. When I tried to walk away, I tripped and started to fall into the cylinder. My screaming woke me up.
I stayed in bed until noon. When I finally turned on the television, it was only to Food Network. When I turned on the internet, the Yahoo home page appeared and I saw that Manhattan memorial before I could look away. It was made of granite, and it was curved, and there was endless writing, and there were waterfalls. I heard myself scream inside my head before I shut down the browser.
I want to stop. I'm so fucking tired. I want to move on, for fuck's sake. I was living in New York, yes, and I was born in New York, yes, and I grew up in New York, yes, and I went to college in New York, yes, and if it were not for meeting Adam I would still be living in New York. But there is a reason I don't want to "commemorate" any "anniversary." Certainly not this media explosion of newsgasm over "oh, look, a whole decade, let's remember even harder." I didn't lose anyone in the attacks. I wasn't in the city on that day. So my mind needs to let this go. Except I don't know how to stop. I don't have PTSD, so I have no reason to feel this way. But I still can't stop.
I'm still not reading or watching any news coverage. That's how I handle this day. I leave the mourners to mourn their loved ones and I remind myself of how lucky I am.
Adam and I went to bed around one, with him needing to be up by seven so he could be at work by eight. I barely slept. I am pretty sure I woke up every hour, luckily not disturbing my husband with the memory foam mattress, although the two tabbies kept trying to hold me down to the bed. I woke up with Adam, kissed him goodbye, and fell back asleep.
This time, I dreamed. I dreamed of being in Manhattan in the middle of the night, dropping colorful shapes down a giant granite cylinder that seemed endless. Lights along the rim of the cylinder illuminated writing on paper glued all down the curved white marble inside: poetry, names, drawings, random scribbles and scrawls. I stood up, my legs and hips aching, and called out that I was done, I was tired of dropping all those things down there, that I never heard them hit bottom. I wanted to stop. I wanted to walk away. I was tired, I was hurting, the lights were too bright, I wanted to go back home to Brooklyn, or Long Island, or a different part of Manhattan itself where I grew up. Nobody spoke. When I tried to walk away, I tripped and started to fall into the cylinder. My screaming woke me up.
I stayed in bed until noon. When I finally turned on the television, it was only to Food Network. When I turned on the internet, the Yahoo home page appeared and I saw that Manhattan memorial before I could look away. It was made of granite, and it was curved, and there was endless writing, and there were waterfalls. I heard myself scream inside my head before I shut down the browser.
I want to stop. I'm so fucking tired. I want to move on, for fuck's sake. I was living in New York, yes, and I was born in New York, yes, and I grew up in New York, yes, and I went to college in New York, yes, and if it were not for meeting Adam I would still be living in New York. But there is a reason I don't want to "commemorate" any "anniversary." Certainly not this media explosion of newsgasm over "oh, look, a whole decade, let's remember even harder." I didn't lose anyone in the attacks. I wasn't in the city on that day. So my mind needs to let this go. Except I don't know how to stop. I don't have PTSD, so I have no reason to feel this way. But I still can't stop.
I'm still not reading or watching any news coverage. That's how I handle this day. I leave the mourners to mourn their loved ones and I remind myself of how lucky I am.
