I hate this day.
Even on the other 364 days of the year, it seems that there are always "new developments" in the inquest and a continuing pledge to catch terrorists. It seems that every year, there are more people coming out with their own memories and their own stories. There are eulogies to those who lost their lives in the attacks. I don't envy these people and I don't mean to trivialize their experiences. And, I don't mean to disregard those who lost their lives on that day either. My heart aches for their families. But, part of me wishes this day would just fade into our distant memories and it'd all be over.
I have to wonder if it was like this after Pearl Harbor...but I guess concentration camps were the better answer back then. Perhaps Guantanamo Bay will be considered our own modern day camp at sometime in the future. The War on Terror is instead left to the branches of government, each charged with their own duties to rein in this faceless war and its vigilantes.
But to be honest, I'm just tired of crying about it. I'm tired of harboring these irrational fears and I wish that the answers would be found. I wish it wouldn't be in the forefront of every one's consciousness. So many people want to find a connection to that day. Telling his story - and mine - makes me that connection, I suppose. I don't mind telling his story but I wish I didn't feel the way that I do every time some new 9/11 development is reported.
I'm afraid every time a plane flies too close overhead. I'm actually terrified of even getting on a plane. Every time I walk past Ground Zero when I'm in New York I get sick to my stomach and usually throw up a short time after that. I am afraid when my family flies. I still cry every time I see photos of that day. I couldn't sit through the previews of that Nicholas Cage movie and actually had to leave the theatre. For what it's worth, I know I'm not the same person.
In the days after 9/11, I fell into a pretty deep depression. The kind where I couldn't get off the couch and I cried at irrational times throughout the day. I sought treatment and got it - and part of me thinks that if it wasn't for my roommates, I wouldn't have made it out of college. Back then, all I wanted was my daddy. Today, I am terrified of losing him, because on that day, I thought I did. My life seems to have split - into pre-September, 11 and afterwards. Even when I take depositions, when trying to help a witness recall dates, I always ask whether an incident happened before or after September 11. Because that's how I see my life, I guess.
To be honest, I don't know what happened to my dad on that day. To spare my family, I suppose, he's refrained from talking about it. But I've read some articles done about him, and I've heard excerpts of speeches he gives to groups about that day. I don't know if anyone really understands how I feel, even to this day. Prior to 9/11, I can actually recall reading about bombings in foreign countries and it was just another blurb on the news. Now, I feel tremendous empathy because I know what it feels like to have a loved one involved in a terrorist attack. Growing up in America, I don't know if I ever really thought I'd have that experience. And I don't think that many Americans really know how I feel, even today.
I remember the night before September 11. I was laying on the floor of my dorm room, talking with my roommate. I had put a ring on my finger that my father had given me years before. For no reason really, other than I missed him. He was working in New York and I was at college, meaning it wasn't often that we got to see each other. I remember the professors who consoled me after I watched the second plane run into the Towers. I remember Mindy picking me up and I remember my roommates rushing to the door when I walked into the apartment. I remember when he called to tell me he was okay. I remember hearing his voice, trying to reassure me. I remember the first time I saw him after September 11. I remember clerks in stores recognizing me from my picture in the paper. I remember going to Mass to pray for him. I remember the calls from just about everyone I knew, asking if there was anything they could do for my family.
I also remember the six month anniversary. I was in Spain, sitting in my professor's apartment, watching whatever coverage was provided across the ocean. There were other things about Spain that made it an especially difficult time, such as people screaming "Osama bin Laden" in my face and a cruel joke someone played on me, telling me a bomb had gone off in the New York subway system.
And now, it's been six years. Zacarias Moussaoui has become the poster child of terrorist conviction - the feather in the government's cap. Osama bin Laden still lives, perhaps. And, are we any closer to winning - much less learning how to fight - a war with no face? Outcries of prisoner mistreatment for those in Guantanamo Bay still echo. And, the liberal in me agrees - after all, this is America - but my darker side says that those men tried to kill my father. And I don't want justice. I want them to feel like I do, to understand what their acts did to my family. What they did to me. And, maybe they do.
And, don't get me wrong - I am so thankful that my father lived. I truly believe that God has something special planned for my father. It has made my family the most precious part of my life. But I don't understand why I mourn when he lived. And, I still struggle with finding the answer to that question.
