On Healing

I am going to tell you a thing.

I use, "you," in the broad sense of the word. It's funny, because if I was being 100% honest, I would say that I truly never think that anybody - friend or stranger - reads anything I say here, which is all at once very liberating and borderline embarrassing, because it feels like I just sign in to have a really elaborate conversation with myself every so often. Then I realize that, in a way, that's kind of the essence of my profession, and it doesn't feel quite as bad.

I'm stalling.

Did you (I...me...whatever) notice?



This isn't easy. I've been trying to write about this for nearly twelve years, and I've failed each time. I haven't even had the good fortune to fail spectacularly, or even miserably - just the regular kind. So I'm going to come at it from a different angle this time. I'm not going to try to explain or qualify or saturate with meaning. I'm just going to tell you a thing.

Wednesday is September 11th.

I was fourteen - very nearly fifteen - and just a few weeks into my sophomore year of high school on the September 11th. And it fucked me up. Bad. Worse than I've ever been able to say out loud.

September 11th jump started a spiral of anxiety and depression that mainly manifested itself through terrible panic attacks. This would have happened anyway, of this I am reasonably certain - some other event would have fired off that faulty bit of wiring. The situation certainly wasn't helped by the fact that, at the time, I had an undiagnosed autoimmune disorder called Graves Disease that was causing my thyroid to dump barrels of hormone into my blood, Boston Tea Party-style, which was heightening any existing anxiety.

But it wasn't some other event - it was September 11th. I'm sure that other people had experiences similar to mine. And, like me, I'm sure at least some of those people felt ridiculous - like they couldn't really take ownership of their own feelings because they hadn't lost anything or anybody.

Ask me what I remember of that day, and I could tell you about it all in specific detail, the flashbulb memory forever burned into my brain. Ask me what I felt, and it all gets harder to describe. It was probably a lot of things - sadness for who had been lost and who they had left behind, fear, anger, a vague understanding that the world I had known and understood had already changed - but it all just translated to pain. I cried more than I probably ever have before or since, starting and stopping and starting again until there was nothing left for me to do but go to sleep. That's what I did when I got home, after the schools were closed - I slept. When I woke up, that ache was still there inside, but it was almost a relief to discover that there were just no tears left.

I spent most of that year struggling - with the Graves Disease, once we found out about it and with my own mind. At best, I was frustrated. At worst, I felt like a crazy person, as much as I hate that term and all of the dismissive connotations it brings with it.

But it got better. I got better. Life became manageable again, which made room for it to become awesome again.

Except on September 11th.

Nothing would make me spin out of control faster than a clip, a photo, a mention. Time passed, and full blown panic attacks just turned into tension whenever it came up. A feeling of being trapped, of wanting to get away - not out of disrespect, but self-preservation.

Without being fully conscious of it, I've avoided doing anything on the anniversaries. The first happened while I was in school, and I managed to volunteer for a job that kept me outside during the actual memorial mass. I spent the tenth with my family at a baseball game, and that was pretty active. I did cry during the tribute, which was probably healthy. I take a moment, in whatever way I can, to give my heart and thoughts to what the day means to me and to everyone else, and then I try to go about my life - but that weight is there, and it feels safer to just stay inside until it's gone.

This year, I'm trying something new. I'm going out. I'm engaging. Because something happened recently. I was on my bus, listening to a podcast, and a reference to the 11th came up. I closed my eyes, anticipating the uncomfortable flutter in my chest...and it never came. Instead, I heard what was being discussed. I let it in. I listened and learned a little.

And it may sound super new age-y and hippie town, but I feel like it means I'm ready. I'm ready for this not to be something that defines me anymore; at least, not in the way that it has for so long.

Chris Hardwick starts a run of stand-up shows at Cobb's on Wednesday, and that's when I am going. I always have a good time at his shows, and I have no doubt that my streak will endure.

9/11/2001 was a terrible day. As such, 9/11 will never really be, "just another day." But I think maybe, from here on out, I can take it back as one of my days, whatever that may mean.

That's as close as I think I can come to having a point with this one. I'm going to publish it, so maybe that means I've finally gotten out what I needed to get out properly. At the very least, I've failed a little more honorably than before.