CelticDove

CelticDove
2002-08-11 22:22:31 (UTC)

Scars

Late last night I heard a plane flying low just above my
apartment. As the noise grew louder and I heard the engines
closer and clearer, my stomach began to churn and my heart
began to race.

My mind started galloping ahead to thoughts of the extreme
fear that this could very well be the last few seconds of my
life.

What would my parents feel? Would there be anything left for
them to claim and bury?

Would my cats survive and if so, who would look after them?

Would David ever know the extent of the love I hold for him
in my heart?

I closed my eyes and listened for the plane to pass. My
heart rate continued to increase until I heard it safely
gain altitude and clear my immediate air space.

These are the scars I've been left with ever since September
11, 2001.

Every morning before I leave for work I pause a moment, make
sure there is an ample amount of food and water in the cats
bowls and make a point of petting each of them. And every
morning my mind wonders if I will be returning to my
doorstep that evening. The thoughts don't stop there. As I
board my bus I take a glance at each of my fellow commuters
and can't help but profile them.

Me, the woman who once took pride in not being a racist--in
literally celebrating diversity--is now looking differently
at anyone that has the slightest inkling that might lead me
to believe they are not American. I think this is one of the
scars that disappoints me most.

As I travel through the Lincoln Tunnel during both the
morning and evening rush hours I have the fear of either the
bus in front of me exploding--leaving me and the other
commuters alive but with no real chance of getting out
alive--or of being on the actual bus containing the suicide
bomber.

At work I am hesitant to leave my desk without my cell
phone. In my mind I figure if my building is attacked and I
get trapped, maybe my cell phone will be my only lifeline.

I'm extremely afraid to voice these fears because I'm also
afraid people who are not as worried about these fears will
look upon me as being unstable or quite possibly mentally
ill.

I have always been overly sensitive and things have a way of
affecting me more than the average person. My father used to
tease me when I was a child because I would cry so much.
He admitted to doing this because he wanted me to "toughen
up," but the truth be told it made me feel weaker.
Many tears were shed over the injustice I would see in the
world that I had no idea of how to rectify.
I am the same even now. Although I'm not as apt to cry about
the injustice I witness. Unfortunately the tears have been
replaced with silence and a rage inside me that eats
away--slowly and meticulously--at my very heart and soul.
I seem to fall back on the old addage, "That which does not
kill us only makes us stronger" more and more lately.

Just like D-day, I suppose the fear factor of September 11th
will one day fade. I don't want to ever forget the enormity
of the day or the lives that were shattered, but I do
desperately wish to return to some sense of normalcy in my
life. I don't want to live in fear forever. That way, they'd
have won. This is why I get up and go through my normal
paces on a daily basis. So they won't win.
But the fear that they will get my life




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