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sabI sent this to a list of mine, but here too, so all of you who are out there and talking and taking care of one another know how much I rely on all your strength. On everyone's strength.
As for me, I don't think you fully comprehend how scared I am. I'm scared senseless. I'm scared where my teeth are chattering and my chest is tight and I'm cold all the time, and I had to look up "shock" on webMD. I made a doctor's appointment, but the earliest she could see me was Oct. 4th. I'm scared to be in rooms with closed doors. I'm scared to be alone. I'm scared of my TV, and my computer. I'm scared of rooms full of people, I'm scared of empty rooms too. I'm scared of the drinking water.
I have spent my LIFE fearing some distant apocalypse. It was a joke, growing up. Everyone knew it was my biggest fear. It's what caused my war fetish, people trying to make some sense out of destruction.
I just sit very still now, shaking, all the time. Trying to make conversation, so I don't look like a total wuss. Trying to smile, because it's cool to be brave, in this city where 200 firefighters went up the stairs when everyone else was coming down.
But I want to fucking get on a rocket ship to Mars, get out of here, get away. I was thinking it would be nice to be in jail. Because you know you're protected in jail, guards there all the time, right outside your door.
I am a total wimp, a discredit to this city. I just don't want to be scared anymore. People are engaged in ideological debate, people are rallying, are protecting one another, people are arguing over what to do next. The battle between amnesty and a retaliatory strike is being fought on mailinglists and in bars and among families over dinner. And I don't have the luxury to be ideological -- I wish I did. I swear to god. I don't care what happens. I just want to feel safe. Jesus christ, just for ten minutes. An hour. A day. Imagine, right?
I remember what it was like to take the subway, to watch TV, to eat a slice of pizza, to make a phone call. Before. And I just -- I can't REMEMBER. I was a different person, then.
k said bravery's getting past this. I am not past this.
And you know what else? It might be okay if I didn't feel safe, if I thought SOMEONE, somewhere felt safe. Anyone. Anywhere. Really. And not that imbecile president of ours, who showed up in NY four days late, and was the first president EVER to use the nuclear-proof command bunker to hide in. Even Kennedy didn't, during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Not that we ever thought this man was a Kennedy.
I was just -- I grew up this rolling snowball of kinetic energy. And you guys all know it -- folks here on this very list have said to me, "Em, we know you're going to do great things someday." Gonna be rich and famous, someday. Going to create great art, someday. What the FUCK does that make me now?
You know, I tried to smile at myself in my bathroom mirror. So I could look at the face of someone familiar, who didn't look scared. Someone I trusted. And it worked, until I looked away again.
So my self-preservation instinct keeps me here, drinking and smoking and trying to numb this, and if we EVER wondered why Hawkeye and BJ hid in martinis, we know now.
But I am in awe of everyone around me, and I love you all. And I'm glad Shana's not flying, and glad Kacey's safe and glad Laura's trying to find solace, somewhere, and glad Jae's looking out for us all.
But I have never, ever lived for the moment. And now I'm this rolling snowball of kinetic energy, rolling nowhere. You know?
What are we going to do?
As for me, I don't think you fully comprehend how scared I am. I'm scared senseless. I'm scared where my teeth are chattering and my chest is tight and I'm cold all the time, and I had to look up "shock" on webMD. I made a doctor's appointment, but the earliest she could see me was Oct. 4th. I'm scared to be in rooms with closed doors. I'm scared to be alone. I'm scared of my TV, and my computer. I'm scared of rooms full of people, I'm scared of empty rooms too. I'm scared of the drinking water.
I have spent my LIFE fearing some distant apocalypse. It was a joke, growing up. Everyone knew it was my biggest fear. It's what caused my war fetish, people trying to make some sense out of destruction.
I just sit very still now, shaking, all the time. Trying to make conversation, so I don't look like a total wuss. Trying to smile, because it's cool to be brave, in this city where 200 firefighters went up the stairs when everyone else was coming down.
But I want to fucking get on a rocket ship to Mars, get out of here, get away. I was thinking it would be nice to be in jail. Because you know you're protected in jail, guards there all the time, right outside your door.
I am a total wimp, a discredit to this city. I just don't want to be scared anymore. People are engaged in ideological debate, people are rallying, are protecting one another, people are arguing over what to do next. The battle between amnesty and a retaliatory strike is being fought on mailinglists and in bars and among families over dinner. And I don't have the luxury to be ideological -- I wish I did. I swear to god. I don't care what happens. I just want to feel safe. Jesus christ, just for ten minutes. An hour. A day. Imagine, right?
I remember what it was like to take the subway, to watch TV, to eat a slice of pizza, to make a phone call. Before. And I just -- I can't REMEMBER. I was a different person, then.
k said bravery's getting past this. I am not past this.
And you know what else? It might be okay if I didn't feel safe, if I thought SOMEONE, somewhere felt safe. Anyone. Anywhere. Really. And not that imbecile president of ours, who showed up in NY four days late, and was the first president EVER to use the nuclear-proof command bunker to hide in. Even Kennedy didn't, during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Not that we ever thought this man was a Kennedy.
I was just -- I grew up this rolling snowball of kinetic energy. And you guys all know it -- folks here on this very list have said to me, "Em, we know you're going to do great things someday." Gonna be rich and famous, someday. Going to create great art, someday. What the FUCK does that make me now?
You know, I tried to smile at myself in my bathroom mirror. So I could look at the face of someone familiar, who didn't look scared. Someone I trusted. And it worked, until I looked away again.
So my self-preservation instinct keeps me here, drinking and smoking and trying to numb this, and if we EVER wondered why Hawkeye and BJ hid in martinis, we know now.
But I am in awe of everyone around me, and I love you all. And I'm glad Shana's not flying, and glad Kacey's safe and glad Laura's trying to find solace, somewhere, and glad Jae's looking out for us all.
But I have never, ever lived for the moment. And now I'm this rolling snowball of kinetic energy, rolling nowhere. You know?
What are we going to do?
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Hey.
Date: 2001-09-14 11:33 pm (UTC)Hmmm. You probably feel that way,I can even understand that, because we often feel we *should* process and cope and deal in certain, narrowly defined ways -- but forgive me if I say:
Bullshit.
We all react to things in our own way, in our own time. Give yourself some credit. Give yourself some slack. Give yourself a bloody break.
PTSD -- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder -- and it sounds like you have it in spades. I'm trained in sort of middling level first aid -- more than you're average first aider, less than a paramedic. One of the things we are trained in is recognizing the symptoms of Traumatic Incident Stress. You just hit all highlights on the checklist.
So -- make noises with your doc, or go to a walk-in or different doctor, if that's possible. Call a crisis line. The city is full of crisis counsellors right now. Tell your friends and family how you feel. Weep, yell, do whatever you have to.
Try to sleep, if you can. See about getting help with that, if you can't. Valerian teas and tinctures taste like crap, but they work fairly well. Eat properly -- and if you're not, again -- get some help. Take supplements. Hell, drink Boost or whatever nutrishakes you have there. These two things can go a looooooong ways to helping you recover, helping you deal.
Get hugs. Hold others. Articulate your fears. Share them. Don't be ashamed of them. Something goddamned AWFUL happened, and you know, it happened to you, too and you're allowed to be messed up about it, to process it in your own time. There's no sin, no shame.
You're human.
Please, you really do sound like you're displaying all the PTSD symptoms. Treat yourself accordingly, get yourself help, take care of yourself.
Love, love, hugs, love,
Brighid
no subject
Date: 2001-09-15 09:00 am (UTC)You wrote:
>k said bravery's getting past this. I am not past this.<
It's all right that you're not. A horrible thing happened. A horrible thing was purposefully done. Being scared doesn't make you a wimp or a wuss.
I don't know what to say except, try not to judge yourself harshly. Take care of yourself as much as you can. Let all of your friends take care of you.
[hugs Em tightly]
Oh, em.
Date: 2001-09-15 11:48 am (UTC)You're still talking, still writing. Because that's who you are. And we love you. If those of us who are 3,500 miles away are only now starting to do something other than grieve and rage, how could you be expected to have a stiff upper lip and "get on with it"?
"Getting past it" doesn't mean leaving it behind. It just means... living. Not stopping. Not closing off, shutting down, becoming something other than yourself. The you that is Em is the you that lived through this, and you may not be stronger but you'll still be here and you'll be loved by your friends and family and you may or may not do great things and that's okay. Because who you are and why we love you has nothing to do with whether you're the next Aaron Sorkin or Joss Whedon. We beat the bastards by surviving, even if battered.
And I know nothing about psychology, but it does sound like you should see a doctor. I hug you from far away, for what little that may do.
scared too.
Date: 2001-09-15 02:38 pm (UTC)it's terrifying, and horrifying and generally just awful. but you are not the only one that wants to get away, who wants to flee like a coward back to california. i am so far from most people here. classes went on as usual on wednesday, on thursday, and i sat there in my politics class and people are debating the ways we should retaliate, how this plays out in our foreign policy, and all i could think about are the firemen that come to our building, about rats. i can't even go to church services because i know i can't deal with being around all those people, with their grief and their sorrow and their horror. i'd have to admit it was real then, and i'm simply not ready to concede that this couldn't all be part of some horrible nightmarish reality.
and you are being brave. being brave isn't necessarily getting past anything (how do you get past something that makes you terrified everytime you step onto the street, that changes the way you move through life so completely?) but rather it's not giving up. and you aren't, and you aren't pretending everything is ok, and you know that people love you and care for you and worry about you. you are being brave, you haven't given up, and this, this, is the hard part.