I took a bath and had the radio and the TV going in there at the same time. I couldn't choose. Phil Hendrie was being serious for a change and describing what it was like when he and his wife were awakened by bagpipes this morning. The idea of all of those cops and firefighters solemnly marching through the dark quiet streets of New York with bagpipes, well, it was just incredibly moving to hear about. Then there were all of the interviews, reunion footage of people who hadn't seen each other since that day, stories and more stories, video and photographs I'd never seen. Now I'm sitting here listening to Art Bell's rebroadcast of his show from September 11, last year. I can't believe it's been a year. It actually hurt to save this entry to a file I titled 9-11-02, the weight of the date sinking in just that much farther.
All I can say is that my heart goes out and out and out to everyone who is hurting. I love you and I wish I could hug you and somehow make it better. I know it sounds insane to say something like this, but I wish I could have been there, been there to help, to guide people out, to save just one more person, or comfort someone, anyone. I feel such impotent rage and this deep and terrible sadness. ]
My psychiatrist, (this was yesterday right before I backed my car into a pole in the parking garage, tearing off my front bumper and suffering the embarrassment of having two men snicker and comment about women drivers), told me that she was telling all of her patients to stay away from any coverage of this, that it's just too traumatic. But how can you not want to share in this? It's like the way I fell about animal abuse, they are the ones who are actually suffering, so what right do I have to turn away?
I did my best to pretend all day that I was okay, that enough time had passed that I wouldn't fall apart like I did before. I wouldn't get sucked back in to the depression, the inexplicable grief and shock, I could handle it. I would be there for everyone else. I was a good Mom to my son, a good boss, a good friend, a good and loving animal caregiver, and finally a good girlfriend. I held it together because I felt like I should. I mean I wasn't there, I didn't lose anyone I loved directly. What right do I have to hurt this much, to feel so much empathy, so much pain? But I can't write about this without crying, this deep cry that comes from deep inside me and rides out on every breath.
The rose petals at St. Paul's Cathedral, so lovely and moving. So beautiful and hopeful in a way. Leave it to the English, God bless 'em. Watching that made me feel so much love for them.
The kids at Beau's school used art to express how they were feeling about today. An eighth grader got up and said she wanted to sing a song, she thought she would suck, but that she wanted to sing a song about it anyway, and then she sung so beautifully that all of the kids got up and cheered. Some kids read things they'd written, some read poems, and Beau's class made origami towers, airplanes, doves, and angels. Thank you Lord, finally, thank you for this beautiful school.
Here's a moving story about how one young girl and her mother are coping with the loss of her dad.
Is it true that the New York lottery numbers today were 911, and so was the standard and poors index?
And then just to segue to something completely unimportant and off topic;
For all my pals out there who've been wanting to know what it feels like for a gal to take Viagra...the sex is great, (oooh yeah, much sensation), and it definitely turned me in to a stark raving she beast, but the side affects, oh no no nooooooooo, you do not want them; stoneyness, neck tension, headache, nausea, anxiety, I'm just waiting for the blue vision.
I hurt so bad I've thrown everything in my medicine cabinet at it, Advil, Vicodin, Effexor, Altace and just now a Klonopin. Man, if that doesn't knock me out I don't know what will. Although maybe compared to some people this isn't that much. I read that Matt Perry was drinking a quart of vodka and taking thirty to forty Vicodin a day, did you read that, thirty or forty Vicodin and a quart of Vodka, before he cleaned up this last time. Not that I do this every day, I'm just trying to reverse the affects of this damned blue pill. Judy Garland anyone? Why am I so stupid? Why Lord why?
And to make matters worse, I am so horny. I want my man and I want him now! He had to leave and I'm so mad. I'm just sitting here all mixed up. I'm sad, I'm sick, and I want it, bad, but he took it home with him and he gets to play with it all night long while I'm left with nothing but boring plastic toys! This sucks, yes it does.