When I think of that day...

My "where I was" story is here, written on the 5th anniversary: I'm actually relieved its raining today.

Today, five years later, is the tenth anniversary.


10 years.

In ten years, I have fallen in love, gotten married, moved to another state, taken another job, bought a new car... I even have different pets, and many different friends. Ten years is a long time.

Why then can I still tell you what I was wearing that day? Why does every newscast bring tears to my eyes? Every photo, every video. I can't turn on the tv today. I just can't. It's still too fresh. Ten years later.

When I think of that day, the feeling that overwhelms me most isn't sadness, it's loneliness. Sadness was there, crushing sadness, but the most dominant emotion that sticks in my head is how alone I felt. When I walked out of my office, I didn't have anybody to run to. I had no family in DC, no way to get in touch with the few friends I had then. My boyfriend at the time was out of town. Even my cat was away, at the vet, having had surgery the day before. You know that "aching for a hug" feeling? That was me. In a crowded hotel lobby. There was so much loneliness in that room, every single person there wanted to be somewhere else, but nobody could figure out where to go, how to get there. My apartment was a mere 5 miles away, but it may as well have been in California for me that day.

It had been a beautiful, crisp, clear day, but being outside felt wrong. It felt dangerous. When I checked myself into that anonymous hotel room, that cost more than I have ever spent on a hotel room, I drew the curtains, turned off all the lights, and turned on the tv. I enrobed myself in darkness, with the flicker of the video footage my only source of light, not that you could look at it and see light. I made a few phone calls, but I ached so much that day. When I was finally back in the arms of friends, of family, when my cat was home, life slowly resumed, but that day, the thing that sticks with me is how completely alone you can feel.

A few days ago I read a comment on an article in the NY Times saying that our obsession with Facebook, with texting, with having our smart phones on us at all times stems from the way we felt that day. The day nobody could reach anyone. It created a vacuum that just cannot be quenched. That we must be in touch at all times because we so vividly remember how hard it was to not be able to hear our loved ones' voices, to not know if our friends were ok. I think there is a lot of truth to that. I had a cell phone then, but the battery was dead. That doesn't happen anymore. I always charge it. Every night. Constantly. That was one of the vows I made to myself back then... a talisman against terror. Keeping my phone charged was all I could do to have a lifeline, even though I know in a true crisis, my phone will not work. It doesn't matter. Ninety nine percent of the time its your perception of reality that counts most.