it's still too much

I've been avoiding most media coverage surrounding the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

It may be selfish, but I know myself well enough to respect my overly empathetic tendencies and the difficulty I have letting go of painful emotions.

And honestly? I don't need to be reminded. It's all pretty much still with me. When it happened, I learned that one can literally fall to their knees when overcome with shock and sudden grief, something I thankfully never had cause to experience before. It took me close to 8 months to be able to fall asleep each night without weeping. Today we live near an airbase as well as between two airports, and I still freeze in my tracks sometimes when a jet roars overhead or I see an airplane banking low in the sky. A latent, deeply embedded pang of fear and dread jars within me and then sits heavily in my gut for a while. I don't need to feed that dragon.

Actually, I feel sort of bombarded with the contrived national patriotic mottos to "Never Forget" and "Always Remember."

The thing is, I do want to forget. I don't want to remember.

I want to un-hear the audio clips from passengers on flight 93, the shaky voices of the air traffic controllers, and the sirens echoing in the unnaturally darkened and deserted streets of lower Manhattan.

I wish I could un-see the images. All of them.
Those of the second tower being struck - that baffling vision of an airplane at that twisted angle, leaving no question as to what was about to happen. That action-movie type explosion tearing through that enormous building, wiping out hundreds of lives in a moment.

I want to un-see the dust covered, bloody, terrified citizens fleeing from the scene, running for their lives. I don't want to see the hastily drafted Missing Person fliers that went up everywhere - the smiling faces of lost souls. I don't want to look at footage of the impossibly strong, dutiful firemen plodding to and from the wreckage - "the pile"- what a wretched term; their huge shoulders drooping from utter exhaustion and despair.

And the jumpers. Oh, the jumpers.

The stories of the survivors and the heroes are of no comfort to me. I did end up watching one video online that several of my friends had posted on Facebook, The Man in the Red Bandana - Welles Crowther. It's clearly meant to be uplifting and an example of unprecedented bravery and selflessness. It's a remarkable story, but one that cannot be told without the anguish and horror of that day being torn wide open again.

And so, today - unable to keep it all at bay any longer, something cracked my feeble facade of self preservation. I drove into the town where I grew up, past the firehouse and past the small town square. I looked up and saw the flags at half mast. My breath caught in my throat, I shook my head, and the tears came.

It's still too much.
It's just still too much.