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How to Not Deal: A Practical Guide for Disasters
Step One: When something horrible happens, pretend it is a movie.
I woke up that morning to my roommate yawning in my doorway.
�My dad just called and said there was some sort of fire Downtown. Turn on the TV, let�s see if the trains are still running.�
We watch, and hear, and feel the second plane hit, a mere 10 minute walk from my apartment. It still hasn�t hit either of us. In fact, all we can think about is how we should leave for work early, because traffic will be hell. We don�t talk about it. Terrorism wasn�t even a fleeting thought.
I get dressed. A tank top, baggy pants. I put on comfortable shoes, because the walk is 50 blocks. It wasn�t what I pictured wearing at the end of the world.
We start walking, but somehow, there is a cab. Two strangers get in with us. All they care about is getting uptown, away. They are terrified. Somehow I am still fine.
Except.
Except, I feel like I need to go back to our tiny closet of an apartment. I need to be inside. I make the cab stop, and I take N, my roommate, with me.
We are somehow the only people in the world walking south. We try not to stare at the gaping wounds in the buildings. I just want to be inside.
People are running past now. Building Two is falling. I feel nothing as I watch it fall.
New York was not home, but my apartment was the closest thing to home I had.
We get to our building, and we climb the stairs past our floor, to the roof. Building one falls as we open the door. So fast, so fast. It is starting to smell. Acrid, burning, it hurts my throat and my eyes. The ambulances, the fire trucks. I am watching a movie. The soundtrack provided by sirens, by imaginary screams, by my own pounding heart.
Step Two: Don�t talk about it. Drink instead.
I rush into our apartment, closing windows before the terrible stench, the ashes, the smoke gets in. I turn on the television, but it is out. The radio works. Our neighborhood isn�t evacuated, yet. But we can�t leave. Everyone below 14th Street, but above Houston is quarantined. That�s me.
I can�t get a hold of my parents. I feel pain for the first time.
We have beer. We have bottles and cans of beer, and wine. We start drinking. I can�t stop listening to the radio. I am still a spectator. This isn�t my life. Drink. The warm way alcohol dulls the edges is the only thing keeping me upright right now.
Step Three: Try to Leave Your House. Have your First Small Breakdown
We have lots of alcohol, no food. We venture out late in the afternoon. The streets are empty; there are armed policemen, ambulances. My dreams will have sirens in them for months. Even now, sometimes.
Amazingly, a restaurant is open. They fix us eggs, salad, toast. Cappuccino. Orange Juice. Everyone is fine, fine. Nothing is wrong. We do this every day.
For a minute and a half, my cell phone comes to life. I call home. I start bawling in the restaurant, I don�t care if anyone sees. I need to make this real. I have to deal with this.
My parents want me to come home by any means possible. They don�t understand, the bridges, trains, airports, everything is shut down. I am trapped, I have no choice.
I begin to feel guilty for ever moving here.
Step Four: Have a Real Breakdown. Make Sure it Lasts For Weeks
I go to the store and buy enough food to stay in for a while. It hurts so bad to breathe. Everyone says the smell is from the melting steel, burned rubber, plastic. I know it is death. I will never forget it.
I buy a mask to wear out. I need it for a solid week.
I curl up in my bed and listen to the radio. I start crying. I might never stop.
Even now, I cry.
Step Five: Begin to Give Up.
I don�t want to be around anyone in New York. I begin to have daydreams about leaving. One by one, I stop talking to my friends. I regret this now, but I was Not Dealing.
I get laid off from my job. Business is bad. My boyfriend, who was Never Good, is suddenly Really Awful. I go home for Christmas. The few friends I have left take bets on whether I�ll be back.
I come back. Our Apartment building is under threat of condemnation. I have no choice but to move in temporarily with my boyfriend. I know this is the beginning of the end.
Step Six: Say Goodbye Without Saying Anything At All.
I got a new job. I hated it from the first day. I new it would be my last job in New York. I worked for soulless people, floating through the days with no spark in my eyes. Is this really it? I felt defeated.
I got terribly ill. Because I didn�t have health coverage, I laid in bed, hallucinating. My boyfriend was on a coke binge. He didn�t even know.
I called home on a Thursday.
�Mom? I want to come home.�
My boyfriend came home; he opened the door into my suitcase. The cab was on its way.
I was home on Friday. It was March. I was still sick, and I cried the whole time. But the air didn�t smell like death. And my parents wanted nothing more than to make me well, and safe. And my bed smelled like life. And there were flowers blooming. And I was home and safe forever.
Step Seven: Say Goodbye, Out Loud This Time.
Two weeks later I drove back to get my things. I took my Dad�s truck, whatever I couldn�t fit I would leave behind.
Amazingly, almost everything fit. Two years of my life, packed up in my Dad�s old Landcruiser. It felt good to not leave too much behind.
I said goodbye to the boyfriend. I cried and carried on, not because I would miss him, but because I had lost. It was me versus The City from day one, and I had finally admitted defeat. With my tail between my legs, I drove South. I let my Ex tell my friends. Only one of them even still speaks to me.
Step Eight: Never Get Over It.
Two years later and I still cry. I am typing this with music blaring because C is watching a show on PBS about the building of the Twin Towers. He has no idea how sensitive I still am. I still have a box of all the papers and magazines from that week afterwards. I�ve never looked at them, save one time. That time proved that I�m not ready.
Will I ever be?