So Far So Good

After my diagnosis of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (thanks to my doomed suicide attempt), I was assigned to an out-patient mental health facility. The length of my stay would depend on my own participation, or lack thereof.

Initially resistant, I also looked forward to moving forward. The entire group consisted of about 18-20 (more or less) people at any given time and four licensed therapists. We would spend parts of our day in a classroom-type setting where one of the therapists would teach us all about depression, anger, grief, sadness and all the other emotions most of us were experiencing. Thanks to my own previous issues, depression and subsequent therapy sessions,I could have taught the classes myself. More often than not, I felt frustrated that we spent so much time on such elementary issues.

Other parts of each day – about two to three hours – were spent in smaller groups where we focused on one or two of people and simply let them talk. For me, this was the meat I was hungry for. This was also the place where most of the intimate details of each person’s plight came to light. The four therapists split up among two groups. Suzie and Mike led my group. The other two – whose names escape me for the moment – knew of my trauma and some of the details through bits and pieces I had revealed in “class” and through the regular check-in’s the therapists conducted with one another.

Lunch was also part of each day and provided a much more relaxed environment. The therapists often joined us during lunch if they weren’t involved in a private counseling session or in-take of another patient. One particular day, I stood next to one of the other therapists… we’ll call him Phil since I can’t seem to recall his real name. We greeted each other for the first time that day even though it was already lunch time.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“So far so good,” he replied. “You know, it’s like that joke – have you heard it? This guy jumps out the window of a high-rise building. On his way down, he passes a window washer who greets the jumper by asking, ‘How’s it going?’ The jumper says, ‘Oh, so far so good.’”

About 10 seconds of silence passed as I gazed at the look of shame, shock and despair on Phil’s face.

“Oh my gosh,” he exclaimed. “I am so sorry… I just realized what I said… are you ok?”

I blew off his ignorance with a smile and a “Oh, sure. I’m fine. No big deal.”

But I wasn’t fine. My mind’s eye returned to some of the images that put me in this hospital in the first place. I avoided him for the rest of the day and Suzie helped me lick my wounds. Eventually, Phil searched me out in genuine concern to profusely apologize again and to make sure I was ok. I appreciated his sincerity and concern for my well-being.

In the end, it all turned out ok. And in some ways, I can chuckle at the irony. And perhaps that’s why I am so incredibly careful of the words I choose to use around someone who may be in pain – with or without my knowledge.

And with each passing day I can say, so far so good.

Forgetting to Write

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I last wrote. I thought I would need to write more often, but, to be honest, I’ve been feeling great. I honestly thought I would write when I was feeling good in the hopes that I’d be able to allow for deeper introspection. But, I got to the point where I was writing only when I was feeling depressed. And that only made me feel worse. Since the 7th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I have felt great and haven’t struggled with any issues.

I find it odd that I have been feeling so great though. It’s not like I have been avoiding the issue. In fact, it’s quite in my face lately. I started a book and have been faced with my own trauma as well as others a lot lately. The book will be a compilation of stories from people who have been through a trauma, been diagnosed with PTSD, and then found a place of healing through their faith walk and through therapy. The purpose is to bring hope to others who have been through a traumatic event and haven’t found hope in their current situation.

It’s been a fascinating journey so far, and I am so honored to be able to write these stories. I just hope I do them justice! In my work on this book, I have been able to tell my story to a variety of people. Talking really is cathartic! It’s also been helpful to me to remember that I’m not alone in my struggle with PTSD. Hopefully others will find that same sentiment through the book.

I had the pleasure of speaking to the Carmel United Methodist Church a few weeks ago and shared my story. It was difficult, and I did have a few moments of flashbacks. But, it was also good because others were encouraged – or so they said! A few were profoundly impacted, and I am honored God was able to use me. And I want Him to continue to use me! No matter how difficult it becomes, His name be glorified!

If I have struggled with anything, it’s in a situation that came up a few days before the anniversary. I was already struggling a bit with some anxiety and grief. I had a meeting with a dear friend over some other writing opportunities he and I were exploring. In the course of our conversations, he divulged that he doesn’t believe the 9/11 attacks were caused by terrorists. He is a believer of the many conspiracy theories that float around. I did my best to share my own experiences with him so he could see it from an eye-witness account; and to see that there is no possible way our government was behind these horrendous acts of terror. He encouraged me to “prove” to him that he was wrong, and I am right.

I left the meeting in tears – a complete basket case. I knew they (conspiracy theorists) were out there but never thought I’d meet one. And I certainly didn’t ever think one of them would be someone I consider a friend. Thankfully, Bill Blew, a close friend and business associate (and Christian conciliator) came to the rescue and helped our mutual friend understand how his words were dangerous, especially for me. Our relationship was healed, thankfully. He remains a dear friend and always will be. Whether I have changed his mind or not, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I know what I went through. I know the evidence presented, the research proved, and that I need to move on. And I can’t be responsible for other people’s beliefs. I just know that I need to honor God with my words and deeds, which brings me back to the book.

It is incumbent upon me to give people the hope that comes through the saving grace of Jesus Christ. And that can’t happen when I place false judgment on our government (whom God appointed) or on anyone else.

And so, I move on with the book. I hurt for people who have been through their own traumatic experiences and hope their participation will allow for additional healing for them and for those who will read the book.

Never Forget

I used to be fascinated when people older than me somberly remembered the day JFK was assassinated. They often spoke in terms of “before” and “after”. I never fully understood what they meant until I experienced my own “before and after” seven years ago today. The morning was simply beautiful, much like today in Indianapolis, only a bit warmer. Hints of fall were in the air while summer’s warm kisses struggled to let go.

RJ’s brother was in the south tower. Thankfully, he made it out alive. That was still my “before”. My “after” came when someone said, “What was that?” I’ll never forget the sound and all that came after Flight 77′s rude intrusion into the Pentagon’s walls of rock and steel.

Sometimes I hate this day. I don’t want to remember all I saw, heard, smelt, and felt that day and in the days that followed while I covered these historic events at the Pentagon and at Ground Zero. I don’t want to be forced to remember because of an anniversary; healing comes in my own time. But, I am thankful people haven’t forgotten. While I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to forget. I’m certain I won’t.

And I hope you won’t forget either, the nearly 3,000 good people who died on this day seven short years ago. If you see a firefighter or police officer or EMT, shake their hand. Tell them you appreciate their bravery and service in our times of need. Call your husband or wife and remind them that you love them, even if you won’t come home ever again. Say a prayer for those who still struggle with the pain of when summer’s day met dark and evil.

Simple, never forget.

The Day… Continued

Not long after the Pentagon was attacked, it was discovered another plane had been hijacked. Thanks to the bravery of those on board Flight 93, another building and perhaps thousands of lives were spared. By this point, some of the students had gone home; many simply felt helpless.

I, however, didn’t leave. In fact, I didn’t leave for nearly four hours. I couldn’t. I was simply paralyzed by fear. Almost as soon as the Pentagon was hit, I went back to the long assignment I had previously worked on reviewing the effects of weapons of mass destruction. It was clear that we were attacked. This was terrorism in our own backyard. I had talked to so many people about terrorism but none of them ever came up with this type of scenario. And none of them expected it to happen in our country. Moreover, I kept wondering what was on those planes. Were they done with the crashing of the planes or was there more to come with anthrax or some other WMD releasing into the sky as each plane exploded. I didn’t want to find out, so I stayed.

I called Mike, the CBN News Bureau Chief.

“I guess the interview is off, huh?” I said jokingly.

“You bet,” he replied. “But we need you. Get in here as quick as you can.”

Uh-oh. I had to come up with something. I wasn’t ready to cover this yet. I told him that I didn’t have any of my press passes with me and that most folks were being kept out of DC. Of course, none of this was true. I had my press passes, and I probably could have gotten into DC although it would have been hectic and it would have taken a few hours at best. But I didn’t want to go outside and the last thing I wanted to do was get stuck in a metal tube shooting under the grounds of a town that had just been attacked. Was the Metro next?

Mike agreed to let me come in the next morning to relieve those who would be working through the night on this unfolding story. I was relieved but felt incredible guilt. What in the world could I have done as a journalist covering this story? Nothing. Yet I still felt guilty. Maybe I felt guilty because I was just scared to death. I don’t know.

I finally decided to leave. My apartment was just about four miles from the school. It took me four-and-a-half hours to get home. Incoming traffic lanes were now outgoing lanes in an effort to relieve the decongestion from throngs of people trying to leave DC.

For a town filled with people stuck on themselves and unwilling to help, on this day nothing could be further from the truth. People waited patiently. It was hot – incredibly hot – so a few folks passed around bottled water, especially to those with little ones in the car. No one was a stranger as some cried openly on the shoulders of others as we stood in the streets waiting for the traffic jam to clear.

The thing I noticed most was the intense heat. It wasn’t exactly a hot day but the heat from the fire at the Pentagon made it even hotter. The black, billowing smoke continued to greet the crisp blue sky. It was visible from everywhere now. The smell of jet fuel floated through the air. Sirens blasted their urgency as they rolled through the streets transporting the injured.

Numb, I finally made it home and held Bojangles (the cat) close to my chest. I sat on the couch with him and watched the unfolding coverage. I wondered if Bo heard the sound. He must have sensed something because he seemed a bit jittery. But he also seemed to recognize my need for companionship at that moment. He rarely left my side. Not long after I had arrived, my friend from downstairs, Brooke, called to see if she could come up to my place. I was happy for the company but at the same token, I wanted to be alone. She cried in disbelief as we watched the coverage. Neither of us had family in the area and we both felt completely alone.

I can’t seem to recall where I first saw the video of the couple jumping to their deaths but I certainly recall everything about that image. It wouldn’t be the last time I would see that type of raw video. I remember watching them as they plummeted to their deaths from dozens of stories in the air and wondered how horrible it must have been inside that building for them to conclude that the better choice was to jump and die. No matter how hard I try, I can’t even begin to fathom that scenario. The other thing I remember about this couple was the look of peace on their faces. I don’t know if they were a romantic couple or office mates or just people who met for the first and last time. His tie floated up and to the side of his face. His arm never thrashed in an attempt to stop himself. He kept her hand in his the whole way down. Her skirt ballooned, and I secretly hoped it would cushion their fall. These are the images I see over and over again in my mind’s eye when I think back to that day.

I thought that was the darkest day of my life but, little did I know of the darkness that was yet to come.

The Day The World Changed Forever

I’m big on blogging. I think it’s fabulous for so many reasons. In fact, I’m going to speak at a blogging conference, Blog Indiana 2008, next month! But, when it comes to my own blog, I find it hard to get to. It isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about. I certainly do. However, when it comes to this subject matter, there are times I would just rather not discuss it. I have written about this experience before and made it through just fine. Yet sharing the details of that day, as I have wanted to do the last couple of weeks, has given me a sense of dread. But, that’s part of the journey through the Great Sadness, I suppose.

There are pieces of the story that don’t belong in this particular post. If I started, I wouldn’t finish. So, I’ll start by reminding you that I had worked on a month-long project for the production arm of CBN News. A few weeks after that project, I was asked by the bureau chief to do a live audition for their Capitol Hill Correspondent position. I was delighted!

For many weeks prior to 9/11, I had also been teaching part time at Connecticut Schools of Broadcasting, which was located in the basement of a building in Crystal City, Virginia. If you walked to the Pentagon from this building, it would be no further than 1/2 to 3/4 of a mile.

The morning of 9/11 started out differently than most days. A news junkie, I usually had the Today Show on. But I didn’t even look in the direction of the TV that morning. I was too busy rehearsing the script I had written for my audition. I distinctly remember the watermelon colored dress, the off-white hose and shoes, and the extra attention I paid to my hair and makeup. I even remember what underwear I had on!

Another oddity for that day is that I drove my car. I rarely did that, except to the grocery store every so often. Much like the TV, I would normally have had the radio on in the car. But I was still rehearsing. I wanted to nail that audition!

My schedule for the morning consisted of me stopping off at the school to give final exams to some of my students. From there, I would head into DC and to the CBN bureau for the audition. So, I parked my car under the building and entered the basement floor. I didn’t really notice much going on about me. By this point, I was already focused on the exams.

The students seemed to be milling about, almost nervously. One said, “You better get in RJ’s office.” (RJ was the Executive Director of the school.)

RJ was at his desk with a phone attached to each of his ears.

“Did you hear what happened?”

I shook my head no and tried to speak in between his conversations with the people on either phone; conversations that seemed panicked.

“A plane crashed into the World Trade Center building,” he replied.

Silent from disbelief, I finally responded, “Ok. That’s not a very funny joke, but I’ll wait for the punchline.”

“It’s not a joke,” he screamed. “I’m on the phone with my brother who was in the other WTC building. I’m trying to get him out of the building but they’re saying everyone needs to go back to their desks. I’m also on the phone with his wife. He couldn’t get through to her.”

Again, he started shouting things like, “Get out of the building”. “I don’t care what they told you.” “You’re going to be fine. Calm down.”

Strangely enough, this Radio and TV broadcasting school didn’t have cable so I ran out into the lobby to the McDonald’s that had several TV’s and satellite access. Dozens of people stood around watching in disbelief. Many whispered that it must have been an accident; a small plane that went off course. But the hole looked too big to be a small plane.

And then we all watched the second plane strike. Gasps filled the silence. People covered their gaping mouths with their hands and cried, “Oh, no.”

Someone said, “That wasn’t an accident. We’re under attack.”

Even as I write this… I can see each scene so clearly… as if it were happening again. The pounding in my chest right now reminds me of what I felt that morning.

RJ’s brother. Oh no. I ran back into his office.

“He’s out. He’s out,” RJ kept saying. “It’s ok. He got out. He’s safe.”

By this point, it became apparent that exams would have to wait. Too many students wanted to watch these events unfold, and truthfully, so did I. We walked between the McDonald’s TV’s and our class radio for the latest updates. One visit to the TV’s presented the most awful image – in my opinion – of the entire event.

A man and woman were shown (live) jumping from the building to their deaths. My first reaction was to wonder how bad it must have been where they were that they felt jumping was a much better option. I can’t even comprehend it. Then I noticed the look of peace on their faces. His tie floated skyward while he looked down to the ground that would soon greet him. Her skirt ballooned, and secretly I hoped it would save her from a violent death. But I knew better. To this day, I still can’t get that image out of my mind.

Back in the office listening to the radio, reports were rampant about bombings here and there, mostly in New York. Then reports of bombings in the DC area began flooding the airwaves. So many students had so many questions; I decided to try to make some sort of lesson out of this situation. We gathered in the class room to talk about the reality of what had just happened.

“We talked these last weeks about the types of scenes you would encounter as a journalist,” I started. “Obviously, we’ve never seen anything like this but if you ever faced anything like this, as a reporter, you’d have to do your job. Your life could very well be in danger. You’d witness some horrific things like we’ve seen live on TV today. Can you handle that?”

Many said they couldn’t and journalism was no longer an option for them. I didn’t blame them. It wasn’t an option for me anymore either; at least not that type of journalism.

Some of us returned to the radio while others returned to the televisions in the lobby. Soon, we looked at one another before someone broke the silence and said, “What was that sound?”

“I don’t know,” someone else replied.

“I’m going out to look,” yelled a student as he ran out the door.

“Don’t go out there,” I screamed at him only to finish the thought in my head. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

Shortly thereafter the radio confirmed that the Pentagon had been struck, just the same as the WTC buildings. In between the WTC buildings crumbling and the hijacked plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, many students decided to head back to their homes. There was nothing more to see or do here.

There is so much more from that day but, this post is long enough… and trying enough. I’ll end here for now.

Safe and Secure

My parents aren’t getting any younger. And yet, they continue to work as if they were in their 20′s. The work they do, they say, is better than “real work”. My mother was always a homemaker (the toughest job in the world) and my dad is twice retired: once from the US Army and once from the SC Department of Corrections. My parents love to work on things that will help me and my older brother. For example, they came up this past weekend to help me and Kurt on some landscaping projects. This wasn’t easy stuff either. Pulling up miles of English Ivy isn’t the work of wimps. And we did it in 90-degree weather. Even though mom and dad are in the mid-to-late 60′s and their health issues limit them in some ways, they can still work me under the table when it comes to hard stuff like yard work.

I tried my best to keep up with them, and for the most part I succeeded. The last day in the yard wore me slap out (as we would say in the south). I found it humorous and quite comforting that my parents were more worried about me than themselves.

“Take a break,” they often chided.

They were the ones who should have been taking a break. But they didn’t.

The work they did was during the week when Indiana was struck with tornadoes and floods of historic proportions. Growing up in South Carolina, we’re used to hurricane warnings and hot temperatures. Tornadoes were a rarity for us. Indiana is part of Tornado Alley, and I’m not particularly thrilled when the tornado siren sounds. (On test days, Fletcher and I usually hide in the bathroom!)

My husband always makes me feel safe and secure but there’s just something about having mom and dad close by that adds to that safety and security. The storms were rough but I was never really worried. Between Kurt and my parents, I knew we were all going to be ok.

I realized not long after they left to return to SC that they were what was missing in the moments after 9/11. Living in DC was hard enough but I didn’t have any friends there. I didn’t particularly like the person I was dating and living with at the time (it’s a long story and another blog entirely!). And I certainly wasn’t all too thrilled with the people I worked with either. Everyone had their own lives to live. Power and success forced everyone to stay at an arm’s length from real, intimate relationships.

When I heard the sound of the plane crash into the Pentagon, my thoughts immediately turned to my parents. Frozen in fear, all I wanted was mommy and daddy. They would know how to handle this situation. They would know how to keep me safe and secure. But they weren’t there.

I called and spoke to them on the phone before most cell phone connections went blank. They were glad to hear I was safe and were as riveted by the events as much as the next person. I’m not entirely sure they knew exactly how close I was to the Pentagon. And I don’t think it was until a few years later – when I finally crashed – when they realized how traumatized I had been that day. I don’t blame them for not knowing. I was a journalist, after all. We were all strong and neutral and able to handle covering this type of news, right?

And I’m certain I put on a strong front for them, just like I did while I worked in the yard this past weekend. “Oh, I can handle this,” I kept telling myself that day and in the yard. “I’m a big girl now, and I want to make them proud.”

I don’t think it really matters how old you are. There’s still nothing like mommy and daddy to make you feel completely safe and secure.

The Great Sadness – An Introduction

I just finished reading the most amazing book, “The Shack” by William P. Young. A dear friend let me borrow it, and I am eternally grateful. But the book stung; deeply. It reminded me that I am still in a state of what I now call The Great Sadness.

The Great Sadness began for me on 9/11/01. I was across the street from the Pentagon when it was struck by terrorists. Working as a journalist, I covered the event from various angles, including a trip to New York a couple of weeks after the attack. It was a busy, chaotic time. We journalists didn’t have time to grieve, worry, fear, or think about what had just happened or what we saw in the process of telling the rest of the world about it. And when the dust settled, no one wanted to talk about it. So, I didn’t.

I left Washington, DC and came to Indianapolis to escape the town with a Bulls Eye on it. I wanted out of news but I knew I wanted to continue to write. So my journalism career turned from TV to print; from news to sports.

Many of the details will get filled in through this blog but I ultimately met and married my husband nearly four years ago. Not long after our marriage began, I was diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder after a suicide attempt. The Great Sadness had not become clear to me yet; I didn’t understand what it was. I just knew it was there.

After reading the book, “The Shack,” I began to recognize that I still carried The Great Sadness, as one of the characters in the book describes. The book also left me longing to have the type of intimate relationship this character had with Papa, our Lord and Savior. I can’t even begin to describe the hunger and thirst I have for Him after reading this book. I wish I had an opportunity to hole up in a shack and meet Him face to face too.

Until then, I know I have to continue the healing process. Right now, there is such tremendous grief. It is impossible to describe or explain. But it is as strong as if it had just happened. And so, I do what I do best: Write.

Perhaps healing will come. Perhaps the Great Sadness will lift. Perhaps others will find hope and healing from their Great Sadness.

Until next time…