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Thirty One Days of the Longest Month
At this point, I’m tempted to leave 9/11-related reflections for next year. While I’ve been planning to write them for so long because I honestly think I’ll be better for writing (and sharing) them, I don’t think I’m in a place to delve through the memories with the sort of necessary intensity anymore. That ship has sailed, my heart has whispered more than once. And it would be so easy, such a relief and a release, to accept that.
And of all the things I need right now, relief and release are on the top of my list (again). The peace, the clarity, I felt after my magical week in San Diego has completely and utterly evaporated—and while I expected that to happen, I didn’t imagine it would occur so soon. Sadly, the optimism and the energy I felt after the time I spent in California are gone—totally gone—and I’m nearly as emotionally exhausted as I was three months ago.
As brief as it was, I’d like to thank that lull of peace. Without it, I’m not sure I would have made it so far in October with my sanity intact.
Ultimately, the details are mostly not mine to share—part of what constitutes this hell is that, ultimately, the details don’t really belong to any one person, any group. I was only involved in one of the four situations that contributed to this month’s misery, and that was dead and buried after a long phone conversation and some painful honesty. The other three situations aren’t mine to resolve—I can only console and wait and wonder, hate the reasons for the pain, and hate the knowledge that what they’re going through is worse than my own bloody torment.
Godspeed, November.
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