9/11/08

Yesterday was the first September 11th that I can think of, since that day in 2001, that I know I felt pretty OK.

I did not have any friends or relatives who died that day. I was not in Manhattan, near the Pentagon or Washington, DC. I did not know anybody who was.

I was just living in my own private hell, in the middle of a depression-like phase that had something to do with my toxic job, something to do with lingering baggage in my personal life, something to do with a mysterious illness that had recently begun to take me down and would continue to do so for months, and perhaps something to do with genetics. I've always maintained a pretty high level of functionality, but that kind of situation makes it really easy to take a lot of sick days due to one's physical and mental state. And that's what I happened to do on September 11, 2001.

So that's why I was lying on my sofa watching some morning show on television, which is something that I never, ever do. I can't even tell you which show it was or who was reporting, nor did I have a preference. But it was because I happened to be home sick that I was watching TV from the moment the morning show cut away to video of the north tower of the World Trade Center burning, and that I then saw the south tower pummeled by a United Airlines flight, live. I watched television all day that day, and all night, and all the following day, when I again decided that the commute to work wasn't for me.

There is a set of specific things I think about when I remember that day:

I remember watching the initial footage and thinking of the ongoing ramifications of this as-yet-misunderstood attack: "There is going to be scaffolding around that building for months and months while they perform repairs." This is what I thought the event's legacy would be like.

I remember running upstairs after the second plane hit to tell my housemate, "They're flying planes into the World Trade Center." She turned on her TV, and left for work shortly after.

I remember trying to convince my father to come home from work (in downtown Chicago) and him reassuring me that the Sears Tower is blocks and blocks away.

I remember a colleague telling me it took him five hours to get home from work that morning after his company let their employees go for the day.

I remember not understanding what the perceived tragedy was when the towers collapsed. In my mind, though I never explicitly thought these words, I knew that the buildings were beyond repair, and that the buildings must be devoid of people by that point. I was half right.

I remember when I realized that the date was 9/11.

I remember making love to my boyfriend that night, even though I wasn't supposed to because my yearly gynecological exam was scheduled for the next morning. But how could one not make love to their boyfriend that night?

Like everyone else, I have my specific memories. Like many people, I watched TV at every available moment for weeks and weeks after 9/11. Past the point where most people I knew declared they were finished watching all of that tragedy on television. I kept a folder in my bookmarks called "9/11", filled with dozens and dozens of links to 9/11-specific news and information sites. I cried in the shower a lot, in anger and disbelief.

But I think I realized early on that a lot of my upset had a little more to do with me and my primed-for-disaster mental state than it had to do with national security, or even empathy for those who died or who lost loved ones. (And I am a person severely overloaded with empathy, as a rule.) At the time I hated my job and was hiding from it that very day, and as I described above, I was not in a happy place overall. When I thought about 9/11 after that, it wasn't just about the terrorist event, for it was also linked to how miserable I was, had already been, and would continue to be. I remember a feeling of being haunted by the day. By September 11th, 2002, I was working as a freelancer, and I specifically did not accept any jobs that day because I wanted to be free to memorialize 9/11 privately. I remember on September 11th, 2003, making the decision that I could, and should, go to work. But I really did not want to. I wanted to be at home, to obsess, probably to watch TV all day, just as I had two years prior. Alone.

The misery stuck with me for some time, but similar to getting over a cold, I remember feeling bad and I remember feeling good again, but I can't tell you exactly when the transition happened.

And I don't remember what I did last year, or the year before, on September 11th, but I do know that this year, I noticed that I am no longer haunted. I was aware of the date, but I didn't obsess. I took note that I was glad I left my flag up (despite its tattered state; it's past the point where it should have been replaced). In the evening I watched a new television program about it, and I cried. But I think that's normal.

I just don't remember pre-9/11/01 anymore. It's kind of like Pearl Harbor: when I was born, it had already happened. It wasn't an event to remember, it just "was". 9/11 just was, and I don't take it personally anymore.

A dining room of distinction

Or ... squalor no more!

Remember this? Wait, wait ... if you don't feel like linking, here's a reminder of what happened to the first floor of my house on June 24:

That situation came to be because I was having some work done on my basement, some work for which I had to empty the basement's contents. In other words, my basement exploded into the rest of my house. Specifically, my dining room became unusable, and because the dining room connects the kitchen to the living room, it's really the main thoroughfare of the house, so my most-used hallway became nearly impassable.

My house is not large. It's a good size for a single person like myself, but it really is difficult to get around corners with two greyhounds and an underfoot cat constantly in tow. There are, from time to time, collisions, resulting in barks, yelps, and lingering moans. So when I had to stack all that crap in my dining room and surrounding areas, it actually depressed me. It seriously affected me in a way that was perceptible to others for some time. It was so horrendous being anywhere on the first floor of my house that I didn't even bother to clean around the crap, stating that once I cleared out the area again I would give it a thorough cleaning. So I've lived not only in the midst of crap stacks but also mounds of dust bunnies and animal hair for the past seven weeks.

But not anymore. As of last weekend, my dining room is crap- and crud-free! Take a look and see for yourself:

I am now going to appreciate and utilize my dining room like I have never appreciated and utilized my dining room before. It really is a privilege to have a room like this in which I can sit, read, eat, relax, and gaze out the window at the tippy tops of my tomato plants. And I shall now treat it as such.

One more for the road:

And it's not even squalor

I don't understand how people can live in squalor.

I can say I've had friends and relatives who have had hoarding tendencies. They buy too many things in bulk, or they begin new hobbies or projects that they never finish, and because they don't make room to store all the stuff, it collects in every corner in the house. And along the walls. And on the furniture.

That was the topic of one of the first blog posts I wrote (but never got around to publishing): the problem of buying things with good intentions, even frugal intentions (such as buying in bulk) but having the cost far outweigh the benefit when the stuff accumulates all over the house.

If I lived like that, it would be like hearing a million voices inside my head all day long that I would be powerless to quiet down. I'd look around at all the stuff constantly, compulsively, thinking of ways to dispense of it, organize it, use it, or sell it. It would consume me.

I know this, because back in college when I used to rent older apartments that needed work, I could sit in any room and be powerless against thinking, "If I owned the place, I'd replace that molding. And take down that peeling wallpaper. And replace those old blinds. And get new doors. And refinish the floors. And replace that faucet." There is always an imperfection that I yearn to perfect. So I know that if I were surrounded by piles of junk, I would drown in it.

So this past weekend when I had to temporarily move the contents of my basement into my dining room and den so that some waterproofing construction could be done this week, well, it sent me into a deep depression. By the end of the weekend, I was beginning to question what it was all for. And I'm not simply referring to the stuff in the basement, or the waterproofing job.

This is my idea of comfortable living. My living room at Christmastime:


Ahhhhh. See that? Small, but livable. Pretty minimal furnishings. Clean. No "stuff". (Actually, that bin of wrapping paper on the chair at left was bugging the hell out of me at the time. But my wrapping wasn't finished yet.)

Now look at that what that chair looks like today:


Now let's turn the corner and look into the dining room, and through the dining room and the den, all the way to the back of the house:


That little available opening in each doorway? Can you imagine a tall woman and two greyhounds making safe passage through there, several times a day? It's a wonder that my sensitive girl Dazzle isn't peeing all over the house. She does not enjoy big "stuff" and close quarters.

It is very, very hard for me to live like this. My dad questioned why I put this job off until the last minute like I did (I spent the weekend moving all this stuff, plus tearing down some walls in the basement, so the contractors could work this week), and my answer was that if I could do it all again, I'd do it exactly the same way. Because if I started the work any earlier, I'd have to live like this for even longer.

I'm not even a neat freak. I like keeping things clutter-free, but "stuff" builds up in my house, too. I certainly don't keep the bathrooms as clean as anybody would like. And I'm not claustrophobic, either, yet I feel the weight of life itself suffocating me when I walk through those rooms.

So what's the solution? Well, when the work is finished in the basement and the new concrete is dry, I can move it all back down. But I plan to do some organizing first. I do have too much stuff. (The first 12 bins behind the chair in the photos contain nothing but Christmas decorations. But that's stuff I plan to keep.)

But I am embarrassed to admit that two of the largest bins I own, the kind that are about 2' x 2' x 4' (roughly, without measuring), are full of stuffed animals. There is an additional tall kitchen bag full of them, too. Some of these stuffed toys are 36 years old. How does a compulsive never-hoarder let something like this happen, you ask? I think it must be sentiment. When I haven't seen them in a while I fantasize about dumping them all on my curb without looking back. But then I open a bin, and I remember their stories. And the innocence of childhood, long gone. Holding on to them helps me hang on to nice memories, and maybe hang on to a little bit of that innocence.

But it also drives me stark raving mad.

So then I think about just donating them to the same charitable organization that picks up the rest of my junk (they take anything) and delude myself into thinking that they'll actually be loved by another child. But they'll probably throw them straight into the trash. I think my particular charitable organization mainly sells the donations they receive. Stuffed animals aren't worth a thing, except the memories that come with them. And memories can't be traded for cash money.

There are a couple other boxes of stuff that should probably be discarded straight away. And there are some clothes and old magazines I can give away. In the end, there really isn't much I can discard out of hand. I do have many hobbies that I engage in often enough that supply storage is warranted.

One good thing is that this episode has already forced me to start getting organized. I ripped out some old, rickety shelving, purchased over $700 worth of new shelving, and have already filled most of it neatly. I've decided to discard a huge, heavy old workbench that came with the house (which I never use; I do that kind of work outdoors) which will free up an entire corner that I can use for more organized storage. I may have felt utter despair on Sunday night, but now that I've gotten out of the house a bit and my head is clear, I can see that all of this pain will be for good in the end.

I just hope all that crap doesn't fall over on any of us before the job is finished.