Hello everyone. It's actually Sunday, Sept. 10, as I write this, and I'm sitting on my sofa in the half-light of my living room. I just finished watching a TV program on CBS that was about two French filmmakers who stayed with a fire department from well before Sept. 11 until well after. The footage was amazing—stuff I've never seen—and it was a beautiful tribute to the firefighters who worked so hard that day and every day after. That kind of heroism isn't born from ego; it's born from a deeply held belief in doing good, and if that sounds like sentimental claptrap, so be it.

I don't want to get too far into my own issues today. Suffice to say that as a native East Coaster and as someone who lived and worked in New York, I was truly and well thrown off my game on Sept. 11. I was so horrendously sad and anxious in the weeks after, yet I felt the whole time I had no right to be so upset. It was, after all, a proximate tragedy. And of course, as the historians among us will point out, what happened on 9/11—in the context of the rest of the 20th century, and in the context of the rest of the world—was a blip, a mere flutter on the timeline. What about the first World War? The second? The Holocaust? Rwanda? The agonizing et cetera?

True, the collapse of the World Trade Centers and the attacks elsewhere that day didn't result in millions of dead. But should that comfort me when I see the images of people jumping to their deaths? Or the thousands of pieces of paper that fluttered from the broken windows? Or the red faces of downtown residents testifying now to the health problems their families are having? Or the PTSD-stricken first responders, for whom every day is 9/11 all over again? Or the pain of those who lost friends and relatives? Should their suffering matter less to me because it's happened before in history? Should that make me less sad? Should I comfort myself with statistics and comparative oppressions?

I can't. For whatever reason—and maybe it's simply jingoistic, patriotic nonsense without intellectual merit—I felt this particular tragedy very deeply. It's all about how close the rings of fire come to your door. You hear about someone getting raped, say, and think it's sad. You hear about a friend getting raped, and you're angry. You hear about a family member getting raped, and you're distraught. You get raped, and you're ruined. Your life will never be the same. Tragedy is awful, anywhere. The closer it gets, the more tragic it seems. That's only natural.

Is it comforting to contextualize things? Some say yes; we should keep it all in perspective. But if you contextualize things too much, you run the risk of feeling embarrassed by your pain. Maybe you're not entitled to be sad about 9/11 because, when the history books are closed, it will be a paragraph within 100 volumes. But it's your paragraph. It's your grief. And you're allowed to be undone by it.

I cried for the people who lost their lives in the tsunami. I cried more for the survivors of Katrina. But I feel like my heart is being pulled from my ribcage when I watch the footage of the Twin Towers going down. Whatever's closest to you is what burns quicker and deeper. I loved New York. I felt like it was my town too. Is there a grander city in this country? Not for me. For me, New York is everything. (After Philly, of course.)

Questions of American foreign policy arise on days like this one. Did the American government, because of its practices in the years leading up to 9/11, play a role in making this happen? Was our arrogance and hubris enough to provoke such an attack? Did we make them hate us? Did we, on some level, deserve it?

These are questions I might be able to ask if I could get some distance, emotionally and geographically. If this were a conversation about Bosnia or Sweden or Hamburg, I could engage in that kind of speculative discourse. But I feel like it happened in my backyard, and I'm too upset by the dead flowers to think about the loss of trees in the Amazon.

Oh dear. I've already taken my meds, and I'm afraid it's obvious. This is rambling. Maybe I'll wish I hadn't written it, but I'm leaving it as is. There's a germ of truth in here; maybe it'll be a macabre party game trying to find it.

For those of you who feel like I do—who feel kind of destroyed by 9/11, perhaps because of our fragile psychologies—I'd urge you to take care of yourselves today and try not to watch too many TV shows about 9/11. You don't want to retraumatize yourself, but if you feel like it expels some demons, I understand. Just put your mental health first. Do what you have to stay on an even keel.

I think this is all I really want to say today. A few people have left comments here about what they were doing on 9/11 when they found out the Trade Towers were being attacked. You can find those here. If there are other readers who'd like to share their 9/11 stories today, please send them in, either by commenting here or by directing them to lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com.

Tomorrow we can talk about which supermodel has bipolar disorder, and tell more wonderful stories about Dr. Wayne Fenton, or Steve Irwin, even. We'll talk about depression in Ireland, and obesity and all kinds of fun stuff. Today, though, is to commemorate 9/11.

[Photo courtesy YourGuide via Flickr.]