As the anniversary of 9/11 quickly approaches, no doubt we are reminded of the carnage that unfolded that day. Some of us can remember exactly where we were, exactly how we felt, who we were with, even the smells that were in the air. When I think back, I don't only think of the devastation that occurred, but I am also reminded of the person I was then, and the person I am now. I can look back over time and see how each trauma in my life carved out its own little niche, marking its spot on the human map of Brandy. Seems even years later, certain sounds or smells cause us to revisit the memory. It undoubtedly appears to have a constant hold on some of us, preventing us from moving on. The traumas that we have incurred in life will never leave us; however, they do get easier over time.
I think back to when I was a child; I must have been around 8 or 9. I was at the neighbor's house playing ball and I pitched the ball to my brother. He hit the ball so hard and so quickly, I had no time to react and unfortunately my face became the new catcher's mitt. I remember spinning around and then hitting the ground. My brother raced over, picked me up and threw me over his shoulder and carried me home, with me screaming the whole time. By the time we made it to the front door, mom already with an ice pack in hand, was slamming it into my face. I remember the swelling was as big as a softball even though I got hit by a baseball. I remember that I had to miss one ball game because I couldn't see well because of the swelling. I remember, as soon as the swelling went down, it was time for ball pictures. I look at that picture from time to time and smile as I "show off" my badge of courage. I went on to play ball many more years, not letting that trauma stop me. There are times I think back to it, reach up to touch my eye and feel the divot in my skull, and it's unmistakably, me.
When I was eleven, my mom and step-father Joe got divorced. Mom went to Las Vegas to celebrate the divorce. Joe asked if he could take us out to the lake one more time. On that Saturday, we went to the lake, but his boat broke down. We were very upset because we wanted to ski and knee-board a bit longer. We begged our neighbors that were watching us to let us go to the lake the next day. They finally caved in and let us go. The last thing I said as I walked out the door was, "Don't worry, ain't nothin' gonna happen." So off to the lake we went, this time in my uncle's boat. We went skiing and knee-boarding for hours. We even went and rode the Shetland ponies that were always running free. We used to catch them, pull them up next to the boat trailer, put our life jacket on them, jump on and ride until we fell off. Then we would get up and do it all over again. It seemed momentarily, all the pain, the trauma, and the innocence lost disappeared.
Later that day as we were wrapping things up, I got out of the water as they loaded the boat. I took off my life jacket and jumped back in the water. I saw my brother out there so I decided to swim to him. As I was swimming, Joe realized he didn't have the boat lined up straight so he had to back it out. As he was backing the boat out, he started heading right for me. I remember as the boat loomed closer, I tried to make my little eleven-year old arms paddle as fast they could. I even recall looking across to the bank as this occurred to see a lady staring directly at me, unable to move, not being able to register what she was seeing. As I turned back and the boat got closer, I saw a ladder on the back of the boat. Being that I couldn’t paddle away, I grabbed the ladder and began to climb. Just as I thought I was safe, the blade caught the heal of my foot and yanked me off the ladder. It seemed like hours that the blade would chop away at my feet. It was weird, but as it hit my feet, all that I could hear was "thud, thud, thud" as it reverberated through my body. Finally, when I thought life as I know it was over, the boat spit me out and sucked me in. My life flashed before my eleven-year old eyes as my head passed the blade and I flew out the front side of the boat.
In all that time, I never cried. I couldn't reconcile what was going on. Although it had occurred before, this is the first time that I would remember being in "shock." It seemed as though I finally came out of a dream, and then I wondered, "Do I have feet? Wait, what about my toes, are they still there?" Then the tears started flooding, not because of pain, but because of the fear of the unknown. Thank God, fifty-seven stitches later, I'm still walking around as if nothing happened. I can never forget it happened because of the scars left behind. The blade definitely carved out its own little section of my flesh and marked its spot. For years, I had a fear of boats. I was so afraid of them that even when I was old enough to drive, I couldn't ride behind someone pulling a boat trailer. Visions of the boat flying off the trailer and coming through my windshield sent me into a panic.
Since that day, I've had numerous traumas in my life. I've seen death way too many times. I've dealt with the repercussions of what society does to one another under the guise of love, and under the realm of hate. Over time my mind has been ravaged by those thoughts and images. Sometimes, I can't shut them off. I look into a fire and I see a man burning as his flesh melts off his body. I hear a train pass by and remember the guy who was twisted and contorted in such a gruesome manner. I see the drunk who suffocated himself because he was too drunk to realize he couldn't breathe. I see the five-year old child who is playing in the room as I counsel the mother on how to care for her child now that she has been molested. I see the woman who was raped, who not only has to deal with that, but is also flooded by the images that rush in from her molestation as a child. I see it all. I feel it all. I hear it all.
No doubt, the carnage you saw on 9/11 is something you see, feel, and hear more often than you would like. It's been ten years, and still ravaged by the images we saw on the television screen, pictures we saw in magazines, or interviews we saw from first-hand accounts. Those images will be with us always. We can never get rid of them, but we can learn to deal with them so that the pain we feel is no longer attached to that memory. I find that my answer for the pain is prayer. God is my comforter, my provider, my counselor, and my guidance in life. He is my everything. I've learned to pray upon things that are painful and just ask God to take the pain. The memory I'll keep, but take the pain. Because you see, as painful as some things are, they are the map to "who" we are. Each little or big incident in life creates a new stop sign, curve, hill or mountain on our map of life. I look back over the last 10 years and see the commentary of the one's who lost loved ones, and I sympathize with them.
However, sometimes we have to let go of the pain to make room for the happy memories to come. Sometimes we get so consumed by our grief, we lose our identity. What honor are we doing the memory of the loved one if we ourselves forget how to live? What honor do we do ourselves if we don't move past certain traumas and road blocks in our lives? There will always be loss, always be pain, and always be remorse. We may not be able to control what happens, but we can control what we do with it in the end. How about unloading it all on the one who can give you peace of mind, peace of heart, and peace of soul. There is so much that God can do in our lives, but first, you must ask. God Bless.
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