Recollections of 9/11

On September 11, 2001 I had lived in San Francisco for a little more than two months. I got up that morning as usual, showered, dressed in black pants and a lavender ¾ length sweater, and proceeded to get ready for work. My roommates and I rarely interacted in the morning, for no other reason than our own preoccupation with our individual morning routines and the accompanying effort to get out the door on schedule. So when I came out of my bedroom that morning and saw Katie and Kelly standing in front of the TV in Katie’s room, I knew something was up.

I walked into Katie’s room, and no one said a word. I think they were in shock. After a few moments of viewing the horrible images that flashed across the screen, I was, too. We continued to watch for a few minutes, wanting to look away, but somehow unable to.

One by one we eventually tore ourselves away from the TV so we could proceed to work. When I got onto MUNI that morning, something seemed strange. Usually people occupied themselves with newspapers and books and their blackberries as the Express worked its way through traffic toward the Financial District. After a few minutes someone started a conversation—addressed to no one in particular—and astonishingly, everyone began chiming in with little bits and pieces of information that they had gleaned from various news sources that morning.

After we reached my stop I walked the three-or-so blocks to my office in a fog. When I walked into the office, one of my co-workers was sitting on the couch crying. She had family that worked in the towers. Within minutes our main office in Utah called and told us all to go home. My co-worker Katherine’s boyfriend picked us up and drove us back to the other side of town. As we made our way through the Financial District and the Civic Center it was like a ghost town. Very eerie for a Tuesday morning in September.

By the time I returned to my apartment in the Richmond District, both of my roommates were home. We parked ourselves in front of the television in our living room and wondered out loud whether the reporter’s speculation about terrorists targeting the Golden Gate Bridge could actually happen. You could see the Golden Gate Bridge from the balcony of our apartment.

The very last plane in U.S. airspace that day was to land in San Francisco. We watched with baited breath as news cameras captured its touchdown at SFO. The three of us breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Within a couple of weeks the inability to sleep had set in. The horrible nightmares followed soon after. I don’t remember exactly how long they lasted, but Tylenol P.M. and a meditation-type CD my mom sent me helped me get through the weeks and months that followed.

Eventually I was able to get a normal night’s sleep—uninterrupted by terrible images flashing through my mind—on my own. But the memories of the fear I felt during that time will always remain.

That day could very well be the reason why the city life which I had always wanted to live became something that I truly abhorred…