I started writing to cope with the pain when I was 12. I know no other way to cope but to write. And so…it’s time I write this.

 

“He left me!” I shrieked. “New York was burning and he raped me…as the towers fell! People were dying. Children lay dying, and he raped me! He fucked me! He left me! He raped me and I couldn’t…I couldn’t even save me.”

I shook under my grief and I cried right then for New York and the people who lost their fathers and mothers, husbands and wives. I cried for them as I had cried for days on end. But mostly, right then, I cried for me. – Broken

 

Those poor people…and poor me. I identify with all 3,000 of them. But 3,000 is a lot of pain to hold. And it isn’t mine to hold. Not any more. But I feel guilty for not suffering for them. I feel guilt for not hurting with them. But it’s too much and I can’t do it any more. – Unbreaking Me

 

We all have demons within, secrets we hoard, shadows that stare, reminding us what we can’t forget…no matter how much we want to. What I can’t forget is that he raped me. While 3,000 died, he raped me. I felt guilt because I cried for me while so many others died. – Unbreaking Me

 

I believed suffering for them would make it better for them. – Unbreaking Me

 

I’m sorry New York

for the pain and the hell.

I’m sorry New York

for it all.

I’m sorry New York

for the lies and deceit.

But most of all

I’m sorry for Me.

 

I walked outside today and looked at the skies in New York. It was the first time in 14 years that I felt 3,000 pounds lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in 14 years, I could breathe a little easier. This is how therapy works. Breathing gets easier a little bit every day. Today, I was able to smile sadly while thinking of New York. Today, I was able to look at pictures of New York and not fall apart blaming myself for not dying with them.