I see them.  I see them standing there, gracing the New York City Skyline, twin sentinals guarding the city.  I remember walking to work every morning, greeting my friends, co-workers, as I went to start another workday.

Seems that my job was permanently safe until that day.  That day when the world was changed, and because of hate, twin towers no longer stand.  New York's city skyline is permanently scarred, never to be the same again.

I was there that day.  I'd reported to work, got some work done, when I had gone to take a break; went across the street to get a bagel, coffee, with a disabled co-worker; was there not even five minutes when that first plane came, low.  Saw the fireball, heard the awful explosion, felt the ground shake.

I didn't know what was going on; thought the world was coming to an end.  Then came that second plane; the same scary scenario played out again.  I thought we were at war.

It was beyond terrifying.

I got my friend, started heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge, anything to get to safety, in case more planes would come roaring in.  I didn't know who was responsible; all that mattered to me at that moment was getting the hell out of there.

I didn't know until later I'd been injured.  I looked down--only, to my horror, to see blood running down my leg.  I guess it was from the stuff flying through the air (metal, glass; I had no idea what'd hit me.)  That night, I woke up in terrible pain; my leg was absolutely throbbing, killing me.

I went to the hospital.  I was immediately admitted; I'd developed some sort of infection in my leg, and the infection was quickly spreading.  I was then rushed to surgery; when I woke up in recovery, I discovered I was now an amputee: my leg had been removed.  I had somehow developed flesh eating disease.

They had to cut my leg off to save what was left, or the infection would only spread, killing me.  If I wanted to survive, this was the only viable option.

September 11, 2001, changed me in more ways than one, in ways I never realized.

Nearly seven years later, I still have nightmares.  I still see those planes coming in, running into the towers, hearing the awful explosions, seeing the fireballs erupting, hearing people screaming around me.  I see the terror, the panicked helplessness etched on their faces as they fled towards safety.  

I see the leering, ugly, bearded face of Osama bin Laden as he praised the attacks, see those behind the attacks celebrating as they burn our flag, praising Allah.

I still feel the anger seething through me like a hot cancer, as I try to reason the motive behind the attacks, try to understand the workings of the terrorists, why they are the way they are. 

I cannot watch the news reports or tapes as they report on the attacks; now that the anniversary of the attacks is quickly approaching (it will be seven years on Thursday), the tvs, papers will no doubt be flooded with recounts of that day, as well as pictures that still chill me to the bone.  I see the images splashed on the front page or on the television, and I get nauseated, wish I'd never been there that day. 

I feel anger towards the terrorists, as they took my life away, took away my friends, took away my place of employment.  Don't they realize the grief they have caused me?? Because of their hate towards us, because of pure evil hearts/minds, I am no longer the same person, and I get so frustrated, I want to physically hurt, harm someone!

NOT really, but when I think about 9-11-01, I get sick, physically, emotionally, spiritually sick, and I can't function.  I have been seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis to help me deal with this thing, but I can't seem to move past it.  It's like a reaccuring nightmare that refuses to be vanquished.

I look at my health, my missing leg, and right away, I think of the attacks.  It is because of the attacks that I am now disabled, suffer permanent pain, flashbacks, have since developed other health problems that have rendered me 100 percent disabled.  I cannot work again; my health is too unstable.

I can think of plenty of reasons to be angry about September 11, 2001, but there's one saving grace:  our son, Stefan Paul William Franklin Jefferson, who will be five years old on Thursday.  He was born on the second anniversary of September 11, 2001:  in fact, we were at the memorial service that day when I went into labor.  He came later that day, weighing 9 pounds, 11 ounces.

Our son has taken some of the pain away; in fact, he's kept me sane.  If it were not for him, I would have probably been committed to the asylum long ago, or wouldn't even be here.  There's been days where I have thought of suicide, but I (and my counselor at the mental health clinic) have been thinking of ways to help me not to take that route.  It's a daily battle, but I know I will make it with the help of friends, family, even God.

I think God gave us little Stefan as a way to help me cope, heal, eventually forgive. 

I have a long way to go before I'm up to forgiving the terrorists, but I think I'm on my way.  All I have to do is look on the beautfiul face of my little boy because he's living proof that life can (and does) go on, even after incredible disasters or heartbreak.

I know I will be a basketcase come Thursday, but I will make it.  Just keep me in your prayers; I really need them as I once again deal with the pains/memories of that Black Tuesday day!

God bless America again, and please remember why we must observe the horrors of that day! 

~M'Kaya. :( >tears!<