I seemed to think that I was doing well. I seemed to think that I had put
perspective on the unfathomable events of 9/11. I seemed to think all of
the destruction and devastation had been moved to a place in my heart that
was safe and unable to evoke the kind of horror and fear and outrage that I
felt this time last year. I seemed to think that I could learn to understand
the why's, the how's and the what's of this situation, just like I had with
every other bad thing that has happened in my life.

I seemed to think it, but I was wrong.

I had my first panic attack in months the night before the anniversary. I
felt an unshakable terror that made me break out in a sweat, made my heart
race out of control and made my breath catch in my lungs. I could see the
scene in my mind so clearly and even worse I could smell it and taste it and
feel the dust on my skin. I could close my eyes and force the images out of
my head, but I could not escape the feel of it, the sound of it, the smell
of it, the taste of it.

So I stopped and let all of the tragedy wash over me, and I cried. It was
only the second time I had really cried since last year. And I thought that
I would wash myself away in my own tears because once I let them start, I
could not contain or control them. I cried until I hurt, until I was too
exhausted to do anything else, until I let go of the sense of helplessness.
I lost four co-workers and eight friends. I used to be a firefighter so
every one who lost their life was like a brother and I had never really
mourned for them. I never once said good-bye to each friend individually. I
had been mourning collectively, but on this anniversary, what made me cry
was me mourning them individually.

That morning I made twelve phone calls, one for each friend and co-worker
lost. I called to let their mothers/fathers/wives/husbands/loved ones know
that the memory of their loved one lingered on. That I had not forgotten,
that I still loved them even though they were gone, that I was forever
changed by their absence, that 365 days wasn't nearly enough time to
understand the depth of their loss.

And then I did something that I never do, I went to church. I don't believe
in religion, but there is something very comforting about a church. I prayed
that I would find solace and that somehow I would be able to put one foot in
front of the other and survive the day. Last year, as I left ground zero, I
went to St. Pat's cathedral to light a candle and pray. And I wondered, as I
sat there remembering how I felt at ground zero when all I could do was
pray, if anyone was listening. In a moment of strange epiphany, I believed
the answer was yes.

Now, I realize the answer is yes because my whole world has changed.

I went home a few weeks ago for the first time in nearly three years. I went
home because my grandmother had a stroke and wasn't expected to live. I was
scared and went home with the weight of the world on my shoulders,
determined to make some sort of peace with my estranged family. I
accomplished a few of the things I set out to do while I was there. I sat
for an entire day with my grandmother and told her about my life, every
single detail. I told her that I was sorry I didn't know her better but I
still loved her and then I said good-bye. I sat with my mother and my sister
and we laughed like there wasn't a world of difference between us, like we
had never argued or neglected one another. I described in detail to them how
I was finally truly happy with myself.

There were a lot of things that I didn't accomplish that I set out to do
while I was there. I didn't tell my family I was a lesbian. I didn't break
through my mother's tough exterior and find a place where I could really
make a connection. I didn't raise my voice once while I was there, but I
didn't spout words of love and affection either.

So today I called home to confirm my sister's wedding day, even though I was
just there, spent the weekend with her, and she never mentioned she was
getting married, so I could book my flight. In the process of writing this
article, I began thinking about how my life had changed because of 9/11. I
am a good friend. I am outspoken and opinionated. I am open with my feelings
and don't mind making myself look vulnerable if I let someone know they are
appreciated. I am all of these things to everyone, except my family.
Granted, they live a thousand miles away, but they are of my blood. They
gave me life. I should give them the respect that I give my friends.

So I chatted with my mother about all the mundane things of the world and
then I told her I had to get back to work. I ended the conversation with "I
love you, mom." And the whole world fell silent.

In an instant, my whole dysfunctional relationship with my mother flashed
across the movie screen in my head. All the anger and the resentment and the
fear came flooding out of me. I sat there spiraling out of control for what
felt like an eternity when a voice so low, it was almost a whisper, filled
my ears with "I love you, too."

So one year and one month after September 11th, my world has changed
completely. The one person that I thought I would never really reach, I did.
It's not much. It's only the beginning, but there is nothing I would trade
for the sound of my mother's voice telling me that she loved me. I've waited
30 years to hear it. It was certainly worth it.