Seventeen years. It has been seventeen years since the attack on the twin towers in New York City.
A doctor recently told me that no wound stays open, it eventually has to close. He declared humorously, he didn’t know of a person walking around with a ten year old open wound.
Yet, I think that a wound like this always remains open.
I am fourteen years old. I wasn’t even born during 9/11. For the longest time, I didn’t even know what it was.
But when I was twelve years old, I began studying it in school. And I realized how big of a problem it was, that I didn’t know for all that time. How many other kids were walking on this earth, unaware of the horror? I knew I had to do something, but what? I was just a kid. I couldn’t make a difference. But I felt that it was my duty to do something. I still feel that it is my duty, not my thought or convenience, but my duty, to show kids who don’t know their real history, what really happened. Through the eyes of a girl who was there.
Alaina Jackson is thirteen years old, and was in 9/11. She was visiting the World Trade Center for a school report. She didn’t care that several other children were there doing the same thing, she was just excited to be there. Then she heard the screams of terror. A plane was headed towards the tower. She was in the tower when the plane connected. Her father was able to get her out, and had just enough time to tell her he loved her before running back into the building to help his wife lift a beam off another child. The child made it out before a second plane hit and the buildings shifted, and dropped billions of pounds on Isaac and Isabella Jackson. And their daughter, Lane was there.
Of course, these people were not real. But they are real to me. And there are real victims out there. There are real heroes out there.
Not being born yet, it was difficult to write about. I had to study, and dig, and (as much as it disgusts and pains me to say it) watch the videos. I saw people jumping from the buildings, the planes hitting, and the people on the streets, both the wounded and the hurting, as well as the heroes who were helping get as many people as possible out.
After writing several flashbacks and nightmares into my story (I was about halfway through), I stopped and took a break. I wasn’t even sure if I would finish. But I would soon realize, I didn’t have a choice.
I began having similar problems as my character. Nightmares, unexplained flashbacks, and panic attacks. I had a month filled with these problems before understanding that something could be done about it. I could finish my book. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. And once I finished, my problems diminished.
But the wound still stays. And today, it was reopened.
Today, we honor our heroes, our victims, and their families. We honor America, as we all lost something very dear.
Today, tears will be shed, as it is a day of mourning. But tomorrow, we look to the light, having hope for the future.
Please help me raise awareness of PTSD, and the real problems that kids these days don’t understand. Please help me remember.