September 11th, 2001 is one of those days where you remember where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. Or I should say, most people remember. I don't.
September 11th, 2001 fell into the period of recuperation after my psychotic break. I was still transitioning back into reality, and I was going through a period where I was sleeping all the time. My parents got me out of bed, I went and looked at the television, but I couldn't process what had happened. I went back to bed. It was just another day in an interminable chain of days. I'm normally a very compassionate and sensitive person, so the fact that I had no reaction to the tragedy really speaks to how "not myself" I was.
In the play that I'm working on right now, my main character, Sophie, is wrestling with the question of whether or not to take her pills for her bipolar disorder. She's an artist, and she feels that the pills dull her reality and creativity. They make her "not herself." Her brother, Jack, argues that when she doesn't take her pills, she's also not herself. There's no solution.
I've come so far from where I was nine years ago. I'm finally starting the after-school arts program I've been dreaming of for years. I have a house. I have a job (and sometimes three or four). I'm responsible for two animals. There was a moment that I remember from that period after my psychotic break when the therapist said it was most likely that I'd never live on my own, never be able to hold down a job, never be able to fend for myself. I remember hearing that and saying "No. That's not true. Not me."
As a writer, sometimes, yes, I feel like I could be more creative, and in fact was more creative before I was diagnosed and had to start taking medication. But I was also a loose cannon. It's not always easy. There's not always a great option. But when I think back to my emotional numbness in the face of a national tragedy, I know which choice I've made for myself.