Well, it finally happened: last night I had my first real nightmare about last September 11, complete with traumatized firefighters and dark, empty streets filled with dust.

This surprised me because I thought I had done a really good job of ignoring all things September 11-related in the past week or so. I made the decision quite a while ago to avoid the one-year "anniversary" hype at all costs. Starting last month, the New York Times headlines told me all I needed to know: television channels jockeying for "exclusive rights"; heart-rending interviews and stirring stories; minute-by-minute recounts of exactly what happened on that fateful day; spectacular footage (never before seen!) of the planes and the towers and the people and the dust, over and over and over again…

I don’t need any of this, not now. Maybe some people do, and that’s fine. Everyone deals with traumatic events in their own way, and if others find the endless retrospectives comforting or cathartic, then I hope they are able to find some relief this September 11.

But for my part, September 11, 2001 seems like just yesterday. The images I saw and the feelings I felt that day are burned indelibly into my mind and heart. I haven’t forgotten a single thing about that day. From the moment I first had an inkling that something terrible had happened, to the days that followed when I sat like a zombie, wondering where it all went to from here…it’s all as clear to me as if it just happened. So I guess it’s just too soon for me to feel comfortable with a detailed recounting of the events. Who needs the events to be recounted already? Who’s already forgotten what happened?

In the days following September 11, 2001, I couldn’t get enough news. My television was permanently tuned to BBC News 24. I snapped up newspapers left and right. I trawled the Internet for images and information. Information was a connection to the world, and personal stories and editorials were a connection to other people in the world who felt the same way I did.

At the same time, I felt the need to keep the rawness of my emotions intact for some reason. I remember thinking that I had to hold on to that feeling of shock and horror so that I could recall it in the future and remind myself (as if I would need reminding) of just how horrible it all was. It was like pressing on a bruise to make sure it still hurt. I didn’t want any of the feelings or the memories to dim or fade away, because then they would seem unreal.

But at some point it all became too much. At some point, after watching those towers collapse a million times, the feeling of sick fascination turned into a feeling of just being sick. I had to start looking away. I didn’t need to see the images anymore, anyway - they were all there in my mind. At some point, I also realized that I didn’t need to hang on to the actual, raw emotions in order to be able to remember how I felt on September 11, 2001. I had to stop pressing on that bruise and get on with things. I would always remember how I felt, long after the actual bruise had faded away.

There’s an interesting theory regarding memory that, if I remember correctly (har har), goes something like this: our most vivid memories are the ones that we go back to over and over again. Memories are like a place that we trek back and forth to, and the more often we visit a particular memory, the deeper the ruts in the track to that memory become.

I’ve gone back to my memories of last September 11 so often that they must have a paved highway leading up to them now. I’m painfully familiar with the path to those memories, and at this point I really don’t want or need some TV show to lead me back to them, to refresh the bruises that have long since healed. Maybe in one or two year’s time I’ll want to watch the documentaries or see the pictures again. But unless some terrible fit of masochism hits me, I think that on September 11, 2002, my television will remain turned off.

Further reading…