Every day is an anniversary. Birthdays, funerals, weddings, divorces.
Tragedies.
There are a few days in every year when we recognise global tragedies, one of them being September 11th.
I am, of course, referring to the attack on the Twin Towers, and I imagine that that too is what came into your mind. But on that same day in 1985, there was a horrific train crash in Portugal, the worst the country has ever seen. In 1990, a Boeing 727 plane disappeared. In 2012, 315 people were killed in factory fires in Pakistan. In 2023, catastrophic floods in Libya caused two dams to collapse, killing over 11,300 people.
Arguably, those tragedies are somewhat forgotten about. They certainly aren’t commemorated or remembered in the same way.
That day will also have personal significance for reasons that don’t make the news. Someone has lost their child on that day. Someone else has been the victim of a serious crime, had their home destroyed, had a life-changing injury.
The world has been around long enough that every day has a tragedy that is more than deserving of global commemoration. But that is a terrible idea.
When huge events occur in our lives, it can feel as if time has stopped. In the days and weeks after, you start to watch everyone else carry on as normal while you are still reeling. It’s gut-wrenching, but it is one of the main reasons why we can eventually heal. The fact that the world keeps spinning, no matter how we feel, is exactly what allows us to move on.
Sometimes you want the world to stop spinning. You want everyone around you to know and understand what has happened, feel your pain in some way and maybe even pay their respects to what you have lost.
I know I did. For some godforsaken reason, I was back at uni the Monday morning after an attempted overdose the weekend prior. I remember my blood boiling watching my peers laugh together at lunch or share cheeky glances during class. I had gone through a hugely traumatic event, something that I will never be able to forget, but everything was exactly the same as it was before.
Other than my flatmates who called 999, I never received one text message asking if I was ok. I don’t know how many people were aware of the situation - it wasn’t exactly information I was sharing publicly - but I was expecting maybe one or two.
In hindsight, it would have made no real difference to how I felt. Perhaps that sounds crazy - after all, it is commonplace to send Get Well Soon cards and flowers to people in similar circumstances to mine, but those offer seconds of comfort. Sympathy is nice, but it doesn’t actually do anything. Hear me out.
Let’s imagine that I did manage to make the world stop, and made sure that nobody around me could carry on as normal whilst I was in so much pain. Imagine that I had a flat full of cards and flowers, and I couldn’t walk into a room without being showered with hugs and tragic smiles.
That would have allowed me to build a home out of tragedy, to find solace in others’ sympathy. I would have relied on being pitied. No, I would have learnt to love it.
I don’t think I ever would have left.
On my worst days, the trauma and the hurt made me feel stuck. It rooted me to the ground while the winds of time flew by. Even the simplest parts of my everyday life - getting out of bed, showering, eating - were running away from me. But watching other people do those things with ease kept the possibility of a more normal life alive in my head. With time, the roots weaken, and parts of you can get caught in the wind. Even if it’s just for a second. Even if it just convinces you to glance in its direction and acknowledge the possibility of living again.
One day, that experience no longer holds you down. The wind can carry you as it carries others. The time passes with ease and without you really noticing. You get out of bed. You brush your teeth. You eat, you see friends, you go to work.
The sun rises and the sun sets. And you keep moving.
The cruelly steadfast nature of time is exactly what makes it a ‘healer’. Without a constant breeze, we would never be unstuck. We would never allow ourselves a life outside of our trauma and our pain. We would never allow ourselves to dream. We would be existing solely in what once was.
We would never imagine, let alone know, what could be.
Others’ ability to get on with life without acknowledging our grief or pain is a blessing, not a curse. It is easy to feel jealous - I know I did - but if I hadn’t been reminded every day of what I had lost in my life, I wouldn’t have tried to get it back.
I had to be reminded of the life I once had so that I knew what I was fighting to get back.
Sure, it will be different, but it would have been different anyway.
Tragedy is the end of a chapter, not the end of the book. It will inform what happens next, but it is not the only major plot point. You will laugh again, you will love again and you will also grieve again.
Whatever happens, time will march onwards, and it will carry you with it. Let it hold you in its hands for a while as you mourn what once was, and let it give you the strength you need to stand on your own again.
Seeing is believing, as they say.
All my love
E xxx