Six years ago, after a large jet plane flew by my dorm room window, I heard it hit a building. It sounded like someone punching a pillow right next to your head, though the actual event happened about 10 blocks south of my room. In shock, I called my mother to let her know I was okay, packed some clothes to take north with me, and told my roommates what had happened outside our window. I walked to the NYU campus with a friend and decided to go to class-- surely, I thought, our professors would know what to do.
My class was Introduction to Modern Dance, and with the sun shining through the huge studio windows and the professor in the middle of barre exercises, it seemed as though nothing was wrong. Most of the other students had arrived in class before news or witness of the event could reach them, and I didn't know what to do. To avoid sobbing and drawing attention to myself, or leaving with nowhere to go and nothing to face but the unfolding events, I joined the class, still wondering if I had dreamt the whole thing. When we moved to the floor to stretch, I let the tears run straight back, feeling more alone than I ever have since.
Though today is a Tuesday like it was in 2001, the day couldn't feel more different. I try not to dwell on my memories too much, partially to prevent recurrences of my PTSD, but also to appreciate all of the good that has happened to me since. I woke up to rain, determined to have a relaxing morning, when I realized that I wanted to revisit that morning, to repeat my actions and live them in a healthier way.
I went to a yoga class that started and ended at the same time as my dance class six years ago. I arrived early and talked to the teacher about my experiences, and together we thought of ways to deal with the memories during practice. As a class, we shared, breathed and smiled.
Instead of leaving to face the newly empty sky outside, I left class feeling full and healed.
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