9/11 – Never the Same

September 11 has ALWAYS been special to me.  Always.  It hasn’t been until the last decade or so that people started taking an interest in the day of my birth.

Most people couldn’t remember 9/11 before “9/11” but now?  They don’t seem to forget it.  And the odd looks I get when I say my birthday is September 11.  Didn’t used to be that way.

I used to say the terrorists lit up two big ol’ candles for me – and forgot to invite me to the celebration.  I was at work that day – everything did not stop, but the airplanes did.

That’s one of the things I’ll always recall about the days following 9/11 – how quiet the skies were.  There wasn’t an airplane to be found – except for the occasional fighter jets scooting across the sky (little knowing their enemy lay thousands and thousands of miles away).

I found it wonderful; that silence.  It was good.  But the reasons were wrong.

We’ve already ‘celebrated’ my birthday.  It went like this:

Friday I cleaned house for the guests.  Saturday I finished cleaning the house and mowed the yard.
Sunday I cooked all day, and the party was held.  This was on the insistence of my family, who insisted we have our birthday early so everyone could attend.

In ‘my’ day your birthday was held on the day it was on, not before and not after.  If you had to go to work or school that day – too bad.  You had your cake at night was all.

This birthday I got my wish: no birthday at all – unless you count the one my brother-in-law gave me.

He took a short step off a tall building – somewhere down in Houston.

I feel about as bad about him as I do a butterfly falling down dead in my yard.

He fell to his death, too – deliberately and voluntarily.  From what I understand he had been depressed lately.  He hadn’t turned out rich and famous the way his (chinese) wife had wanted him – harangued and bitterly tongue-lashed him – for years to be.

I won’t knock the Chinese too hard, but my brother has dated many of these oriental women (imports) and they are all about the same: insane bitches who get mad when they find the streets aren’t paved with gold, and their husband’s aren’t the rich guys they were hoping for.

He got his (peace) and she got hers (desperation and poverty) in the end, I reckon.

She, like so many others, drove him in his grave – left him, deposited him, and went away.  Currently seeking some new prey, no doubt.  They always are.

My other gift to myself was . . . bullshit.  Nothing.

I am taking a vacation this weekend; however, it’s not for me, it’s for my wife.

She deserves a break today.

Other than that . . . .


9/11 . . .

same ol’ day it’s always been . . .

for the past fifty some odd years.



About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004T3IVKK ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( http://www.amazon.com/Boy-J-W/dp/1461022681). JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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