Not even the most talented photographer in the world could recompose this photograph. It is, or rather was, the view of lower Manhattan from the observation deck on the roof of the World Trade Center. My host sister from my junior year in France took this picture for me during her visit in the summer of 1999. I had stayed at the bottom with other friends, thinking that I could visit the top another day. That day never came.

I was on a bus in downtown Washington, DC, on September 11th, when the towers were hit. I arrived at my internship just one block from the White House, and found the entire staff gathered around a tiny black-and-white television, watching the events unfold. One co-worker's husband, who works as a press photographer at the White House, called to inform us of a rumor about an attack on the Pentagon; not a minute later, the breaking news from New York was interrupted by breaking news from Washington. Another co-worker's husband called from his work at the Federal Emergency Management Agency, warning us to prepare for evacuation because of our proximity to the White House. Moments later, building security entered the office, asking us to leave promptly. There was no coaxing needed. We all left the building as quickly as possible without trampling each other.

Thank goodness another co-worker, James, lived near my school, American University, so I wasn't alone on the bus ride back to campus. We still didn't truly realize the extent of what had occurred, but I knew that I did not want to be alone. I tried calling my mother back in New Hampshire, but all of the cell phone circuits were jammed. Only after about 20 minutes and many frustrated tears was I able to explain to my frantic mother that the Pentagon is actually in Virginia, and nowhere near my office or my school. She then informed me that the first tower had collapsed in New York. Between sobs, I passed along the news to James and the rest of the bus passengers. Looking through James' newspaper, we speculated about who could be responsible. I eyed an article about the Afghanistan's Taliban and pointed. "No," came James' flat reply. He turned the page.

Soon, the bus reached AU. I ran across campus, taking a detour through the student center in search of a friendly face. All I found were zombies, staring at the big screen TV in the corner. Fresh tears and anger swelling, I raced to my room. "You're okay!" exclaimed my roommate as I literally fell into her arms in hysterics. "It's ok. It's ok," she tried to calm me, but with little success. False reports of a car bomb outside the State Department brought more confusion and tears. In all of the chaos, we had no idea what could be next. Everyone had to be accounted for. After a few minutes of news, more phone calls were necessary: friends at other downtown internships…friends in New York…family and friends back home. The list kept growing.

I wound up down the hall in a friend's room watching the news all day. There were lots of people in and out of the room, and people were what I needed. I didn't even know many of them, but their simple presence made me feel a little safer, a little more protected. Safety in numbers against a hijacked jetliner…it's amazing what the mind can believe when under stress.

Of course there were no more attacks that day, but that doesn't mean there was no more stress. Many of my friends from AU were scattered about DC at internships, and some couldn't get back to campus right away. After the news of the crash in Pennsylvania, I got a call telling me that a friend's mother was on a flight diverted to Pittsburgh; only hours later did we reach her and confirm her safety. I served as a phone messenger for another friend. The outgoing lines at his university were all busy, so he couldn't call his family, stranded in Illinois. Then an old friend in New York City didn't answer her cell phone for several hours. She finally did, and assured me that she was safe and sound, even if some of her friends' parents weren't.

Once all of my immediate family and friends were accounted for, the exhaustion hit me. Staring at CNN all day had been more draining than I had ever imagined television could be. In the late afternoon, I made my way back to my room and crawled under the covers, escaping it all. I woke later that evening, having just missed President Bush's speech. Still floating in the cloud of disbelief that had surrounded me all day, I again fell victim to CNN until the wee hours of the morning. If I had to be in DC at a time like this, I had to know what was going on.

If Tuesday was the most surreal day of my life, Wednesday was probably a close second. All day long professors cancelled classes, meetings were postponed, and the entire city operated on an "as-is" basis. If people went to work, bosses were appreciative; if they wanted to stay home, that was fine. Out of fear and exhaustion, I called my office and told them I wouldn't be in. My afternoon choir rehearsal was held as normal. Singing was a familiar and comfortable release from all of the built-up tension, although I'm not sure how much work we actually accomplished. I arrived at my evening art history class, and the professor allowed us to choose whether or not we wanted to hold class. No one felt right staying and hearing a three-hour lecture about Egyptian art, so we all went back home to CNN. My final engagement of the evening was another choir rehearsal, where one singer from New York City was conspicuously and understandably absent. By the time I made it to bed Wednesday night, my throat hurt and my nose was running.

On Thursday morning, my alarm went off at seven o'clock as usual, but I felt so awful that I opted for more sleep in lieu of class. I don't like skipping classes, so that made me feel even worse. The next thing I knew, someone was banging on my door. "What?!" I yelled out of a half-conscious stupor. "Evacuate the building!" Having been asleep, I had no idea what might have happened. I tried to keep my imagination in check while I threw on a sweatshirt over my sweatpants and t-shirt and ran outside. The entire university had been evacuated to a parking lot across the street because of two bomb threats, and would not reopen until five o'clock that evening. Wonderful, I thought. I was alone, dirty, sick, and in my pajamas.

I wandered around the lot for a few minutes, and found the same guys I'd hung out with on Tuesday. I gratefully accepted their invitation to go to their off-campus fraternity house, where we again fell victim to the ubiquitous TV news coverage. I felt so miserable, however, that I was just glad to be sitting. When a report about AU's bomb threats scrolled across the screen, we weren't sure whether to be excited at our "fame" or petrified of the gravity of the situation. Noon, the time cited in the bomb threats, came and went, and campus was still standing. They were able to reopen at two-thirty instead of five o'clock. My burning throat and runny nose were more than grateful.

As much as I would have liked to fall right back asleep when I got back to my room, my first priority was to reach US Airways. At the end of August, I had purchased plane tickets to fly home on Friday, September 14th. Convinced that I could will myself to health, and brazenly unconcerned with the risk of flying so soon, I still wanted to go. I needed to go. I needed to get out of DC for the weekend. I confirmed the flight with US Air and called my parents. They had other ideas. I could still come home if I wanted to, but there would be no airplanes in my immediate future. On Friday, the next day, instead of a quick, painless, one-hour flight, I spent 9 hours on a train tracing the eastern seaboard. Luckily, I managed to sleep most of the way.

When I left Washington, I did not have a return ticket. My plan was to stay home to relax and regroup for as long as was necessary, without missing too many commitments in DC. As soon as I got home, my health improved. I saw my parents and several friends, and my spirits rose as my temperature sank, both approaching normalcy. By Sunday, I knew I should be getting back soon, especially since it would take another entire day to do so. I again boarded Amtrak on Monday morning. This time I remained awake for most of the way.

As we approached our stop at Penn Station in New York City, I noticed that the cloud of smog atop the city was a bit thicker than normal. I'd only been to New York a handful of times, but the city had always held an exciting mystique for me: people from literally all over the world coming together around the arts, business, politics, and any other industry imaginable, all on a tiny island. The new, lower skyline I saw stood tribute to the thousands of lives lost. I tried to not think about it, and curled up to catch a bit of sleep.

By late Monday afternoon, I was back in Washington and feeling pretty healthy. The week was over before I knew it. Having missed three classes on Monday, I kept busy between my job, my schoolwork, and my choirs. That weekend, I helped run a 30-hour lock-in for the a cappella group that I co-founded last year. We accomplished a lot in those 30 hours. We played games, discussed logistical issues, sang and ate. One thing we did not do a lot of, however, was sleep. Exhausted from the lock-in, my throat started hurting again on Sunday. Not again, I thought.

Monday morning, I went to my first two classes. When I stood up after the second, I finally understood what people mean when they say they feel like they're going to faint. My fever was rising, my whole body ached, and I felt extremely dizzy and lightheaded. I made it back to my room and crawled right into bed. Again, I felt even worse because I was missing classes. It was during this nap that my fever first graced me with a nightmare about the attacks.

I was in a television studio in a high-rise building in Times Square, looking out the window at the people below on the street. Wind started to pick up outside and the building began to shake. The wind was causing the entire building to sway back and forth. Another building is going to fall, and this time I'm in it, I thought in terror. Indeed, the building did fall. We all lost our balance and scrambled on the floor. Just as the floor dropped out from underneath me, I woke up.

I wasn't so much scared as just confused and disturbed. I told a few friends, but didn't think much of it until I had another the next morning. More of a bad dream than a nightmare, it involved my mother calling me in tears to tell me that she knew two children on one of the planes. In my third and final dream, I boarded a plane, and another passenger turned to me and said, "Did you know that we have a 70 percent chance of getting to our destination?" Stress and fever were obviously not a good combination.

Because of the nightmares, I became hesitant to sleep. I was also eating only about half a meal per day, at most. One particular afternoon, I'm sure I could've been hospitalized for dehydration. All of this, combined with normal flu and cold symptoms, left me essentially bedridden for several days, missing classes, work, rehearsals, and everything else. However, it wasn't the illness that concerned me most, but my lack of motivation to eat, drink, or take medication. I wasn't taking simple measures to help myself get better.

After some long conversations with close friends and family, I decided that health-both physical and mental-had to come first and that meant leaving AU and DC. I needed my support structure and a more familiar, safe, and non-stressful environment in order to get better. The decision to leave was not easy. I must also emphasize that it did not come from out of the blue. I had never been completely happy at AU freshman year, either, and had even seriously considered transferring. I had decided to stay for various reasons, but this time, I needed to leave. I needed to get healthy. My parents drove down and picked me up on the morning of Friday, September 28th. I was so sick that I hadn't even been able to finish packing. They helped me finish up, I turned in my keys, and I was on my way home.

My first few days at home were devoted to resting and recovering. With the love and support of friends and family, I began to eat and sleep normally, and one by one my symptoms disappeared. I soon regained my normal energy level. I began thinking about the future and researching schools in the area where I might transfer. More than anything, I was glad to be home.

About a week after I got back to New Hampshire, I was cleaning off my desk and found a stack of photos from the summer of 1999. I had just returned from my yearlong exchange program in France, and Delphine, my host sister, was visiting us for a month. I smiled, remembering the fun-filled trips to the Maine and Rhode Island coasts, innocently captured on film before my eyes. Then I saw the final photo: the photo she took for me from the top of the World Trade Center during a weekend trip to New York. I stared at it silently. As my shock faded into sadness, I placed it on my desk where it is constantly visible. It remains there today.

The photo now stands as a symbol for me. It is a symbol of my personal strength. Because of its photographer, it reminds me that I survived a daring adventure across the Atlantic at only sixteen years old. Because of its subject, it reminds me of the reason, or perhaps simply the catalyst, for my difficult decision to leave my daring adventure at American University in Washington, DC. My true strength was recognizing that I wasn't happy with the route my education and my life were taking, and fixing the situation. I was, and am, proud of myself for that.

--Bethany Simons
October 18, 2001
Comments and questions are welcome.