10 years ago, two hijacked planes flew into the World Trade Center, one crashed into the Pentagon and one smashed into a field in Pennsylvania. Combined, the four terrorist attacks resulted in over 6,500 injuries and 3,000 deaths. Despite such a tragic loss in life, I at the time did not give a flying hoot.
I was a rebellious, outcast and immature teenager who was so lost and disillusioned with life that, if anything, I envied those who died. I figured it was better to die after having lived what I perceived was a normal life than to be forced to keep living what I thought was a pitiful existence.
A decade has passed since that doleful event, and though I have grown by leaps and bounds, I still find great difficulty empathizing with those who suffered so grievously that day. It is not that I am without sympathy or empathy; it is that as a man with Asperger Syndrome, connecting with others is and always has been a difficulty.
The irony is that I cry inside when I read an article about an individual who died as per a homicide or an accident. Looking at the person’s face and envisioning all he or she brought to this world makes me very sad. But when I think about 9/11, all I see are lifeless statistics.
That, however, is not the case when I stare at pictures of 9/11 victims falling to their death. Just the idea that men and women would voluntarily jump to their deaths astounds me. And more than that, it brings their individual experiences to life.
It makes me wonder how I would react to knowing that I was about to die, to knowing that my life was about to be permanently extinguished? The very thought fills me with absolute horror. It is like the fear I experience when riding my bike on a road without sidewalks, except 1000 times worse.
Admittedly, the empathy I feel inside from looking at these pictures is lacking in comparison to the empathy it likely stirs in the average man or woman. But still, it gives me at least something — a tether, if you will — by which to comprehend what occurred.
These are very painful pictures to behold, but I believe that embracing this sensation of pain is the first step to discovering the meaning of empathy. It is one thing to empathize with a TV show character or someone on the news, but it is another thing altogether to empathize with millions and millions of people . . .
Thousands who died on 9/11.
Tens and thousands who are related to those who died on 9/11.
Hundreds of thousands who knew somebody who passed on 9/11.
And millions upon millions whose innocence was forever blemished on 9/11.
I do not know how to connect with these people, but I hope that one day I find a way.
R.I.P. ; God Bless America