Mood: Roller coaster-ish.
Music: They Might be Giants, I Palindrome I
Mind: Two migraines this week. Feel drained.

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Note: I cut out the first 1/3 of this post, which was on another topic. I think this is much more important.
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Speaking of Sept. 11 ... I'm hoping I'll have a job by then (at least a short-term stint in a bookstore or something until the real deal comes along). If I don't, I want to spend the anniversary of the WTC bombing volunteering for the United Way Day of Caring. More details are available at Volunteer Memphis. In short, volunteers are meeting at the Mid South Coliseum at 8 a.m. and will depart at 9 a.m. to work at various community projects. There will be several projects to choose from. The contact for the event is Greg Broy at 901-543-5765.

I think one of the main reasons I want to volunteer is that I remember the details of last September 11 so vividly. I woke up in my dorm room at The University of Memphis around the time the first tower of the World Trade Center was hit. I had a habit of keeping my TV on Fox News in the morning, and I was glued to it. I remember thinking it was a terrible accident, but nothing more. At the time, it never crossed my mind that it was a terrorist attack. Heck, it didn't cross my mind that the second tower would be hit or that (God forbid!) the towers would implode.

Mom called me within two minutes of me waking up. She sounded so ... concerned. Her voice was stable, but strained. I won't ever forget the way she sounded. Yes, I had the television on. Yes, I was going to get up to the office.

I had just gotten out of the shower when the second tower was hit. There was live video feed of that. My throat constricted. What was going on? I put in a call to Rick, the managing editor at the college daily where I was editor in chief. I usually worked afternoons until late night, but I was on my way in.

By the time I got there, most of the reporters had been mobilized. The rest huddled around the television with me, the general manager Candy, and the advertising director Bob. I cried, but only behind the closed door of my office. I didn't have any Kleenex, so I used a napkin. I only allowed about 15 minutes to myself, then I bucked up and got back to work. I don't grieve well, a problem which I should probably address at some point in my life.

I skipped all my classes, I huddled over the AP news wire, I watched the body count estimates vary between a few hundred and over 10,000. It was the beginning of a very long year.

For months, I set my clock to news briefings. I became amazed at the way Ari Fleischer held up under fire. I often held back a laugh at stodgy Donald Rumsfeld. Then there were the correspondents. Even Geraldo Rivera got in on the act.

It was a hard year to be in news. My disillusionment started before then, but it was really amplified by the day-to-day developments of war and terrorism and a thousand other terrible things. I never, ever had time to just sit back and cry. I admonished myself to be objective. I ached inside, and the doctors doubled my dose of my antidepressant and anti-anxiety medications.

I did cry, just twice. The first time happened when Wall Street Journal correspondent Daniel Pearl was announced dead, several weeks after he was kidnapped while on assignment. Reports on the news were kind. They described his death as "tortured," but said little else. I happened to see the footage of his execution. It certainly won't ever make it to television, but can probably still be found on a few of the seedier sites on the Internet. In any case, when I saw the video of Pearl being decapitated, I cried again. There's a certain amount of unspoken resignation-cum-strength in news circles. And there's a certain amount of sympathy for each other. And maybe that's why I broke down and wept. But I think part of it was sheer terror. War isn't pretty.

Well, that's the short version of my memories of September 11 and the year that followed. As the first anniversary of that tragedy approaches, I've distanced myself from hard news. I wasn't cut out for a job where I must always keep my distance and treat everything as suspect. It feels so sterile -- even though one must question everyone and everything, it must be accomplished while wearing rubber gloves. We are to trust our gut, but leave our heart out of it. And without putting too fine a point on it, that is an overwhelming, daunting task.

Even though this feeling has followed me for about a year and a half, it wasn't until a couple of months ago that I became aware I was not alone. And a lot of journalists have it worse than me. I see a lot and I hear a lot (that happens in a newsroom), but I haven't been a reporter in a very long time. I cry because of lost principles. For over three years, I sat behind a desk, assigning stories, reading copy, and slowly but surely realizing that humanity isn't human anymore.

A number of journalists have experienced an even greater trauma. It goes far beyond distancing yourself from news and hiding in an office behind a desk. And there's a great resource for these journalists now called Newscoverage Unlimited. It can be found on the Internet at http://www.newscoverage.org. Newscoverage Unlimited has paired with the National Press Photographers Association and the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma to inform journalists about traumatic stress stemming from their work.

Please visit Newscoverage Unlimited online. Consider giving them a little money. It helps to (1.) continue their research, and (2.) continue to offer services to journalists with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Also, if you would like to e-mail me with your memories of the past year, I'm planning to post a memorium in the next week or so. Please send an e-mail to me at kate@katesink.com. Remember the adage that every new reporter learns in training: Everyone has a story. Yes, everyone. Want proof? Read about David Johnson, a columnist from Idaho.

Phew. I've said plenty tonight. I'm going to make a cup of tea to calm my nerves, then slip into bed. Nighty-night, World.