I can swear the subway train conductor sounded like Ray Nagin.
A week before the anniversary of my unexpected evacuation, I pick up the keys to my new residence. In a week, it will be a year since I picked all I could in my friend’s truck and left for my parents two and a half hours away. The trip took us over eleven hours. I wonder where are all those people who shared the highway with us are? I’m in a different place, both physically, emotional and spiritual. What has happen to them? My goal is to lessen my wonder and move on. To look at me and where I am. I have to put it behind my mind to forget. At least for the time being. I must get over the guilt.
I’ve tried to stop telling people I ‘m from New Orleans. I just say south Louisiana. But they look at me wanting more. I end up having to say “New Orleans.” Then they ask if I was in “all that mess?” I response, “I’m one of those people. But I don’t want to talk about it.” Most understand, some look at me like I’m rude and then others just can’t seem to get that I don’t want to talk about it. For those who persist, I talk. But end the conversation with, “now I will be depress for days.” They say “sorry.” The truth is that I will most likely drink a little too much that night and cry. Survivor’s guilt is a bitch.
I can’t read about it. I’m interested. But I know it put me in a depressive state. I can’t image want people in New Orleans go through day end and out have to hear it on the local news constantly. I hear from friends that the stores still are having problems getting employees. The lines to getting basic things are still long.
All I can think about is that I would of been in the Super Dome if I didn’t have surgery the Friday before the hurricane. How much more of a mess I would be if I would have been called to work the hurricane? I can only image. Survivor’s guilt sucks. Posttraumatic stress disorder isn’t any better. But I do have hope. As much as I’ve been through with Katrina, I am better off. Even better off than before the disaster.
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