Scars

Approximately 56 million people die a year. Kind of a morbid way to start a story, but it’s a crazy thing to think about. Granted that’s a relatively small number compared to the overall population in the world, but 56 million is still a high enough number to the point where the human brain really can’t comprehend how much that really is. You probably haven’t even met a million people in your lifetime. Now imagine everyone you ever knew disappeared… and so did 55 million other people. That’s a lot isn’t it.

I bring this point up to show how desensitized I feel we’ve become today; we constantly hear on the news about all these senseless tragedies taking place constantly; shootings, bombings, even wars as of late. I feel it’s easy to feel sad about these tragedies in the moment then move on, and I wouldn’t look at anyone differently for doing that, I do it as well, I honestly think it’s natural, how else are supposed to cope with the evil that exists within the world, that exists within us. We constantly hear statistics like the ones mentioned above and I think we often forget the value of a life … until our life is threatened, or there’s a risk we may lose someone we love.

This brings me to a day that would change my life forever, 10 years and 180 days ago, April 15th, 2013. The day that is still making me ask these questions now.

Two bombs detonated about 210 yards apart at the finish line on Boylston Street near Copley Square. The first exploded outside Marathon Sports at 671–673 Boylston Street at 2:49:43 pm. At the time of the first explosion, the race clock at the finish line showed 04:09:43 — the elapsed time since the wave three start at 10:40 a.m. The second detonated at 2:49:59 pm. I can’t remember if I heard both bombs, I think they kind of blended together due to how close in time they went off, but they were loud. I remember thinking it was an earthquake.

I was probably a foot and a half shorter than I am now. I looked out into the main hallway of the mall I was in, and I remember seeing everyone stop to take in what we thought was happening, pick up the pace and then start running, which all happened in a matter of seconds. Everyone knew there was a serious danger, we just didn’t know what. I remember that image very vividly.

I remember my mom’s friend who talked to the waiter who told us there was an exit through the kitchen of the restaurant we were staying in, us running through the back where I could barely see over the counter tops, getting outside and being disoriented by everything happening. I was far away enough from the race line where fortunately I didn’t see anything disturbing, but I still remember everyone running and being lost; I still thought it was an earthquake. I remember getting into the car, my parents and grandparents assuring me everything was fine and putting a movie on the back of our minivan, so I’d be distracted. I remember we did one last double check to make sure we had everyone and then speeded out. I remember my Mom running a red light because the traffic was unreal… and we were afraid. I remember getting out of the city and getting lost in whatever I was watching and then looking out at the city; it looked amazing from the highway we were on as it was starting to get to that golden hour, I couldn’t see the smoke from where we were at… but I still knew something was wrong.

I remember stopping at that Starbucks on the side of the highway and all the adults going on their phones looking for any news they could find, where once again I was reassured, everything was fine. I remember finally getting home where two of my friends were waiting for me… but I wasn’t in the mood to play. I remember days later seeing the faces of the three people who died in the news. I remember my Mom sitting me down to explain what happened, I remember hearing my Dad breakdown which is still to this day something I’ve only ever seen once.

Memory has an interesting way of twisting things around and rearranging little details, I’ve had to accept this may’ve happened to me too with this memory, especially as it’s one I’ve learned to think about often. Despite that, for most of my years in primary school I just tried to keep my memories of the Boston Marathon bombing in the past. I didn’t like to tell people about it, and I really didn’t know why. Even when I got a temporary therapist late in middle school, I didn’t bring it up to them. It honestly didn’t seem relevant to me at the time, I just kind of felt weird talking about it. Even when people I knew would make offensive jokes about it, I just laughed and went along with it because in the moment for some reason it genuinely felt funny, but I would always feel weird about it after. I did end up seeing my Dad race Boston again a few years later and I remember on the car ride up a family friend of mine made a bomb related joke meaning no harm and I laughed at it, only for his Mom to then chew him out right in front of me. I remember feeling incredibly weird about it in that moment, I think looking back at it I just didn’t want to be viewed as a victim. I think, honestly a part of me still feels that way now. I know he didn’t mean any harm and it didn’t really disturb me, but it made me feel weird in a way I couldn’t explain. I was already moving through middle and high school as a kid with ADHD and I wanted to fit in with the crowd as much as possible… which I think I succeeded at for better or worse.

It was only a little less than a year ago when upon so much needed introspection I started to realize how much this event had an impact on me. I honestly felt like I was going through the stages of grief a little as I kind of had a hard time accepting that. I didn’t see anything disturbing so how could being present during that world changing event have an impact on me? Only people who have seen horrific things can have traumatic experiences, I don’t want to disrespect people who actually have real trauma if I’m not diagnosed. If this event traumatized me, am I not man enough? People have been through far worse. It happened ten years ago, why am I having panic attacks now? Why is it when I drink now, I get in my head about this? Why have I been having nightmares about losing loved ones for years? Why do I self-sabotage and cut people off? Why am I overly protective? Why is my anxiety so bad sometimes? Why do I always fear the worst? Why do I feel numb? Why have I been putting off writing about this? What if I died that day? What if my parents died that day?

These were all questions I was and still are wrestling with… though with the help of family and friends though I think I have better answers now. Maybe not complete, but better ones. It’s possible not all these questions have answers in reflecting on how that day affected me… but I think I’ve found some links.

There’s one important aspect of this story I’ve been skipping over for now and that’s the reason why I was in Boston in the first place that day, the one light that existed that day, that I think looking back at it kind of saved me. I was there to see my Dad run. He’s been running for as long as I can remember, he cancelled his gym membership when I was born so he could save on money and got back into running. Ever since I was kid, I’ve been blown away by the times and mileage he’s been able to put in.

When I saw the images of the victims on the news, I really didn’t know how to process it, a kid my age died. That didn’t seem possible, a terrorist attack of that scale didn’t seem possible, I think that’s partly why I assumed it was something more fantastical for as long as I did like an earthquake. I saw the faces of the two bombers on the news and for the first time in my life I’d felt anger like I’d never had before. A bit of my innocence died that day… and hearing my Dad breakdown didn’t help, and I don’t mean to shame him by saying that. It was just something that never happened. I think his authenticity helped me take in the reality of what happened. What helped me to channel all that confusion, sadness and rage into something worthwhile was when he went back the next year like nothing happened, and then the next year, and the next year, and the next year, to now where he’s run Boston over ten times.

I bring all of this up to say that there’s zero doubt in my mind this day left some scars on me, ones that’ll probably never fully go away. What I’ve found and learned the hard way before is that these scars could destroy me, and I think the way to counter that is instead of giving into misery and vitriol, is to go out, help and connect with people. I’ve found I often feel better when I’m reading stories about other survivors, people who were dealt a shitty hand and still made the most out of it, instead of getting lost in the minutia of the motives of the bombers or watching clips of the bombs going off. People like Jeff Bauman who after losing both legs from the bombs would go on to be an incredibly successful writer and motivational speaker or Robert Wheeler who risked his own life to tend to those injured at the finish line, using his shirt as tourniquet.

Pictured above: Jeff Bauman with his wife, celebrating her finish at the 120th Boston Marathon three years after the bombing.

Pictured above: Robert Wheeler

Getting lost in what I could’ve done would drive me mad and my time would be better spent getting lost in what I’m passionate about, what makes me feel alive. I know now spreading love and living life serves to help combat the message the bombers were fighting for; giving into vitriol wouldn’t accomplish that. That’s partly where I get my motivation to run and stay fit from, so I can aspire to something greater than what they did.

It’s become a meme in certain sects of the internet to clown on the Boston Strong message because it gets associated with obnoxious drunk Boston sports fans which is fair enough, but I think that original message has been lost somewhat and I hope it comes back. It inspires me and I’m sure I’m not the only one. People like my Dad inspired me on that day, my passion for running and fitness probably wouldn’t be where it’s at now without them and I’d probably be in a much darker place.

I used to think I was unique because of all this, but I almost look back at myself as being ignorant for thinking that way. I’ve learned as I’ve grown older most people have scars; they’re just usually good at hiding them. Because of this jaded way of thinking, I didn’t like telling people about this, even close friends and family, because I didn’t want to throw my burden on them. I now know that I need to rely on those closest to me, and I will share their burdens, as they share mine. I will live and love.

At the beginning of this story, I posed the possibility that we inherently don’t understand the value of a life or at least we struggle too. I still don’t think I fully do, what I think matters now… is that I have a greater appreciation for it and in terms of how much specific value it has… more than we know.

Photo taken the day of the bombing.

Photo taken about a year and a half ago.