April 15, 2013
4:28 PM
Avani Patel: "My friends and I are safe, but I can't stop shaking. At the thought of Twenty-two injuries and Two deaths, Twenty minutes down the road. At the thought of Sick minds who Stole Sweet victories from So many runners. At the thought of Families Fleeing, Friends unFound, and Faces draped in blood. I shake for you. I shake for all of you."
I am probably not the only person who had Mark Zuckerberg (indirectly) tell her about the Boston Marathon Bombings. I did not get a frantic call, or see it on the news, or experience it firsthand. Instead, I stumbled on a piece of information that, at the time, I thought was a hip-hop lyric suddenly trending on Facebook. “Bombs heard at the finish line.” I read it and continued to scroll. That’s weird. Amidst my scan, I read the same words in a different, more urgent sequence. Still, the word “bomb” was so far removed from my current locale that I assumed it was a false alarm.
I cannot offer much detail on what happened. These days were a blur, intentionally so, as my mind refuses to recount the specific sequence of events. In snippets, I can remember:
The realization that there were, in fact, bombs at the marathon
Sweaty palms
The frantic calls to those I knew were there
Shortness of breath
The frantic texts to those I knew were not
Light-headedness
The computer screen filled with words meant to provoke
Tears
The calls received to make sure I was safe
Quickening breath
The unanswered calls
Quickening breath
Realizing I was alone
Quickening breath
Voicemail machines
Quickening breath
Quickening breath
Quickening breath
The subsequent silence induced by the Watertown lockdown did not cure my hysteria. A fat baby tried to soothe me on a 5 AM FaceTime call, but my sleepless eyes would offer nothing but tears. The victorious Tsarnaev find was met with celebrations, but bid adieu with quickening breaths.
***
Today, I did not read any stories recounting the marathon. I did not watch the live feeds at the memorial site. Today, I did not want to feel. What I did not know was that from April 15th to April 19th, I had experienced my first series of anxiety attacks, which were triggered again in the months to follow. Initially, I had rejected this notion. Who was I to think anything I’ve ever, or ever would, experience could qualify as an “attack”? Who was I to think that I was allowed to be scared, or angry, or to feel anything at all?
It is not until today, one year later, that I realize that pain is not exclusive – it is not something you are “entitled” to, or something that you can choose to tap into. Sometimes, we cannot choose what affects us – we are affected beyond intent or reason, but what matters is what we do with it.
There will always be a pang felt head to toe when April 15th is brought up in passing. There will always be a part of me that pushes this day into a box because I know what is underneath the lid. There will always be a reaction when I go back to that day, and that will not change. What can change is, upon looking back, how I move forward.
So today, along with the rest of the nation, I will finally recognize what happened on that day. But I will take another step towards my own personal finish line. Towards change, towards strength, towards victory.
