This year marked the 123rd Boston Marathon where over 32,000 runners tested their strength of body and mind as they sped past hundreds of thousands of spectators. “Boston. The marathon that all other marathons are measured by,” as described by the Boston Athletic Association, has captivated the world as the most prestigious road race. But in recent years, the Boston Marathon drew the world’s attention for very different reasons.
It is still difficult for me to believe that six years ago we experienced a horrific incident at our most beloved event in the city of Boston; an event I have enjoyed for almost 30 years since migrating to the U.S. The first time I watched the Boston Marathon live was with my dad back in 1990. We perched ourselves on the top steps of a convenience store right in the heart of Kenmore Square to yell and clap for the runners. Over the years I cheered for a few acquaintances and for thousands of unknown runners, especially those from Colombia. But from the time I met Danny, the Boston Marathon took on a new meaning. When we first started dating during the winter of 2008, Danny was training for his second Boston Marathon. Before him, I had never met anyone more dedicated to a sport at this level.
Every Saturday morning, without fail, Danny would leave me sleeping in his warm comfortable bed to join his team for training runs under frigid and wet conditions. I fell in love over the course of that marathon-training winter and on race day, as I stood waiting for him in the cold at around mile 17, I prayed to God that Danny would propose marriage as he ran past me. This was the most romantic thing I could imagine at the time. In the distance I could see him getting closer. Once he reached me, he smiled big, gave me a kiss and kept on running; leaving me behind. He didn’t propose that day. Instead, on the back of his sweat- and rain-drenched jersey read the words “I love you Lorena.”
Seven years ago, on what was one of the hottest marathon days recorded, I cheered for my husband as he ran his third Boston Marathon. With lawn chairs strategically placed near Heartbreak Hill, I had our baby in my arms, my mom by my side, and a few of our close friends jumping in excitement next to me. Danny soon reached us and stopped to hold his baby girl, kiss me, and take a sip of water before rejoining the rest of the exhausted runners under a punishing sun. 
I left our baby girl with my mom and made my way to Boylston Street to watch Danny cross the finish line once again. It was exhilarating! The barricaded streets and the masses of people made it difficult to reach him after he finished the race. It took me a great while to find him but the energy in the air made our encounter that much sweeter.
The next year a few of our friends ran the marathon. We waited for them, again, right before Heartbreak Hill where our good friends who live nearby host their annual marathon watching party. As one of our buddies ran past us, Danny jumped in and ran with him for a few miles as a symbol of solidarity and support during the toughest stretch of the course. Not long after, two bombs were detonated at the finish line. Hundreds of people were injured, 17 were seriously maimed and three were killed. One of our friends had already crossed the finish line and a couple of others were still on the course. None of them were hurt. We heard the devastating news once we got home and immediately tried to reach everyone we knew that had been out there racing or watching on the sidelines. I couldn’t help thinking “this could have been us at the finish line!”
I watched the catastrophic scenes on our big screen TV in complete disbelief. How could something like this have happened in the city where I had found safe haven for so many years? How could the sanctity of my cherished city have been desecrated in such atrocious way? And while I saw the hundreds of fear-torn faces on TV and observed my husband’s own devastation, I was numb. I didn’t feel the same sense of loss, of sorrow. I didn’t suffer in the same way the rest of Boston suffered. Simply put, I was incredulous and couldn’t muster up any other emotion except disbelief.
Boston. The marathon that all other marathons are measured by.
A few days later, we heard helicopters flying above. Loud and constant, they searched for the surviving perpetrator. On the news we were told the search was taking place in Watertown –a mere three and a half miles from our home. The deafening sounds, the news coverage, and the entire development of this story seemed so familiar and yet completely new, completely distant. It was déjà vu. I had already lived this experience in another life; in the life I left behind in Colombia as a child. The thunderous sounds, the fear in people’s eyes, the search parties, and law enforcement mandating people to remain indoors. I had seen this before, only this time it was entirely different. I watched the news as if watching a movie; a movie that keeps you at the edge of your seat but that doesn’t impact you at a deep level because it is just a movie… it isn’t real. I remained detached and I hid my emotionlessness knowing that this was not normal. I was not normal. I confided in my sister and in Danny who were the only ones that could ever understand. I didn’t speak about it to anyone else until the week leading up to the sixth anniversary of the bombing when I brought up the subject during a therapy session.
In analyzing my internal dilemma, my therapist explained about the complexities of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and emotional numbness being just one of its many symptoms. My brain, because it had already experienced significant trauma, disassociated itself from this terrible incident as a way to cope. I simply avoided any type of uncomfortable emotion. Over the last six years I’ve struggled with my lack of emotion and believed myself to be abnormal because of it. I wished that I could feel the same intensity everyone felt about the bombing but I just couldn’t.
The conversation with my therapist opened my eyes to something profound. It allowed me to be more compassionate with myself as I understood my symptoms to be part of the PTSD battle. And then I felt something. I felt anger! I was angry at the perpetrators who not only caused me so much damage in my childhood but who also robbed me as an adult from feeling deeply about a tragedy that hit so close to home. I was angry at the perpetrators of the marathon bombing because they destroyed the sense of security I had come to know and depend on in my adoptive city. And I was angry at the companies who took advantage of Boston’s call for resilience, using the Boston Strong tagline to promote their products and profit from a terrible tragedy.
Even though I still can’t shed a tear about the catastrophic events of April 15, 2013, I’m okay with the anger that has surfaced because I’m finally able to feel something. What’s more, I now see that I am normal. The city and the people that were affected by the bombings have showed tremendous resilience and I, too, have proven to be just as resilient; and together we area STRONG.
What did you feel when you heard about or experienced firsthand the Boston Marathon bombing? Where were you when it happened? Where you running? I’d love to hear your story.
*Main blog post image - Photo Credit: WBUR Elise Amendola/AP