This past weekend, I worked one of the most fun weekends I've ever worked, leading up to the Boston Marathon. My coworkers and I were right in the thick of the action on Boylston Street and in Copley Square, interacting with runners and their families for 10 hours a day, taking photos, wishing them luck on their runs. I love the photos I have from that weekend, even if I can't look at them right now. I was beyond excited to celebrate my first Marathon Monday as an official citizen of the Greater Boston Area; leading up to this, I had always lived vicariously through the crowds by watching the news either as a teenager in Southeastern MA or as a New Yorker desperately missing Boston and New England. I went to bed exhausted from a long weekend but excited to wake up and cheer some of those runners we had met as they crossed the finish line, mingle with business owners I had gotten to know, run into new or old friends if they were there...It was going to be a wonderful day.
Monday I experienced a domino effect morning that kept me from getting to the Marathon when I had planned to. First I slept past my alarm, then I noticed we were out of toilet paper so I ran to CVS to get some, which turned into grocery shopping and getting cleaning supplies, which turned into an impromptu apartment cleaning, and then I hopped in the shower to get ready to leave. I got out of the shower around 2:30 and got some lunch, prepping to throw on whatever was lying around and try to convince my roommates to accompany me to the Pru, or maybe near the Thai restaurant that is my favorite in the city - a quarter block from Marathon Sports - so we could cheer on the runners that weren't the "elite", but were still amazing for finishing such a challenging course. I was mildly cranky with myself that I had fallen behind schedule and hoped I could be there by 3:30 latest.
I went to my room to change and saw all of these texts asking if I was alright. Saw the words "Explosion" and "Marathon". I barreled out of my room, almost knocking my roommate over in the process, and turned on the news.
That's when I saw what the rest of the world was seeing. I don't remember much except for the fact that after a long time I decided I should probably put on real clothes instead of being wrapped in a bath towel, staring at the screen, if we were all going to be sitting together and watching this unfold.
I imagine that my experience after that is similar to what many Bostonians went through. The shock, frantically texting friends and family to not only make sure they were okay but to assure them that we were, gathering with friends, roommates, significant others and family in front of TVs and trying to process the fact that something so horrible happened in our city. Most of us made the mistake of going on social media and realized that the same friends who are so quick to post rapidfire memes would also be the first ones to share photos of the carnage, usually with some false information attached. I don't know what I was looking for on Facebook, but I didn't find it there. That night I fell asleep on our couch watching the news, which was a stupid idea that led to a series of nightmares that I finally gave up on sleeping through around 2. That's when I started to realize that the shock of the event was wearing off and something else was bubbling up inside of me.
I'm going to put it as frankly as I can: I'm a f***ing mess right now. I can't eat. I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time. I keep having these dreams where I'm in that spot, the spot I would have been in had we worked one more day and the spot I would have tried to be in had a series of delays not kept me from there, and the people I met this weekend are the ones on the ground. Or my boyfriend. Or my friends, or most horrifyingly, my family. And I can't do anything. I feel as powerless as I felt on Monday afternoon.
And the crying? Dear God. I'm falling apart. It's like this wave keeps crashing down on me and I can't fight it or get away from it, so I just let the grief and emotions I feel for this city, these victims, and their loved ones take over. It's so scary not to be in control of your emotions or know when a crying spell is going to pop up I can't do any of the things I usually do to feel good: yoga, singing, being with friends, because all of those seem to trigger these spells. That's how it's been for me since 2am Tuesday morning, and I'm just trying to keep it together the best I can in public.
Except when I apparently can't.
Last night I went to an audition and completely broke down in front of a director I have always wanted to work with. It was mortifying, and nothing that I had in my control-freak arsenal could stop it. Somehow I was asked to read a few times, but then after I was released and sat in the holding room, waiting for my boyfriend to finish up so I could get to rehearsal, and I noticed that I seemed to be the only one in the room who couldn't hold it together. I felt like a freak, honestly. He was mingling and laughing with a group he was reading with, some Emerson students were discussing how crazy things had been downtown...And the wave came back. I had to get out of the room and out of the building. I brushed past my boyfriend, ran down the stairs and tried to find the bus stop to take me back into Boston, even though I knew it would take longer, I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood, and I wasn't really in the right condition to be alone. I found the stop but missed the bus. My boyfriend texted me to come back inside but I refused. I was just so angry with everything and everyone, and I didn't even realize how badly I was crying and shaking until a group of guys my age stopped to see if I was okay. By the time my boyfriend found me I had made my way to a cafe around the corner from the theater and had calmed down slightly, but the second I got back in his car the tears began again, and 12 hours later they haven't stopped. He feels frustrated that he can't do anything to make them stop, but no one can. Not even I can. I'm accepting that they're just working their way out of me at this point, but up until I called my mom I couldn't stop feeling guilty for being so upset. Why am I so upset? I wasn't there; I got lucky! I should be celebrating!
But I'm not. I'm grieving. For Boston, for those who lost their lives, limbs, feelings of safety in a city that has always felt so safe. I'm grieving for the people that I met for a few minutes at a time this weekend, the ones who had worked so hard to be here, the families that were so excited to travel into the city to cheer their loved ones on, the woman who said "God bless you" to everyone she met because she was just so excited to be here, the man who hugged all of us, the runners holding their children in their arms, beaming over the thought of seeing their faces at the finish line. I keep wondering, were any of them there? Are any of them hurt? I don't have to wonder if they were affected.
Look, I know that there are people that are suffering way more than I am. I know how lucky I am that no one I know and love was there. I know how close a shave it was for me not to be there and I am grateful. Long after this insanity I'm experiencing wears off the gratitude I have for living in such an amazing place with amazing people will be just as strong. But this city is my home. Those people are my fellow humans. And they're suffering. And I can't apologize for how much I'm crying, for my uncontrollable emotions, for my grief.
