It was late 2013, six months after I had run the Boston marathon – the year two men detonated two bombs near the finish line, killing three people and injuring hundreds. Back in Germany, my home country, I had been struggling with my mental health for months, but I was determined to complete another marathon and maybe make it back to Boston. I had signed up for that month’s Frankfurt marathon, but told nobody except Christina, my therapist.
I went to the starting line only a couple of minutes before the race started. For the first half or so, I felt good. The sun was shining. My mind was empty and I was running faster than ever. Then I felt a breakdown coming on. I could no longer run. I walked the rest of the way, crying. People kept stopping to ask if I needed help, or to comfort me. I knew their intentions were good, but I felt as if I was in a different world. All I could think was: why am I here, running, when others were killed and many more had been injured and could never run again?
A mile or so before the finish line, I started running again, but I didn’t feel like celebrating when I crossed it. I went to get my medal, then stood alone outside, waiting, for about 10 minutes. I expected something bad to happen. When I realised I had nothing to fear, my world changed.
***
I started running about 15 years ago and I loved it. I really wanted to run the New York marathon, which I did in 2010, then I wanted to tick off other major cities, so I signed up to run in Boston. I went with a friend, Inga, who was there to support me. The day of the marathon was amazing – the weather was beautiful and the atmosphere was incredible.
A few minutes after I crossed the finishing line, there was a deafening sound I had never heard before, then total silence – no cheering any more. Then I saw smoke billowing. My first feeling was that this wasn’t an accident. Then the second bomb went off.
I was desperately trying to find Inga, who was waiting near the family and friends area. Then I spotted her, running towards me. Everyone looked stunned or was in tears. The police were shouting at everyone to leave the area. Our hotel was one block south, so for the next three hours we sat in silence in our hotel room, watching the news. When I heard that an eight-year-old boy had been killed, my heart sank. Later, we would find out two others were killed in the blast, a police officer had been shot and killed and more than 200 people were injured. (Another police officer died in 2014 of injuries related to the attack.)
The next morning, I started to experience feelings of depersonalisation – in the bathroom, shaving and showering, it was as if I was watching myself do it. I later learned it was a stress response. At first, I felt as if I needed to leave Boston straight away, but then it felt important to stay. I had a marathon-branded jacket; people on the street would come up to us and we would talk and cry together. It felt as if we were part of one huge family.
Back in Berlin a few days later, it felt like landing on a different planet. I know life goes on, but it felt strange that everybody seemed happy. That was hard. I met with Christina and we talked for three hours.
For the next few months, she worked with me. I had gone back to my job as a sales manager for a hotel group, which was good, because it meant I wasn’t thinking about Boston all the time, but it continued to affect my daily life. If someone was walking towards me wearing a backpack, I would cross the road; I would avoid rubbish bins on the street. I could no longer run; even after a short distance, it felt as if my muscles had given up. I remember going for one jog, then sitting down in the street and crying.
Mostly, I couldn’t stop the thoughts: why had I survived when others hadn’t? I had run faster than I usually do, which meant I wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, but why had I done that? And would something bad happen again?
The organisers of the Boston marathon arranged a worldwide video conference with therapists. I learned I wasn’t the only one finding it difficult to come to terms with what had happened. Hundreds of us were struggling.
It was important to me that I could get back to running. Christina helped, coming out with me on her bike a couple of times a week, talking the whole time. The next step in my recovery was to run another marathon. A friend said Frankfurt was probably the most important race of my life; I think he was right.
Since then, I have done several more races and I am looking forward to running the London Landmark half-marathon next month.
In 2015, I went back to run the Boston marathon. When I picked up my bib, the young woman asked: “Is this the first time you’ve run Boston?” I told her I had run it two years before. She came around the table and hugged me. We were both in tears.
The day of that marathon was rainy, but it was the same amazing atmosphere as before, with lots of people out to cheer us on. For me, it was about saying to the bombers that they didn’t win.
