April 26th, 2013
The Truth About Fear

 While we at The Gabbler are almost always happy to use humor to hide our true feelings of sadness and insecurity, sometimes even we are unable to laugh when something so tragic occurs. The following is a personal response to the events of last Monday. Two of the The Gabbler’s staff members currently live in Boston, and all of us have deep connections to this lovely, resilient little city. Our thoughts and prayers go out to all the Marathon Bombing victims and their loved ones. 

The truth is, I was afraid. I still am.

When I was a kid, my biggest fear was that I or someone I loved would get diabetes, because Stacey, my favorite character from The Babysitter’s Club books, just woke up one morning and had diabetes. It was a disease, I told my mother. And you could die from it.

I’m also terrified of heights. And sharks. And serial killers. And rats – oh God, I hate rats.

But what happened on Monday was different. On Monday, as I learned of the horrors happening just blocks from my office, in the city that is my home, I felt the walls of my cubicle close in on me as I called every family member and close friend I could think of. But all calls went to voicemail. My phone buzzed. The only working form of communication was text messaging. My phone buzzed again. My best friend still hadn’t answered. I tried calling my intern; a shy girl with a spray of brown freckles who’d asked me if she could skip work to watch her father run. Her phone was still off.

After watching so many pack up their things early, I left work too. I decided to walk, too scared to take the subway anywhere. Not with rumors of suspicious packages in Harvard Square, and explosions at the JFK Library, and sirens blaring in every direction. Not with talk of severed limbs, and fallen fans who never saw their loved ones finish.

Fear overtook me as I walked down Milk Street, my heels catching in the cobblestones. Any parked car could be a car bomb. Buildings could explode into orange flames at any second. I panicked. I had trouble breathing. I could have sworn I smelled smoke.

These were streets I didn’t recognize. This was a world of ball bearings, shoe bombs, and dead children. This was not my home.

When I finally arrived and unlocked the dark apartment, I wrapped myself in a soft, worn blanket. This, I thought, must be terror. My phone buzzed.

For some people, this is the norm. Syria. Israel. Iraq. Afghanistan. Sudan. Many, many more. I know this. I wondered aloud if I was being self-indulgent. I couldn’t stop watching the news. Or the tears from falling. For once, my phone was silent. Outside, the sirens screamed.