When it happened, I did not talk. I went mute about it all. If the word ‘bomb, ‘Manchester’, or ‘Ariana Grande’ were mentioned around me, I froze. And I lashed out at everyone I loved. I was an abomination of anger, hatred, and everything I did not want that event to teach me.
I did not talk. I went mute about it all.
Looking back on it now, I want to hold that version of myself to melt the frustration away. Tell my school how damaging they were to my physical and mental health. Shout at the man who told me to ‘suck it up’, and tell him how much he would change the way I think about myself forever. Thank the woman that hid me away in her office so I could escape the world for an hour a day, and tell her how the escapism she provided me with got me through it.
Most of all, I’d give the biggest apology to my younger sister. For putting my pain above listening to hers. For abandoning her when she needed me. For not being an older sister, not protecting her, and not being there. That is my biggest regret, and probably always will be.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a time machine. And, a hug isn’t always a solution. But if I could, I would try to express my feelings in words, something I’m grateful to be able to do now. I forgive that version of myself. And I hope the people I hurt forgive her too.
Being able to say that comes from copious amounts of work. Being misdiagnosed. Finding the right therapist. Finally getting medicated. And, eventually, making it out the other side. Funnily enough, I told my therapist I was writing this article, and the first thing she said was “This is huge. You’re ready.” I agreed with her because I am. And I say that with confidence now.
I had always wanted to write this. Put into words the experience that shaped the way I live my life. But, I was too scared. I didn’t want to be pitied, or for it to take away from some of the incredible stuff I’ve done. I didn’t want to be known as the girl that survived a terrorist attack.
I didn’t want to be known as the girl that survived a terrorist attack.
As much as I can ignore it, and refuse to admit it, I will always be the fourteen-year-old with the dangerously obsessive Ariana Grande phase. Something I moved on from a long time ago because of the embarrassment and want to detach from the trauma associated with it.
I’ll always carry that version of myself with me. I am grateful for the person I was when I was fourteen and what the experience taught me. Because I did make it through it. I am okay. Okay enough to retell my story and let my fourteen-year-old self exist in words on a page. Until I’m ready to say hi to her again. Hopefully, it won’t take six years this time.
