It's Been an Unusually Scary Season
Last week's tragedy in Lewiston shattered Maine's illusion of safety
Friends,
I hope these past few days have been filled with fun, fantasy, and a healthy dose of mischief. I hope you took every opportunity to dress in a way that fully expressed your wild side. I hope you had some time to honor and commune with your deceased loved ones.
Most of all, I hope you feel loved and supported.
I know I do.
This time last week, I was reeling from the news of a mass shooting in Lewiston, Maine. I received messages of concern, love, and virtual hugs from many of you. Each one made such a huge impact.
Thank you.
Below is an essay I wrote shortly after Lewiston. I’ve been waiting for what felt like the right time to share it. Keep in mind that it’s not light reading.
I knew something had happened before I got out of bed. My husband — who wakes up early to read articles with his morning coffee — let out an “Oh my God,” from the living room.
It’s not unusual for him to comment on what he reads. But this time, his tone let me know it wasn’t in response to The Mets or something stupid the ex-orange-in-chief had said.
He was a different kind of shocked. It was something serious.
“What is it?” I asked, still half-asleep
“Nothing.” His answer came too abruptly to be convincing. Besides, Jason loves sharing tidbits from his morning reads.
Fuck, this is serious.
I realized he was allowing me a few more moments of peace before I’d have to face whatever horrible news had broken, and I tried my best to savor them.
But it wasn’t my husband who told me what happened in Lewiston. When I got out of bed minutes later and closed my sleep-tracker app, a message that my aunt in Colorado had sent the night before popped up on my phone: “Are you safe? Watching the news about a shooting in Maine.”
Jason confirmed it and filled me in on the details.
It was before 5am in Maine and not yet 3am in Colorado, but I texted my aunt back to let her know we were safe and that Lewiston was more than an hour away (it’s actually more than 2 hours, but it was early and I hadn’t had coffee, yet).
I wondered if I should skip the gym that morning, or if it would even be open.
Jason encouraged me to go. “If you see a strange dude, call 911,” he said as I walked out the door.
Driving to the gym alone in the early morning darkness felt surreal, and it gave me time to process what was happening. I couldn’t stop thinking about the morning of 9/11.
I thought about 9/11 because it was another horrific event I learned about immediately upon waking up (you can read more about that here). I thought about how much closer and larger scale that was and wondered why I felt so much more afraid now.
I found myself questioning my safety as I mentally calculated how long it might take the shooter to travel to Downeast, Maine on foot.
The news from around the world was already heartbreaking. Devastating. Deeply upsetting. Horrifying.
And now this, so close to home.
The vibe at the gym was tense. At that point, only 7 of the 18 people whose lives were taken the night before had been confirmed. Walking through the lobby, I locked eyes with a swimmer who’s always in the locker room at the same time as me. I don’t even know her name, but found myself wanting to give her a hug.
As I drove home, the sun rising over the bay filled the sky with swirls of pink and lavender. The stunning visual perfectly juxtaposed the somber radio commentary on the previous night’s tragedy. One of the DJs said exactly what I was thinking:
Things like this don’t happen in Maine
I’ve only been a Mainer since 2020. Since then, I’ve witnessed several deadly catastrophes from afar, feeling safely tucked into a bubble through which the worst could never penetrate.
I’ve lived in almost every corner of the United States and can say that Maine is by far the most insulated. I sometimes call it, “Little Alaska.” Even when Covid-19 was at peak terror, conditions in Maine were never that bad.
I understand it was all an illusion, but it was a comforting illusion.
Suddenly, the bubble was gone. I found myself warily scanning the forest where I walked my dogs while, Jim Morrison’s chilling warning of “a killer on the road” (from Riders on the Storm) cycled through my mind on an endless loop.
Thursday evening, I was stacking firewood in front of my house and I thought about all the Mainers who lost someone they loved in such a sudden, violent, and horrific way. I grieved for them.
I stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have a loved one taken so brutally. I cried harder.
Part of me wishes the killer wasn’t found deceased because any hope for understanding why he did this disappeared with his life. Another part of me wonders if it matters.
I’m not going to pretend to have the solution to ending mass shootings, or gun violence in general. I support stricter gun control laws and I also know how much Mainers love their guns.
Maine is a place where nearly everyone is connected, and every life that was taken that night in Lewiston has sent ripples of pain throughout the entire state.
The night after I learned about Lewiston, I fell asleep holding my husband’s hand. Every morning since then, I’ve gone out to greet the sunrise with my arms to the sky, grateful to be alive.
And still praying for peace.
Thank you for reading. Here’s where I’d normally ask you to buy me a coffee to support my work.
Instead, I’ll ask anyone with an extra few dollars to contribute to this GoFundMe campaign to help cover surgical fees for a 16-year-old boy who was shot at the bowling alley last week.
I love you,
Lauren