I know exactly when my life changed: when I looked into the face of Tamerlan Tsarnaev. It was 2:48 P. M. on April 15, 2013 - one minute before the most high profile terrorist event on United States soil since September 11th - and he was standing right beside me.
Right when I was lying on the ground and saw my legs, I didn't think first, 'I'm going to die.' I was thinking, 'I'm not going to run again. I can't play basketball. I'm not going to skate.'
For so long I focused on all that I had lost - my legs, my anonymity, even my freedom in a way. I couldn't jump in the car, blast some music and just get away for a bit. I couldn't play basketball with my brothers. I couldn't even get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom without making it some sort of production.
By some crazy twist of fate I was able to remember the moments leading up to the bombings, and in the end, it helped people. I'm not a hero; I did what any normal person would do.
Everyone kept saying, 'The terrorists didn't win. You won! We won! You survived!' That's just weird to me. Nobody wins in these situations. I don't see winners and losers in tragic events.
Hero.' I've always struggled with that word. I'm just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was still conscious when I was being transported from the blast site to the hospital.
I see my family every day and I'm starting my own family now. I'm very thankful and grateful and there's nothing but positivity and love in my life.
I realized I had to work on all aspects of my recovery, the spiritual, mental and physical.
Knowing that I might be encouraging others by facing my own difficulties is what helps me get out of bed in the morning.
Sometimes I think, 'Maybe I could have a drink or two.' But then I think about it, and I just don't want to. It's just not in the cards. I know what I feel like now that I don't drink. I know what it feels like not to be hungover, trying to put my legs on.
Sometimes I don't fully accept it. It's tough. I miss doing old things. I miss shooting hoops with my friends.
I remember when the photograph was taken. The famous one, I mean. The one of me being rushed from the Boston Marathon bombing without my legs.
Even now, a year later, people ask me about the Wheelchair Photo: what do I think about it? Does it bother me? The honest answer: I don't think about it. I glanced at the photo once, about a week after the bombing. I knew immediately I never wanted to look at it again.
I wish I wasn't the face of the victims - three lost near the finish line and hundreds injured - because then everyone would forget about me, and I could recover in peace, and at my own pace.
I have so much work to do every day to get back to my normal life that I can't afford to be angry, even at the bombers. I can't keep looking backward.
Everyone deals with loss.
In the movie, I deal with the loss of my legs and adjusting and trying to become a new person, essentially.
I want people to relate to my family, and to just getting through something - getting through loss in general.
There's always gonna be some pain, I think, because my body's going to be like, 'Where are your lower legs?'
