My mom was brave enough to write an autobiography and tell the
world that she was brutally beaten by my father. This post is written on
private because I can’t mix my family life with my somewhat successful
and always enjoyable math education blogging pursuits. It’s as if I
don’t want people to know how damaged I am. The logical part of my brain
knows that the abuse wasn’t my fault, but still, what if a future
employer reads that I’m a mess because of something that happened when
I’m little? What if they judge me? What if they judge my father and
can’t understand that I can still love the man who yelled at me and hit
me and broke my mother’s back in front of me? What if my dad reads it?
I know I should be mad at my dad, but I’m still worried about his feelings. When I moved out in high school I always felt guilty at how much pain I caused him. I wondered if I was overreacting. My step mom, a school counselor, told me that what he did was not abuse. They said putting out cigarettes on kids was abuse. Yelling at me for an hour, holding me down, marching me to my room by my neck and hitting me in front of my extended family didn’t count to them. And I wasn’t sure if it counted to me. I knew it was wrong, but I thought maybe I shouldn’t have moved out. I always thought my mom was overreacting when she said she was worried he might kill me accidentally when he was raging.
This summer I found out that he had broken the vertebrae in her spine when she got an MRI for a new back injury and the doctor mentioned in passing the old injury. She assumed we already knew about it. My mom didn’t know because the chiropractor who saw her gave her a back brace and destroyed the x-rays. He was my dad’s friend. My dad denied all this my whole life. He said he only kicked her once at the counselor's office in my high school. But the MRI doesn’t lie. And how else would you break your back and not know about it? The MRI was the answer to the years of confusion. Before I always pretended my mom was telling the truth when I was with her and that my dad was when I was with him. My mom wrote in her book that denial was a cushion that allowed her to keep functioning.
I feel almost selfish for using Johanna's death as an opportunity to better understand myself. I see how much I’m growing as a person as a result of the reflection that her death inspired and it makes me feel bad to notice the good coming out of this horrible situation. But, I suppose I’ve earned whatever I’m gaining from this tragic accident in tears and pain.
I know I should be mad at my dad, but I’m still worried about his feelings. When I moved out in high school I always felt guilty at how much pain I caused him. I wondered if I was overreacting. My step mom, a school counselor, told me that what he did was not abuse. They said putting out cigarettes on kids was abuse. Yelling at me for an hour, holding me down, marching me to my room by my neck and hitting me in front of my extended family didn’t count to them. And I wasn’t sure if it counted to me. I knew it was wrong, but I thought maybe I shouldn’t have moved out. I always thought my mom was overreacting when she said she was worried he might kill me accidentally when he was raging.
This summer I found out that he had broken the vertebrae in her spine when she got an MRI for a new back injury and the doctor mentioned in passing the old injury. She assumed we already knew about it. My mom didn’t know because the chiropractor who saw her gave her a back brace and destroyed the x-rays. He was my dad’s friend. My dad denied all this my whole life. He said he only kicked her once at the counselor's office in my high school. But the MRI doesn’t lie. And how else would you break your back and not know about it? The MRI was the answer to the years of confusion. Before I always pretended my mom was telling the truth when I was with her and that my dad was when I was with him. My mom wrote in her book that denial was a cushion that allowed her to keep functioning.
I feel almost selfish for using Johanna's death as an opportunity to better understand myself. I see how much I’m growing as a person as a result of the reflection that her death inspired and it makes me feel bad to notice the good coming out of this horrible situation. But, I suppose I’ve earned whatever I’m gaining from this tragic accident in tears and pain.
Johanna always told Tara that she should meet me because we were all so
alike but so different. Since she has died Tara has felt like she
needed to reach out to me and kept sending me thoughtful messages on
Facebook. I’ve started to wonder if the world is working in mysterious
ways that I can’t comprehend because Tara was precisely the woman who
knew what I needed to hear to understand all the guilt I’ve been feeling
about Johanna's death.
I KNOW that I judged her when she was alive. I thought running on an
injured ankle was stupid and hiking while sick was dangerous and
inconsiderate to her partners. I thought it was rude when she complained
about being fat in front of me and I found it unhelpful when she
thought that 98 percent on an assignment wasn’t quite good enough. It
was unhelpful because I already would have had the tendency to judge and
compare myself, I didn’t need any encouragement from others. I
remember all of these things now, and feel like I threw away
opportunities to spend time with an amazing, funny, strong woman. I was
trying to think back on why I’d made the decisions I did to see if I
could justify to myself why I hadn’t made time for her in my schedule.
Now I’m starting to understand WHY the two of us might have made
decisions like that.
What I never knew until after she died, was that Johanna was very much like me in ways that I never would have guessed. Johanna also moved out because of her father’s abuse. She was anorexic for a time (I’m not anorexic, but my relationship with my body is often strained).
All of a sudden it started to make sense to me why we connected so easily and had so much in common. It also made sense to me why I criticized her so harshly-she had the same self-destructive habits that I did.
We both felt like we had to be star students. We both loved exercising excessively. We both were exceptionally fit and yet saw ourselves as overweight or out of shape. We both knew rationally that we were beautiful and smart and kind, yet I’m not sure either of us fully trusted this with our emotional half of our minds. I know that we are not the same person and that now that she’s gone I won’t really understand the nuances of our differences but the similarities make so much more sense now that I know we were both abused for not being perfect when we were in high school.
I understand why my opinions of her decisions were complicated. On one hand I totally understood why she would want to run an ultra marathon and take an overload of academic credits in super hard classes. I understood how everyone could think she was skinny and fit and she would still think she was fat. On the other hand, my rational side, could see these behaviors as self-damaging and recognized that being around someone who saw them as normal wasn’t helping me progress towards the more accepting, less competitive version of me. I could see that my boyfriend's beliefs about balance and happiness had a lot to recommend them.
I’m starting to understand that our shared tendency to exercise for as many hours as possible might be more to do with our views of ourselves than I ever realized. I should speak for myself since I don’t know why Johanna ultra-marathoned on injured ankles and hiked to the point of blistered, exhaustion.
I know my love affair with bike racing was the strongest when I was depressed. The 80 miles I spent in the saddle every Saturday and Sunday was time away from my failure as a teacher. It brought endorphin highs and exhaustion that allowed me to forget my troubles. Bike racing brought medals and admiration from those who were impressed at my quick progress. I knew that I became grumpy if I couldn’t exercise. I traveled with a bike and complained if I couldn’t ride. I loved the feeling of pain in my legs when I tried to walk up stairs the day after a good ride. 40 miles felt like nothing-I’d feel like I hadn’t done much until I hit 60 miles and only if there were hills. And I was with cycling peers, so all of this seemed normal. The dieting, the early morning wake ups, the endless discussion of our bodies performance.
But, to this day, I can start crying when someone beats me up the hill. I feel fat and worthless. As if my own lack of control around food is causing the suffering and failure on the mountains. I seriously contemplated attempting Rim to Rim to Rim because I wanted to see how much I could push myself and I wanted to train that hard for something.
Tara pointed out that the way I act about exercise could be considered related to my abuse. People cut themselves because they hate their bodies. These people are often abuse victims. I know riding my bike 100 miles isn’t cutting myself, but it is probably equivalent in terms of pains and endorphins. But it is socially acceptable and it’s hard to notice an addiction to exercise. Of course, there are people who ride their bike that far for fun and have no issues. But I have the feeling that my love for biking is somewhat a need for biking, and I’m glad that biking isn’t a real drug. I don’t really feel okay if I go a long time without a long ride. As if something is missing if my week doesn’t surpass 15 hours in the saddle.
I wonder if all of the chronic cycling injuries I have have been a blessing in disguise. They keep me from overdoing it. They keep me under two hours, going kind of slow. They force me to stop comparing myself. I’ve had to accept that racing is not for me. I’ve had to accept myself as slow.
And I shouldn’t write slow, I know, because I’m not, but I’m slow compared to the old me who rode constantly.
But my life is happier.
To my friends:
Thank you to Tara who talked to me about all of this. I’m finally starting to feel at peace with my relationship with Johanna. And thank you to Johanna, who apologized through the medium from the other side for the issues you brought to your relationship with your husband as a result of being abused. Perhaps you knew that when you were alive, or only understood that in death, but thank you for being honest about it. I think, if you were still here, we would have kept making progress together. You had so many wonderful, wonderful traits. We’re both strong enough to love ourselves and I hope that you truly love yourself now, and not just in the showy facebook way you loved yourself when you were alive. I hope you can appreciate all the joy and life and spark inside you and FEEL to your bones that you are okay just how you are.
What I never knew until after she died, was that Johanna was very much like me in ways that I never would have guessed. Johanna also moved out because of her father’s abuse. She was anorexic for a time (I’m not anorexic, but my relationship with my body is often strained).
All of a sudden it started to make sense to me why we connected so easily and had so much in common. It also made sense to me why I criticized her so harshly-she had the same self-destructive habits that I did.
We both felt like we had to be star students. We both loved exercising excessively. We both were exceptionally fit and yet saw ourselves as overweight or out of shape. We both knew rationally that we were beautiful and smart and kind, yet I’m not sure either of us fully trusted this with our emotional half of our minds. I know that we are not the same person and that now that she’s gone I won’t really understand the nuances of our differences but the similarities make so much more sense now that I know we were both abused for not being perfect when we were in high school.
I understand why my opinions of her decisions were complicated. On one hand I totally understood why she would want to run an ultra marathon and take an overload of academic credits in super hard classes. I understood how everyone could think she was skinny and fit and she would still think she was fat. On the other hand, my rational side, could see these behaviors as self-damaging and recognized that being around someone who saw them as normal wasn’t helping me progress towards the more accepting, less competitive version of me. I could see that my boyfriend's beliefs about balance and happiness had a lot to recommend them.
I’m starting to understand that our shared tendency to exercise for as many hours as possible might be more to do with our views of ourselves than I ever realized. I should speak for myself since I don’t know why Johanna ultra-marathoned on injured ankles and hiked to the point of blistered, exhaustion.
I know my love affair with bike racing was the strongest when I was depressed. The 80 miles I spent in the saddle every Saturday and Sunday was time away from my failure as a teacher. It brought endorphin highs and exhaustion that allowed me to forget my troubles. Bike racing brought medals and admiration from those who were impressed at my quick progress. I knew that I became grumpy if I couldn’t exercise. I traveled with a bike and complained if I couldn’t ride. I loved the feeling of pain in my legs when I tried to walk up stairs the day after a good ride. 40 miles felt like nothing-I’d feel like I hadn’t done much until I hit 60 miles and only if there were hills. And I was with cycling peers, so all of this seemed normal. The dieting, the early morning wake ups, the endless discussion of our bodies performance.
But, to this day, I can start crying when someone beats me up the hill. I feel fat and worthless. As if my own lack of control around food is causing the suffering and failure on the mountains. I seriously contemplated attempting Rim to Rim to Rim because I wanted to see how much I could push myself and I wanted to train that hard for something.
Tara pointed out that the way I act about exercise could be considered related to my abuse. People cut themselves because they hate their bodies. These people are often abuse victims. I know riding my bike 100 miles isn’t cutting myself, but it is probably equivalent in terms of pains and endorphins. But it is socially acceptable and it’s hard to notice an addiction to exercise. Of course, there are people who ride their bike that far for fun and have no issues. But I have the feeling that my love for biking is somewhat a need for biking, and I’m glad that biking isn’t a real drug. I don’t really feel okay if I go a long time without a long ride. As if something is missing if my week doesn’t surpass 15 hours in the saddle.
I wonder if all of the chronic cycling injuries I have have been a blessing in disguise. They keep me from overdoing it. They keep me under two hours, going kind of slow. They force me to stop comparing myself. I’ve had to accept that racing is not for me. I’ve had to accept myself as slow.
And I shouldn’t write slow, I know, because I’m not, but I’m slow compared to the old me who rode constantly.
But my life is happier.
To my friends:
Thank you to Tara who talked to me about all of this. I’m finally starting to feel at peace with my relationship with Johanna. And thank you to Johanna, who apologized through the medium from the other side for the issues you brought to your relationship with your husband as a result of being abused. Perhaps you knew that when you were alive, or only understood that in death, but thank you for being honest about it. I think, if you were still here, we would have kept making progress together. You had so many wonderful, wonderful traits. We’re both strong enough to love ourselves and I hope that you truly love yourself now, and not just in the showy facebook way you loved yourself when you were alive. I hope you can appreciate all the joy and life and spark inside you and FEEL to your bones that you are okay just how you are.
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