How Riding A Bike Helped Me Heal From An Abusive Relationship

Just like riding a bike, I had to take control.

Riding A Bike Helped Me Heal From An Abusive Relationship Cressida studio / Shutterstock
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I was a late bloomer when it came to learning how to ride a bike.

I was nine when I got the hang of it, and my younger sister and close friends had already learned, rolling around our suburban Minneapolis neighborhood.

I was jealous of their independence but at the same time I was a little afraid of riding.

Eventually, with the help of a number of individuals, I finally mastered the two-wheeler.

I can recall the exact moment I got it right and it was a truly joyous moment.

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I look back at this event as the birth of my independent self, one of the first times I felt the power of my own agency.

When I moved to Chicago for college in 2006, I didn't bring a bike with me and I wouldn't have one again for another seven years.

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In that span of time, I endured the most difficult part of my young life and maybe (hopefully) of my entire life.

I found myself, still a teenager — tender-hearted and extremely excited about my new college life — in the deep, dark pit of an abusive relationship with my significant other.

RELATED: When He Consistently Does Any Of These 8 Things, He's Slowly Trapping You In A Toxic Relationship

As a feminist, a critical thinker, and a person who thinks of herself as strong, being in this relationship caused cognitive dissonance on every level.

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I started to believe every hurtful and degrading insult that he hurled at me on a near-constant basis.

"You're an idiot. You're a dumb b*tch and you don't deserve me. You're weak. You need to repeat it after me or I'm gone and I'll never come back."

Tangled as I was in the cycle of abuse, I did it  I repeated those things.

I knew on some level that he was wrong, and I knew he was horrible not only for saying those things, but for slowly turning me into someone who'd actually say those things about herself.

I desperately wanted out and wanted to unleash every little part of myself I had to bury as a means of self-protection.

I hated him with a vengeance, but at the same time, I didn't know how I'd make it in the world without him. I felt trapped.

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RELATED: What An Abuser Actually Looks Like

My ex told me explicitly that I wasn't the sort of woman who'd ever ride a bike in Chicago. He said those women were tough, bold, and confident.

The implication, of course, was that I was none of those things.

Any opportunity to remind me that I was weak and pathetic was seized. I'm not sure why he chose to tell me this when he already had an arsenal of other, on-the-nose insults always at the ready.

By that point in the relationship, I believed him. I began to look at women on their bikes and thought of them as demigoddesses.

They were assertive and skilled, the epitome of self-reliance and confidence.

Whereas I was a completely isolated and depressed shell of a person and could never be one of them.

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After nearly a decade of crushing degradation, intimidation, and verbal assaults, somehow I decided that I wasn't going to put up with this anymore. Something clicked and I was able to end the relationship.

RELATED: 13 Acts Of Emotional Abuse Commonly Misinterpreted As 'Acts Of Love'

It was really, finally over. I was free. That relationship had been the cause of all my major problems and a severe detriment to my mental health.

So I thought, "No relationship; no problems. I'm good now."

If only it worked that way.

My therapist told me that it was unrealistic to expect I could move on and heal so quickly after seven years of abuse. She was right, of course.

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Just like my first days of bike-riding, it's taking a long time to regain my confidence.

In the summer of 2013, after some compassionate pushing from my current partner (an avid cyclist), I went to get a bike. 

The old Schwinn was perfect  the only problem was I was too afraid to ride it home to my apartment five miles away.

I'd worked up enough courage to buy the damn thing but frankly, it intimidated me and I felt unworthy to ride it.

I still didn't see myself as one of those women.

The first time I took it out for a spin was the next morning. I hadn't ridden a bike since before I left home for college (before everything went to sh*t). I was exhilarated but nervous.

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Would I remember how to ride? Would I get lost? Would my ex see me riding and get mad? Would a car hit me?

I bonked into a parked car less than ten minutes into my ride. A construction worker saw me, laughed, and told me to be careful. I laughed, too.

I was a little wobbly on U-turns but I was OK. I had something to prove to myself and that's all I could think about.

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After a couple of rides and tag-along lessons from others, I felt like the queen of the road.

Even though my bike was huge and heavy (and I wasn't any good at zig-zagging in and out of traffic), I felt amazing.

Fast forward to present-day.

I feel free and more importantly, it feels possible to work through everything that happened in those seven years. 

Every mile I ride is another measure of how far I've come psychologically and how much I care for myself.

I tell myself: I make healthy decisions; I love myself; I choose to be happy

These days, I have a much lighter road bike named General Sherman (I named him after the largest tree on earth, something that reminds me of my connection to nature and makes me feel powerful).

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The General and I go out for joy rides as much as we can.

I never thought it would happen, but an old Schwinn and the Chicago streets helped me turn myself into a confident, self-loving woman.

Elizabeth King is a writer, feminist, dog-lover, and ice-cream enthusiast living in Chicago, IL.