This one is a tough holiday for me. I was born on May 12, 1975, the Monday after Mothers Day that year, and as a result the two holidays have become intertwined over the years. A few years ago, I ended my relationship with my parents and this is a tough position to be in. Today I am thinking of the others out there, that have divorced their parents. Society can be cruel and some can try make you feel guilt about your decision. The truth is, they didn't live YOUR life, and they have no fucking right to judge you.
If I had led the Hallmark Channel version of my childhood, my birthday being close to Mothers Day would be really neat & sweet. Unfortunately, that is not the case. I do not have a good mother and my childhood was not a healthy one. My mother is mentally ill and found in my father a weak man that would become her enabler. They are hoarders, and I grew up in that toxic and filthy environment. Guarding their secret as a child was my full time job. I did what I thought I had to do to survive. I became a bully and a bad kid by societies standards. Thoughts of suicide as my ultimate release and or last strategy were constant. People have asked me how often did you think about suicide as a kid? My answer is as shocking as the answer of any child growing up in a war zone. I thought death almost every day, I knew it was always the answer if I was "found out." I could never have gone into school the next day if the kids ever saw inside the our house. So there are no warm feelings there for good old Mom. It is true she gave me life, but her illness and lifestyle almost cost me my life. I bear the scars and PTSD of all the lies and actions I did based on her choices.
Luckily for me I found a beautiful, intelligent women that I married. Ashley was already a mother when we met. This too, was a blessing, as I became the father I would never have been. It turns out, a very small percentage of Children of Hoarders become parents. Most of us are simply too damaged and clueless on what normal looks like to conceptualize having children. The idea of having kids always felt like a dead nerve to me. I can't truly express what it has meant to me, to see a good mother do her best inspite of all that has come at us in the last 16 years. It gave me hope as to what can be, as well as helped me deal with my past. Ashley is the love of my life, a beautiful mother and the one who has helped pull me back from the edge on several occasions.
There are plenty of us out there that are dealing with the actions of our mothers. Keep an eye out and a close ear for those that are hurting. Holidays like these can easily send someone with PTSD into very dark places.
A bit of back story as I explain why I came to write again. My good friend Danny Thomas recently bought a bike and has has been hitting me up with questions about cycling and the culture. Danny is a pretty amazing guy and has recall second to none. He has had a wild ride in life and found himself from our class clown at the bottom of our high school class to working his way through law school. He has an entire arsenal of shit to heckle me with from 1991 until now. We clicked the first time we met, and he still knows how to push my buttons.
This one got me though... via text:
Danny: Do you still blog?
Me: Technically...haven’t written in a long time...want to again though
Danny: Get off your lazy Colorado ass, beeeotch!
Ill do it tomorrow, or maybe this weekend....after all most of my previous post were satire. A few had threads of insight, but not deep self reflection. Danny knew I had things to share, I have said them in smaller social media formats. I sit here with tears in my eyes thinking of the loss of Robin Williams, as the posts continue to pop up I know I have to get some thoughts out. So here it goes....
I have wanted to write this piece for a while, I know there are a percentage of cyclists that do it for the self medicating reason. I hope this helps a handful of others process things as I explain my tale of two rides. Cycling isn’t easy and there is always a good bit of suffering involved. I grew to cherish it, want it, crave it and NEED it. I made stickers and tees over the years WTF is Zone 2. The reason I never wanted to ride in zone 2 was that it scared the shit out of me. Zone 2 was where you might think deeply about things from say your childhood...fuck that! Lets get right to zone 3 or better yet 4. I have been dealing with the demons of growing up in a hoarding household for the last 5 years or so. Before I began to address that, I knew just enough about me to know I needed to ride hard and riding needed to hurt. It seemed that if I rode enough, and hurt enough, I felt pretty good and not as angry. I need a passion and cycling was it; I was hooked and loved it.
The bicycle is still the 2nd best therapist I have ever gone to. Luckily, the first is my current doctor, who has truly helped me get through shit I never thought possible. Like any type of therapy, if you do it enough the bicycle can cause a breakthrough. These can be somewhat intense and can kick your ass. I had one of these not that long ago; I learned a lot from it and I am better for it.
For those of us that suffer from bouts of depression, we often have triggers. Sometimes, we believe we can flirt with those triggers. It might be arrogance or ignorance, but we go someplace, do something or flirt with a feeling right on the edge. I knew better really, looking back I thought I could handle it (group rides that involve climbing at a pace that will drop me is a huge one for me). Here is how it played out:
Thursday night: A friend posted on Facebook asking if anyone was familiar with hoarding situations as they had a family member they wanted to help. Like some PTSD vet rushing into a convenience store robbery I jumped into action without a second thought. I started explaining if there are kids they need help! Help those kids, they are damaged, I was one of them, I know. I was posting articles and trying to help from hours away. As I read one part of an article this paragraph hit me.
A study of 675 adult children of hoarders by Dr. Suzanne Chabaud, a New Orleans clinical psychologist who specializes in OCD, found many suffered depression and anxiety, with 31.8% of respondents saying they had suicidal thoughts during adolescence. The finding few adult children of hoarders had kids of their own has prompted further study, she said.
I didn’t sleep well that night, I couldn’t get my brain to shut off. I know now I was having a big breakthrough, and this was the beginning. At the time I blew it off as general stress , the fact I was recovery from a nasty virus and or the hip pain I had been dealing with. I decided to go for a good ride that Friday, but it was hot and my head was still swimming with different ideas. I went and climbed/crawled up Flagstaff. It was crazy hot out there, my Garmin (which I always believe shows off 10 degrees) showed 108. I got to the top feeling like the slowest cyclist out there that day. I decided I would go ride my turf in N. Boulder, the dirt roads and rollers I am built for. I was still spent, I was dehydrated at this point and the effort felt bigger than it was.
Saturday’s group ride scene looked like this. Everyone there was leaner, faster and healthier than I was. Why did I do it? I thought I “needed” it to get back in shape. "I’ll get dropped, but not by that much, I am sure. I’ll go as hard as I can and it will be fine." As we started to climb up Sugarloaf, I was puffing on an inhaler the Dr. had given me for a recent respiratory ailment. I had music in one ear (usually always helps me) and went to the front of the group for a few minutes. As we rounded the first few curves, the pace picked up and out the back I went. BOOM...I physically came apart and the demons caught me and attacked. Those that know me, know I am uniquely wired. I have a pretty good memory, that I adapted to survive childhood. That is another story, but I can tell you this is also a curse. The article from recent days had mentioned the suicidal thoughts of children of hoarders during adolescence (mine didn’t stop there). That good memory of mine chose that very moment to remember those feelings. As the group pulled away, my inner chubby kid, picked last for kickball, whose house was a filthy shithole, the kid routinely backhanded by his crazy mother was the one pedaling that bike. That kid wanted to die and thought about it often, he felt worthless and dirty in way few will ever know. He fought everyday to keep the family secret, knowing that if it came out at school the only answer was to hang himself from the coat rod in the closet. I was moving the bike forward but the mental pain was unreal...I didn’t stop pedaling but I wanted to. I was worthless, I had no reason to be there, I was a slow, I wanted to die... To be honest, I felt at points it was gonna be my last ride. I would get to the top turn around and drift into the grill of car coming up the canyon. I just wanted the pain to stop; I didn’t want to be seen in this place. I felt worthless and unworthy and the elevator to the dark basement of my soul was screaming downward and I was unable to stop it. I was hemorrhaging 30 plus years of inner hatred right there on that climb. At some point I had pulled out my phone to take a picture. I don’t know why I do this, but it helps me to do it sometimes (perhaps it is the first act in saying there will be a tomorrow). It goes something like, “If I can take this picture and see the pain from outside maybe I can use that to get past it.” What does that pain look like from outside? In truth it could have been the last photo I ever took.
deep in the darkness
By the time I reached the top, I was holding back tears, another old memory/skill kicking in. Tears are weakness...weakness leads to exposure....exposure means.....suck that back, Richard! I was not alright, but no one really knew how wrong I was. They had been there for 5 plus minutes and convinced me to ride on with them at least until Nederland. Once we were there, I decided to bail; I needed to be alone and also still wanted to leave this place. My brain was torn between trying to right the ship or sink it once and for all. My buddy saw I was not right and he insisted I ride with them to Nederland. I tried to say, I was done and was just gonna head back down but he insisted. His tone was directive and stern, he was basically ordering me to stay with them. I was so tired mentally and physically I didn't resist his directions. He knew something wasn't right and his actions that day truly saved my life. I wasn't fully committed to a plan of riding off the mountain or drifting into oncoming traffic, but it was still strongly calling to me like an old friend from childhood. When suicidal thoughts are a part of your life in childhood they come back easily and in a familiar way. It seems "normal" for you to flip over to that channel. As fucked up as that sounds, it is the case for many kids from abusive situations. I knew I needed food and some liquid to keep on riding, even if it was just to head back home. I figured some food had to help me, then I would try to ride back home. I bought water to fill my bottles and walked toward my bike with my bag of muffins. Then, like a wave it came, “Oh Fuck I am going to lose my shit right here, right now.” I got on my bike and rode down to the lake to be away from people. Tears were imminent and it wasn’t going to be public. I called my wife, “Can you come to Nederland and get me...I went dark. I don’t want to ride my bike anymore.” As soon as I loaded the bike and got in the car, I started crying uncontrollably. I went home and laid in bed most of the day trying to reset my mind. Ashley was obviously worried about me and did an amazing job of being close, but also giving me space. As you can probably already imagine, I am a hard to be married to, and can’t say enough about the role she has played in me moving forward. I struggled through that week, looking forward to my Friday appointment with my therapist (human, not bike). Friday AM I got a text from him. I have an emergency and I have to cancel. FUCK ME...can I make it another 2 weeks. Tomorrow is Saturday, what do I do? Do I ride, do I want to ride...damn it.
Saturday rolled around and I got an early morning invite from a fellow non-climber - he promised a small group, not a hard tempo. I had an event to train for, so I was considering it. My back up plan was that I had downloaded a new Pearl Jam concert to listen to while I rode. I have been self medicating with Pearl Jam for 20 years, so I knew this would help. As I pedaled toward Spruce Confections, I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to be around anyone, let alone ride with anyone. What if those feelings came back out? What if it got worse? Could it get worse?
A total of three of us rode up Sunshine and eventually 2 of us rode to Brainard Lake. It was at a conversational pace. We stopped and took some pics, we drank Mexican Cokes at the store in Gold Hill. Brainard Lake is a beautiful place to soak in, we got rained on a bit on the descent. It was an amazing day on the bike, we ended up with 60 miles and 7,000+ ft of climbing when we got back to Spruce Confections. We drank coffee and chatted a bit. Then I decided I felt great and I was going to add in Flagstaff, as I really wanted to get in 9,000 ft of climbing. I put one earbud in and hit play on that PJ concert I had downloaded. Even with all that climbing in my legs, I felt pretty good as I started the climb. The magic moment happened as I neared the steepest part of the climb (“The Wall of Pain”). Eddie Vedder started to tell this story of 3 people in canoes caught up in rough seas. They were saved by a little girl that insisted to her father she heard voices. That little girl was named Ashley Baxter and one of those voices she heard belonged to Eddie Vedder. I began to smile and almost started crying tears of joy. I was shaking my head and thinking to myself...Ashley Baxter saved Eddie Vedder and his music has saved me on so many occasions. Ashley Baxter saved my life and likely countless others. What an AMAZING thing life is. It is a very precious thing....fuck, I am glad to be alive. I rode home to see my wife...as I sat on the porch waiting for her to get home I knew I could have kept riding. I had ridden 70 miles and climbed 9,000 ft but was fresh and buzzing.
I can honestly say that I enjoy the bike differently now. This doesn't mean I don’t ever ride hard or try for PBs, I do, on occasion. What is different, is that I am no longer scared of zone 2 rides. I want to thank my friend, Kevin Batchelor, for deciding that he is only going to ride for enjoyment. He has inspired me to ride differently and I am healthier for it. I see things in a different way on these rides and just feel better about being me.
Smiling on the wall of pain after almost 9,000 ft of climbing
I share this story because I have to. There is a part of me, perhaps it is that chubby angry child inside, that hopes this helps some other damaged kid out there. If you are reading this and know someone that suffers from depression, know that little things matter. One spot of light in the darkness is all it takes to begin to find your way out of the darkness. If your gut says, “they are in a bad place”, they probably are. Talk to them, find a reason, don’t regret it later.
