The Heroic Story of A Girl On A Bike

Abuse, drugs, and prostitution mark most of Fredis' life. Until she discovers the incredible healing powers of motorcycling—a genuinely heroic story of a fearless girl on a bike who rises above a terrible past.

Photo credit: Ozgurdomaz on Getty Images

Each time a woman stands up for herself without knowing it, possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women — Maya Angelou

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Rising beyond abuse, drugs, and prostitution

I was sexually abused as a child and became a junkie and teenage prostitute. Today, I work in palliative care and ride a Honda Rebel. Illegally, for now. I sneak away to practice for my upcoming motorbike license test when my dying client is asleep.

I am Fredis. Named after a warrior from the series Viking Valhalla. I have been a warrior all my life and decided it’s time to share my story. I wish to inspire you to get out there, grow strong, and outrun your crippling beliefs.

My story is primarily devoted to junkies and prostitutes — of whom I once was one — and all the women who need to walk away from the victimhood of abuse to create their own happiness.

If I can, so can you.

Born into the darkness

I was born into a family with grotesque patriarchal traditions, which protected men and sacrificed women. Generation after generation. It’s a family history of horrific abuse. I came into this world to be trained as a prostitute.

Where I grew up, pedophilia was the best-kept secret; women existed to be toys stripped of boundaries, safety, dignity, love, and a fair chance to live everyday life.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fighting this horrible karma to learn and understand the system of society. I call it the dark shadow of human nature—a dance on edge between pain and pleasure, victim and abuser, darkness and light.

But I devoted my life to understanding that I was born in the light.

Fueling a vicious circle

Life for me was a struggle for survival. Because my father and grandfather stole my innocence and programmed me to be receptive to abuse. Logically, my unconscious drew sociopaths and narcissists from all walks of life my way. Women and men.

I managed to protect myself somehow. But at age 19, I was dying on the street after two rapes and being pumped up with drugs. Miraculously, from behind the veil of utter fear, I became aware of my situation and pushed into rehab with the last bit of willpower.

I survived. I stopped using drugs.

Yet, I could not grasp that society is no different from the street. That it just has another décor. Four years after rehab, I was homeless again— because my boss back then was trying to make me his sex slave. I escaped one early morning with a small bag of essentials and ran for my life.

I was experiencing life as a victim, but at the same time, I chose to work with people who have been pushed out of society — the sick, weak, and dying. My job was to motivate homeless souls to do something more than lick their wounds.

It was the perfect place for me to learn about compassion while surviving pain became my method of meditation.

Uncovering the horror

I tried to get out of a mess I couldn’t define. My memory was blank; I couldn’t remember a damn thing from my childhood until age 13. And it seemed perfectly normal.

But I started to wonder why others could recall stuff. When I turned 30, memories began to come back. I collapsed when I realized I’d been lied to by my family all my life, and they chose to sacrifice my existence to cover their bloody tracks of fear-mongering and abuse.

I was trying to do everything not to end up back on the streets. But almost everyone, including therapists, led me down that path. I had nowhere to go, so I turned to religion and spirituality.

I graduated from college, studied scenography, sculpted, and learned English and Italian. I was devoted to becoming the best version of myself. I created a Zen group, a place for my street theater group for the homeless to meet.

I was dying to get ahead, while most of what I did kept me in the past.

Stalked by society’s dark shades

I raced around Europe and parts of Asia to erase the pain and feed my brain with something new. But every two years or so, I stumbled, retracting into the gloomy shades of society. I was back on the run for safety, away from abusive people, haunted by the risk of sliding back into addiction or prostitution.

It was a constant dance with the devil. Everywhere. It felt like war.

I always saw the potential, fears, dreams, and hopes in people. At the same time, they took me as a scumbag, a loan bank, a tool, an enslaved person, or an exotic toy. Ready to be discarded once they did not need me any longer.

I experienced so much violence and pain that my consciousness understood society's long, dark shadows.

As I grappled with uncovering the darker side of human nature, I cried for the last time.

Life taught me that women do not exist as equal beings but as underdogs to pump energy into men’s aspirations and adore their vain glory. There is no place where they can have a business, learn, and strive. Women need to lie, act against their nature, and disgrace themselves to be accepted.

We’re just not designed to live on the same planet as equals.

After each light follows dark

In 2018, I met a guy, with a past addiction, just like me. He was independent and presented himself as a man of ethics. After watching him for a while, I decided to get involved. We worked hard to establish a new existence with different people devoid of my partner’s past. He was the best part of my life — no beating, stealing, or abuse.

And at age 38, after years of battles, I wanted nothing more than to be a wife, a mother, and a woman with a joint future. We were over the moon, and life looked promising.

But after two peaceful years, one single move toppled everything.

My partner reconnected with his toxic friends. Within no time, he swung back into his old destructive habits and dropped our vision. When he began riding a motorbike, he pushed me away as he erected a solid masculine domain around this life. His pathetic, narcissistic nature resurfaced.

I was shocked to see how fast my world was falling apart—no children, no home, and no future. Enough to give me a nervous breakdown.

Once again, I had reached the point when love turned to violence, where devotion and courage were treated like shit.

I knew our domestic reality, and Facebook stories were different sets of the same life.

Denying the inevitable

I discovered that my partner was depicting me as a stupid woman jealous of her man’s passion. I was still devoted to our relationship, but I needed to learn how to ride to stop this accusation.

After battling against his ridiculous belief that motorcycling is only for men, he agreed to buy one with my savings. Meanwhile, I learned everything I could and quickly. Because I knew I had to prove myself if I wanted to ride with him and his mates. They had now become a more significant part of our life.

But soon, some cut ropes because they couldn’t stand a woman riding with the pack.

I remember our first motocross event. I paid a lot of money to gain a day of experience. I felt excited as the organizer didn’t see a problem with my lack of skills. He gave me a 250cc but only allowed me to ride two laps in the parking area. He and my ex called me crazy for wanting more.

The humiliation kept coming, and I was confused, yet refused to face the truth until my body left me no choice. I was helplessly watching how everything I had built was going up in flames.

Four years into the relationship, our home was messy, chaotic, and full of grief and abuse again. I was left with empty promises, gaslighting, manipulation, and brainwashing. Meanwhile, my partner was getting popular in his boy’s group while I was withering away. I had exhausted my powers to keep our relationship on the road that had started so promisingly.

What looked ideal and joyous to others was a brutal farce.

Hitting rock bottom

As more and more guys ridiculed my partner for bringing his girlfriend along, I was cut off from riding. All of them, including my partner’s family and buddies, labeled me a mad woman who didn’t know where her place was!

In the eyes of these people, I was a nobody, an enslaved being obediently looking after her man. A moaning bitch craving attention and money.

A toy one has because of what society dictates.

My partner’s narcissistic dynamic drained the life out of me. I ended up in a corner like a rabbit awaiting the snake’s deadly blow and developed severe depression, anxiety, and insomnia.

Awakening to a bitter reality

This is a bitter reality for many of us all over the world. I see women like myself daily — tired, disillusioned, scared, and silenced. I recall overhearing a guy screaming at his wife in public one day. While she withdrew, he yelled at her from the top of his voice.

We looked at each other and knew without talking. I asked her if she wanted me to call the police, but she hesitantly denied it.

Though I was broken, I still managed to get on my bike and cover 4,000 miles in 8 months. It was the only safe place to breathe and forget everything around me.

It was just me, the bike, and the road before me. I was utterly alone. And suicidal at times.

Nearing the finishing line

I left my partner once I understood I could never match what he and his sick environment wanted me to be. I was no longer willing to lower myself. I saw that I needed to give up on us from a place of love and for myself. That I was better off alone.

“You came with nothing, so you go with nothing” were his last ugly words.

Utterly humiliated, I gathered my eternal belongings: love, faith, and dignity, and charged off into the unknown as if the devil were behind me.

That same year I lost my mum to cancer. I had lost my lover, job, clients, and family. And in another way, I also lost my father after confronting him about how brutally he had destroyed my life.

Sensing a sweet taste of freedom

And with nothing left to lose, I bought a beautiful Honda Rebel 500cc. My last friend and dying client chose a name for my bike: Zerubbabel. We baptized her with drops of vodka and water. There is no better insurance policy!

I still don’t have a license; I failed the test twice. I was too traumatized and decided to rebuild my confidence before trying again.

But I bought the bike and learned everything myself. And now I know how to care for my new companion well. I keep practicing all kinds of maneuvers to help adjust my riding skills. Because while cruising with that testosterone-pumping boy’s group, I picked up a few bad habits.

I sing out loud under my helmet like a happy witch on a quirky broom when riding on deserted roads alone before the sun rises. A sweet taste of what life can be like.

Riding back home

I realized I needed to clear all my previous intentions and move forward with a pure vision of what a motorbike means in my life!

I didn’t want to wreak revenge but to bolster my heart.

I kept praying and working with my vision during therapy. My bike became a big part of my healing from 40 years of battling sexual abuse, co-dependency, low self-esteem, worthlessness, hatred, and so much more.

It’s all about respect and promising myself that I will never again allow anyone to abuse me. Because I now know how much power I have. My motorbike gives me this strength and determination. It has become the critical game-changer in overcoming my worst limitations, a door opener to the best yet to come.

It may sound paradoxical, but motorcycling makes me go full circle.

It shows me that compassion can grow from something as terrible as my past.

It teaches me to love and respect myself again and reclaim freedom. And while I say this, I remember seeing a documentary about a woman who created music by connecting old instruments with machines (literally) and her voice.

Life is about finding that connection and power.

I am the girl on the bike, despite it all

I have tried hard to be a part of society. Today, this is no longer my path.

Because I found my voice, dignity, and the urge to live genuinely. I am no longer anyone’s underdog, housewife, or sex toy. I no longer harm myself in any way. Looking back, I see this once fragile flower breaking through the rubble. It’s my beautiful, powerful self emerging from the deadly debris called past life.

I have claimed my power back and taken off into freedom. May your ride be as awakening as mine.

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Author’s note: Every single story of abuse brushes the collective pain many of us carry. This one has touched me deeply. From experience, I trust the healing powers of a bike. But I am overwhelmed it can do this much. I am deeply humbled to watch another brave soul rise. May her light shine far and bright.

Much love to Fredis and her perfect companion, Rebel Zerubbabel. See you out there, girls!

Kerstin

My sincere thanks go to my friend Rosemary Bointon for her thoughtful editorial input and feedback on this story!

Originally published at: https://medium.com/heart-revolution/the-heroic-story-of-a-girl-on-a-bike-1a1875850528

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