Why? By Kate Cipoletti @body_achieves_mind_believes
CW // sexual assault, eating disorder, self-harm
I am warning you; this is a heavy duty topic to handle. But this is my story, and I have kept it hidden for so long.
This is a story about a different side of love. The side of manipulation, heartache, and betrayal. I loved someone who was this fixed image of what I felt love should be. This is about a man whom I have tried to forget, but don’t know how to.
In my second year of high school, I developed feelings for a 57-year-old man. He was my teacher and my swim coach. He touched me and spoke to me as if I was his girlfriend. I was a student, and I was vulnerable.
He constantly encouraged me to be the best possible version of myself. He motivated me to fight my anxiety, to smile, and to swim my hardest the day of swim competitions. But that was before I got to understand this man, before I understood what he was capable of.
On the first day of school, I only knew what I’d been told. He was that “swim coach that the freshman girls cannot get too close to.” I was told that he divorced his wife because he had an affair with his daughters’ best friend. Was this true? Or was this a rumor? I don’t know.
I walked into the classroom on the first day, terrified. How would I Iook? Where would I sit? Did I need to keep my distance? My heart was beating, deep down I knew I wouldn’t be just “another student athlete.”
His classroom was filled with colorful wall decor. The seats were lined up in alphabetical order. I was seat number five in the front row, right in front of his desk. After our 45 minute period ended, I exited the classroom, or at least tried to. Before I could, he said, “Hey you’re on the swim team, and you swim breaststroke and sprint free?” Then came this look, followed by a soft gesture on my back. He was analyzing me as someone who was part of his game. I was a chess piece.
I had to respond; I couldn’t not respond. He was my teacher, and he was my swim coach. I had to be polite.
Oh, I wish I’d known that I didn’t have to be “polite.” But I responded, “Hi, yes I am. I’m looking forward to a great season. Great class today!”
His smile grew. “That’s wonderful! I am looking forward to this year, and extremely excited to win championships. Let me walk you out.” Relieved, I followed him to the door. “See you tomorrow!” he cheered as he squeezed right above my butt. As I replayed what had just happened, I told myself he was just being welcoming. But from then on, everyone knew me as his favorite.
October came in the blink of an eye. I got in a routine of school and then swim practice.
I began to walk home a lot that month, I needed to clear my head. I analyzed the conversations him and I had, but also my status in school. I was not sure what my parents would say when they saw my grades. I wasn’t doing well.
I remember that one day, when I entered my house, my parents were once again fighting about my status in school. My grades were slipping. I did not have many friends, so I never wanted to attend. I just didn’t care.
My mom screamed, “What the hell is this? An F on your math test, are you even trying? This stuff matters. We put you in therapy for a reason.”
Before I had a second to speak, my dad joined in. “If you want to go to college for a sport, you need to get these grades up. I see how you aren’t doing well in five out of your six classes. It seems like you have a good handle on chemistry, at least you will pass that. I just can’t believe this. Is your therapist working with you on bettering your academics?”
I didn’t have enough strength to speak. I ran up to my room and slammed my chipped but nicely painted white door, and I cried. For a while I didn’t know if I would be able to stop. I wished I could tell my parents, but I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I wished I could tell them how uncomfortable school made me. I wish I could tell them everything.
But I can’t, at least not then anyway. I kept thinking, it’s my fault. It’s my fault the way I dress, the way I act, and the way I present myself to him.
But I thought to myself, “At least I can control what I eat.” On October 15th made the decision to starve myself. I am an athlete. A swimmer out of all sports, so I burn a countless number of calories. But that night I didn’t have dinner. My family doesn’t eat dinner together because of the hectic household schedule. I told my dad, “I am not hungry, I don’t feel well. I have a big test tomorrow; I will have a good breakfast in the morning.” No one caught on. That’s what I wanted.
I went to school the next day, challenging my brain to have a small Ziploc bag of Kashi Heart to Heart cereal. They only have 120 calories in 1/3 cup. I told myself it was acceptable to eat.
Starving myself became an addiction. I couldn’t stop. I loved the pain too much.
October 25th was my first in-person test with him. I didn’t know what to expect. An older swimmer said, “Oh, all his tests are easy. You don’t need to study or review. You’re a swimmer, so you’ll be fine.”
The day of the test my anxiety consumed me to the point where I blanked on the topics and expressed that to him. Because of this I didn’t have to take the test. Instead, I got extra help in the back of the classroom.
The way we sat together in the back of the classroom was utterly personal. There was almost no distance between our chairs. I felt as if the lab desk was getting smaller by the second. The distance between us kept decreasing. We were side by side, my leg under the lab desk shaking as he put his leg next to mine.
I tried to move, but my leg was trapped by his leg. He knew I wanted to get out, he just wouldn’t let me.
Still I told myself he was just being welcoming.
I began to restrict my diet even more. My American Eagle size 00 jeans began to fall off. I was in this state of extreme depression, and I began to look incredibly unhealthy. Why did he not mention anything? Why didn’t my parents? I was confused, yet relieved that no one was noticing.
Until one day I went to school wearing a dress, and he caught on. I was beginning to starve, and it was starting to show. He knew I was starving, and yet he said I looked “absolutely beautiful” and he tugged on my waistband.
Was that appropriate? I ask myself still to this day. Is it appropriate to tell a 15-year-old girl that she isbeautiful when she is starving herself inside and out?
I think my anorexia made him more interested in me, interested in my state of mind, interested in what would become of me.
I began to fall in love with the idea of him, the idea that someone appreciated me and wanted me to succeed. The idea that someone of the other gender was calling me beautiful and touching me like a boyfriend might. I began to think that I needed to starve myself to keep his attention, to continue looking remarkable in his eyes. Just one more pound. Just one less meal. I began to feel that the only way to be acknowledged in his eyes was to be in this state of pain. I thought that only he could save me.
I would go to his class for extra help with the chemistry topics that I struggled to wrap my head around. He let me miss certain tests.
There was this sense of privilege that was given to me, and it was not awarded to the other kids. Why was this? I was confused. Love was someone wanting to talk to me, wanting to know what was wrong. Love was between two people who shouldn’t be together, love was about feeling trapped within your own skin, love was about letting someone else control you.
One night I texted him that I was having a panic attack about the number on the scale, it wasn’t what I expected it to be. The next day, after class, he tapped me on the shoulder. My heart dropped. “Is everything okay?” he said. “I got your texts last night and you made me worry.”
Was I not supposed to text him when I had a panic attack because of my food? I loved him; I loved the way he touched me where I have never been touched before. I loved the way he treated me with all this attention. I loved the way he made me feel loved.
“You remind me of my daughter,” he said, “and your happiness brings me happiness.” He told me more about his daughter, and how she’d had an eating disorder, too. He didn’t want me to go to this hospital. He didn’t want me to get into the state that she’d got into. “I know you,” he said. “You don’t look too well. Talk to me.”
But was this what I needed? I don’t know. Why did I have feelings for a man that had manipulated me into loving him? But I answered, just like I always did. I gave him what he wanted, hoping that he could fix me. “I’ve been struggling with depression lately. I don’t know how to feel as though I am worthy of life. I haven’t had enough energy to eat, I haven’t had enough energy to want to live.”
I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have anyone to open up to.
I could feel his heart drop, yet I couldn’t read his facial expression. He looked surprised, yet also pleased that I was this deep into the pain. He said, “Well, what do you expect me to do with that information? We can figure this out together. You got this.”
I finally thought to myself, why are you so close with your chemistry teacher? In his eyes, I was this little girl who needed saving. He looked at me as someone who needed someone to love her, and he wanted to fill that role.
What was my mind supposed to do I when was touched by him, in places where no one has ever laid their hands on? As a young, vulnerable, scared 15-year-old girl, what was I supposed to do when a grown man called me beautiful, stunning, and gorgeous as I was starving myself inside?
I wanted to feel something, and that became him.
The days became longer, and I dreaded the weeks. I dreaded his class every day because the interactions became more personal, and the conversations became heavier. I was confused, yet deep down I knew the idea of us together was wrong, but this made me want it more. Why did part of me want a relationship with this man?
“How did you manage to look so stunning today?” he said. “That dress looks amazing on you.”
I was starving myself. He grabbed me and touched me where a grown man should not lay his hands on a 15-year-old girl.
My dress was not asking for it, and I was not asking for it.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s my mom’s dress, I always take her clothes. I did try to eat today, I tried. I had some of a pear and crackers for lunch. It was all that I could manage, maybe tomorrow I will try for a little more.”
“Try to eat for me, please. You are beautiful, and young, and just drop-dead gorgeous. I will keep this between us, but I’ll try to help you. I’ll try to give you the love you deprive yourself of. Come back tomorrow after school, and we’ll talk about this.”
I smiled softly and exited the room.
A 57-year-old man should not talk to his student in this way.
A 57-year-old man should not touch a young girl in this way.
I walked home that day, I needed to wrap my head around my relationship to this man. I needed to understand why this was occurring. I thought to myself, this is all my fault. He isn’t touching other girls, because they hadn’t messed up. I had.
I went home, and of course, I walked into another fight. I’d received an F on my geometry quiz that day. My parents were furious. My dad screamed, “If you keep this up you can’t swim. I don’t even understand how you are keeping your grades up in your chemistry class.”
I didn’t tell them he was changing my grades to allow me to swim. I couldn’t manage to say anything. I was so ashamed.
I let my actions take over. I left my living room and walked upstairs to the bathroom. I shut the door. Part of me prayed that someone would stop me, but the other part didn’t. I was starving and didn’t know what to do with the confusion, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal.
That was until I saw the razor.
I took the razor, held it against my arm and made a shallow cut. I began to experiment with this world I became more curious of; somehow, I even started to enjoy it. The blood began to bring pleasure. I was in this state of pain that I felt would never go away. I felt that both him, and my eating disorder would never go away. I wanted to feel something, because I always felt numb inside. But that soon changed.
Cutting became an addiction. I was addicted to the enjoyable sense of pain that came with it. I was addicted to how this made me feel something, when I felt numb inside.
The cutting and eating disorder both escalated. He motivated me, but also manipulated me to be this little girl in this state of constant pain.
After one of my therapists encouraged me to be brave for all the other girls suffering in silence, I decided to notify the school. This was my first experience with a situation like this, I did not know what to expect. All I knew is that I didn’t want this to happen to any other girl.
The caseworker found out he was inappropriately touching other girls on the swim team. Not just me, but six others. The school kept him; I have never been more disgusted. I share this with all of you, so you realize you are not alone.
Me Too.
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