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My Spanish Abortion.
“Have you been pregnant before?”
A healer in Bali asks me.
It’s the fourth time in three months someone working in my energy field has asked me this.
It’s been five years, but it’s evident still Chloe is with me.
I am teleported to that pink room in the outskirts of Barcelona—
The doctor yelling at me in Spanish, telling me I’m making a big mistake, that I’m ruining my life—
the nurse translating for me with her head down;
she won’t meet my eyes.
I need her, and she won’t f*cking look at me.
I was 26, had just sold my whole life, moved halfway across the world, fallen hopelessly in love with a French, and now here I was—
pregnant and heartbroken in a foreign country.
I sat in that room with my hands on my stomach and whispered, “Please. Not now—
I have so much living to do.”
I could barely afford my sh*tty little room in my sh*tty Spanish apartment…how on earth was I going to have a child?
As the anesthesia silenced my cries,
I set her free, yet she still remained.
“Do you want to set her free?”
My decision to not have children had long been imprinted in my mind, and there was no way I was going to change that.
“Ask her why she doesn’t want to leave?”
“She is scared she won’t find a mum.”
“Tell her you set her free. What did she say?”
“She’s asking if there are unicorns.”
“F*ck yeah, there are unicorns. Let’s send her off on one.”
She pushes down on my womb, and in that moment, I feel Chloe leave me for the final time; I feel the sadness and the emptiness I experienced in that clinic all those moons ago, and in that moment, I know she is gone.
Trauma has integrated.
In that room, that day, I wrote this poem.
My heart drops as the second line turns pink.
Time has stopped many times for me.
But today, this positive is highly negative for a 20-something living 23,000 km
from what was essentially her “home.”
I found a home in him, and now, you are inside of me.
You are the only remaining piece of our love story—
a story I tried to ignite with dead flames.
This is the true meaning of terror.
Instinct. Fight or flight.
How do you tell a soul you are not ready for it yet?
How do you beg it to please come back when you are finished?
Finished finding out who I am,
so I can guide you to be her.
Finished seeing all I need to see,
so all I see is you.
Finished mending all the little pieces of my heart,
so I can love the man who will walk this earth with you and I.
Finished turning this side of the world into my home,
so I can make a home in me for you.
In the light of what is going down in Texas, I decided it was time to finally share my voice. This is for those who have ever—even for one moment—doubted their decision.
This is for who—foreign country or not—had to take themselves to the clinic and max out their credit card on an operation they should never have had to endure alone.
This is for those who couldn’t tell their friends or family.
This is for those fighting their own inner turmoil; I hope you find this poem in years to come, and it touches something in you.
I hope you know that it has always and will always be your choice.