Stories are written by people who don’t necessarily work or study in fields related to sexology. They convey emotions, perceptions, and subjective perspectives. Opinions voiced in the stories are those of their authors, and in no way represent the position of Les 3 sex*.

Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Gabrielle Baillargeon-Michaud.

Twice. Twice in that same year. Two men. In my mind’s eye, there were even three. Because the second time around, I am unsure if it was K. or A.

I’ve been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. I had an accident in my early teens, and I don’t have many memories from before that. So, I think it’s fair to say that I have been writing since I was at least twelve. It’s only recently, however, that my writing has begun to reflect this aspect so vividly. It feels as if the gender dysphoria I experience compels me to transform these abortions into something beyond a mere extension of my biological femininity. To encapsulate them on paper, metaphorically birthing them into existence. Or perhaps, to keep them in my mind rather than my womb.

I write anonymously because very few people know I’ve had abortions. I comfort myself with the thought that those who truly know me will recognize me in these words. Or perhaps, I will mirror the silent struggles of many.

***

I remember seeing a world map on the ceiling, and I thought I’d brush up on my geography. But then the injected drug left me giggly, unable to form a complete sentence or concentrate on the varying sizes of countries displayed above me.

I was raised in a devout religious family where sex outside wedlock spelled sin and shame. When my mother first found out (after a friend failed to cover for me) that I had spent the night at a boy’s, my boyfriend at the time, she called to confirm it. Upon my confession, she hung up and gave me the silent treatment for days. We never discussed the details of it.

I recall asking the nurses about the substance they were about to inject, hoping to avoid the drug known for erasing memories. They informed me that it wasn’t possible. Now, I understand that Versed, the drug in question, dulls the pain but does not erase the memory of the experience.

***

Hence, I turn my abortions into poetry, birthing them into reality. My verses are filled with inarticulate coos, stand-ins for the cries of the children I never had. Or perhaps I am birthing my own femininity—releasing it from our mutual clutches, restoring it to its unbound essence, much like freeing a genie from a meticulously polished lamp.

***

A few weeks after my first abortion, excitement filled our family with the announcement of the first upcoming baby: I was to become an aunt for the first time, and my mother a grandmother. When we were alone, one of the first things my mother cautioned was the importance of my choices, emphasizing it was unthinkable for me to get pregnant at that time and utterly unacceptable to have an abortion within our family. Her words cut deep.

I remember vomiting on the clinic’s carpet before leaving.

Post-operation, as I regained consciousness, I was forced to wear a sanitary pad as thick as a grilled cheese sandwich and was quickly discharged. I still remember the undeniable stares from passersby. They were understandable, as my partner had to support my unsteady steps; I was still heavily sedated and unable to walk independently.

***

Thus, I find myself compelled to speak about physicality and femininity, feeling since then as if I’m filled with a motherly essence. I’ve come to believe that I can now only love in a maternal manner, as if to reclaim the maternal affection that once escaped me. To acknowledge that my mother truly loved me, but didn’t know how to love me in the way I needed. If I can embrace loving them, the children I chose not to have, perhaps I can also extend grace for the love my mother lacked towards me. A passing on of forgiveness.

I recall that I was required to see a social worker at only one of the two clinics. I wept, sensing that tears were expected of me. Crying has always been more accessible to me than expressing myself in words.

Forgive me, K. Even though I wasn’t in love, you remain my most poignant love story, as sung by Barbara, whom we both admired. I’d offer you the cave again, the Miguasha where my absence glows.

***

Abortions. Voluntary terminations of pregnancy. Stark, harsh terms.

They don’t always align with reality. I invite you to trust yourself first. These experiences are tattooed onto my skin and woven into my poetry. Yet, I rarely dwell on them. They have freed me from the burdensome weight of a feminine body that repulsed me. My writings serve as our family therapy.